So Many Kinds Crazy

“Did you hit some guy last night?” my housemate squatted next to the mat where I had been contentedly sunbathing, praying and reading all morning. In an instant the relaxing day-off I’d foreseen, where I get tan in preparation for my trip home, dissolved.

“What?” I asked confused.

“Tim*’s on the phone. Bert [our English class administrator] and the mayor are at the police station. Apparently they think you hit a guy outside of a mosque last night.” My heart started to beat uncontrollably. That’s not the story! What have I done?

Last night, after finishing a prayer time, I invited the two interns, Martha and Amelia, who are living at our house for the month to walk home with me. It was a cool night. The walk takes about 40 minutes and I thought it would be a good opportunity to hear their stories since I wasn’t here when they arrived.

We began the walk around 10pm. The island is incredibly safe and the most we have to worry about is being hit by a car while we walk down roads with no sidewalks. It’s Ramadan so people are out later, socializing after having broken the fast. We walked through the capital and entered my town. While descending the hill into town Amelia noticed that there was someone following us very closely. In fact, he was touching her. But the narrow street was crowded and she thought perhaps her discomfort was misplaced. Once we reached the bottom of the hill, this young man started yelling to another and making rude comments about us. I said something along the lines of “Rude” and Amelia confided that she’d been uncomfortable for a while now with that same guy walking so close to her. I immediately turned around and asked him what he was doing. He mumbled incoherently about “just going home”. I told him he needed to leave us alone. He should stop following us and just go. Being publicly called out like that in front of so many people should have been enough. But he just kept right on our heels. I certainly did not want him to follow us to our house, which was now just five minutes away, so I asked the girls to stop and see if he would pass us and keep going. He did pass us, but just to lean against a car several feet from us and stare out into the ocean nonchalantly. He was obviously waiting for us to continue on our way so he could take up his nefarious stalking again.

I stood there with these girls to whom I felt I great responsibility. How do I get rid of this guy? I decided that the best thing to do was to document his behavior so I could show Bert the following day and this young man could be reprimanded and instructed to leave us alone. So I dug out my phone, turned on the flash, walked up and snapped a picture of him.

With a slurred voice, he started yelling at me not to take pictures of him. He approached me but I would not back down and I forcefully told him to go, while pointing in the direction from which we’d come. If he did not want his photo taken then he needed to leave my friends and me alone. He came closer, all the while spewing threats and so I took another photo right in his face. When he saw the flash, he slapped my hand away. And that was where he crossed the line. An island man who had witnessed this interaction from across the street, ran over and began dressing him down. “Do you have no brains in your head!”

I quietly slipped away and ushered the girls down the street, away from that place, shaky but relieved that the situation had been taken out of my hands. As I passed some ladies selling oranges, they told me that this young man was not right in the head. He was “crazy”. That is the only reason he would act so badly, they reasoned. I thanked them and we arrived home shortly thereafter.

I prayed for this troubled young man before sleeping and for wisdom on whether to pursue the situation with Bert the following day or just forget about it. That decision was taken from my hands when Bert began calling me at 7am this morning. I, still sleeping, did not answer. I had plans to see him later that day anyway so whatever he needed, I rationalized, could wait until then.

However, it could not. And that brings us to the rooftop phone call, where Tim, my boss, was trying to figure out why Bert was calling him! How did the story get turned around into me hitting him? Why were they at the police station? Why was the mayor involved? Was I getting in trouble? After hanging up with Tim, I called Bert to find out.

He. Was. Mad.

I could tell because he only spoke in French, which meant he really wanted me to understand, although he spoke at a speed that was barely comprehensible. It was the speed of a man on the verge of a meltdown. If he spoke any slower I knew he would just explode!

He told me he was at the police station. He’d heard a man had threatened me last night, near his own shop, no less! This man isn’t even from our town. So he has been arrested. And the police are waiting for my statement. Could I please come to the station right away? I told him I would be there as soon as possible.

