We left our hotel in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, crossed the land border into Zambia, bound for Harry Mwanga Nkumbula International Airport, in Livingstone. I am writing this quick blog post while waiting for our connection in Johannesburg, South Africa. In a few hours, we will board a flight bound for the US, arriving first in Altanta, Georgia (where I was born) before landing back in Bozeman, Montana – our home.

I have every intention of writing the future blog entries that currently exist as a half-dozen or more entries in my journal, organized around major places and/or events during our month in Africa. But for now, I want to bookend this chapter by simply acknowledging that we are leaving, and what we are carrying with us as we go.

Still to be written about are our experiences in Etosha National Park in Namibia; our time in the Okavango Delta and Chobe National Parks, Botswana; and our raft trip down the infamous Zambezi River, forming the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia. And, the new friends we’ve made along the way. There is simply so much to capture and share, that I don’t want to forget.

For now though, JD and I are returning home genuinely awestruck, grateful and humbled by this continent, its countries, landscapes, wildlife, and people. As many people said to us before coming here, we are leaving forever changed, and already talking about how and when to come back.

A conversation that I had with our guide, Goodness, seems like a good way to sum up what this experience has meant to me: a few days prior to departing our tour, I found myself sitting across the aisle from Goodness while aboard Stevie, our Nomad travel truck. I was asking her to confirm the language spoken by our camp hosts in the Okavango Delta (Setswana), and the English word for the sounds they were making (ululating) during their welcome songs at camp. As we talked, I began sharing my appreciation for, and confusion about, the extraordinarily warm welcome we had experienced throughout our time in Africa, as white people. Given our treatment of black- and brown-skinned people of Africa (and other continents) throughout history up to the present day, how can this be possible?

As I stammered for the right words, struggling not to offend, Goodness looked deeply into my eyes, Stevie rattling noisily on down the bumpy road. Without a moment’s hesitation, smiling softly, she said this (my paraphrasing):

My darling [this is how Goodness addressed all of us], ours is a culture of forgiveness. This is what our elders teach us. They help us to see that anger and resentment about what came before will weigh us down to the point that we cannot live the life that is right here, now. They teach us to be grateful for what we do have, rather than longing for what we do not yet have. They teach us to see that life is forever changing, and to accept our responsibility to be part of changing our own lives, and the lives of others, for the better. They teach us also that forgiveness and gratitude are gifts we give ourselves – that by letting go of anger and hate that is not ours to carry, we set our own selves free. And so, this is why the Africans who have welcomed you here are grateful: because you have come here, and are spending your money, we have work, and can feed our families. In doing so, you are also allowing us to show you who we are, to learn about us and our culture, including the shared history among us all. You are bearing witness to that history, by coming here and letting us do that. And in doing that, together, we are transforming our past into a better future.

I was speechless, my eyes welling up as Goodness spoke these words to me. Even though I knew she was speaking truthfully, I found myself fighting to receive the grace that was being extended to me. We sat there in silence, Goodness and I, until I finally found some words to express my appreciation, and awe, at what it must require to believe and live these words. And yet, it also dawned on me that Goodness was expressing the same wisdom found at the heart of countless wisdom traditions throughout the globe – including the Serenity Prayer, which hung in my parent’s bathroom, and guided me through the final years of their lives.

Grant me the serenity
To accept the things
I cannot change

The courage
To change the things I can

And the wisdom
to know the difference.

It guides me still. And, as JD and I have said to each other countless times over the last month, if the African people that we were fortunate enough to meet can live this, then certainly we can redouble our efforts to the same.