I grabbed Amelia and we headed out. Three influential men from my town were waiting outside the station for us: Bert, the mayor and a town councilor. They ushered us into a back room and we sat on a wooden bench placed in the middle of the room. Men in uniform filed in front and behind us along with the men from my town. We were asked what language we would prefer: English, French or local language. I said I could communicate in any, Amelia speaks only English but if we want the majority of people to understand without me bumbling around for words then we should speak in French. However, I think many of the officers saw it as a wonderful opportunity to practice their English so English it was.

We sat there and men bustled in and out of the room. Friendly banter ensued, Our island attire was commented on. And then our “assailant” was dragged in the room and flung on the floor at our feet. Amelia and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. He was worse for wear. The night before he had been dressed stylishly, with thick-rimmed blue sunglasses on his head and a swagger in his step. Now he sat on the floor, deprived of his stylish sunglasses, covered in dust and barefoot. But he did not cower. He glared at the officers who took the chance to kick him whenever they passed in and out of the room.

My heart hurt for him. What he did was not appropriate but it did not, in my mind, warrant this treatment. The commanding officer looked up from his computer, where he had been dutifully typing the report (of which I had not been asked a single question; not one person asked me what happened), and asked, “What do you want me to do with him?”

“Let him go.”

Incredulous, he demanded, “Let him go! Why?”

“Because,” I said, looking to Amelia for confirmation, “We forgive him.” She nodded her head enthusiastically.

“You are a lucky guy,” he said in English looking at the man sitting on the floor. Then looking back at me, “You may forgive him. But I do not.”

Time passed as the men in the room discussed amongst themselves what would be done. The mayor leaned over to me and asked me why I would forgive him. I told him that first of all, what he did was not serious. He did not hurt me. Secondly, Jesus tells us that when someone slaps us on one cheek we are to turn the other. He also tells us to forgive 70 times 7. As I looked from face to face in the room, they all nodded in seeming approval at my words, even though what I’d said was far from eloquent. I sounded like a kindergartener giving a Sunday school lesson with grammatically-incorrect and butchered French. But hey, they understood. Meanwhile, the man on the floor continued to offer insults to those in the room. He adamantly denied that he was crazy, which is what everyone was saying. He also told the police that he was not scared of them. And he did not want our forgiveness. He did not accept it!

One of the officers observing all of this from the window asked me why I would forgive someone who did not want my forgiveness. He went so far as to say it was impossible to do. If the person does not admit they have done anything wrong, then how can you offer them forgiveness? I explained that forgiveness is for the one offering it. Unforgiveness only hurts me. Whether he wants it or not, this man is forgiven in my eyes.

The mayor acknowledged the sentiment but went on to say that this man was not from our town. He is from a village on the far side of the island. They had welcomed him into the town as a brother but now he has treated us, the town’s guests, disgracefully. He is no longer welcome in our town. He would be kept in prison until his family from his village came to collect him.

Thanks were given all around and we were able to leave after a short introduction to the commandant. In the taxi on the way back I quizzed Bert as to how he found out what had happened and how they had found the man.

This morning, after morning prayers, all the men from my town gathered to hear the news about the “assault” on the town Americans. As the story passed from man to man, tempers rose. The young men of the town went on a hunt to find this guy. How dare he touch one of their Americans! Somehow they found him and dragged him into the street. Belts were removed and a beating was about to commence. That is when the important older men intervened. They saved this man from the mob and brought him to the police station for his own protection. Bert emphasized again and again just how angry everyone was on our behalf.

Just three days after my return from Kenya, this has been quite the welcome home. I have come to recognize some important things from this experience:

1. I feel safer than before. From the man who intervened last night, to the mob who wanted to beat down a dude, I am protected by my town.
2. I feel more loved than before. Even though I complain about the children pestering and the men flirting and the women gossiping, the people in my town are fiercely proud to have two Americans live here.
3. My town is crazy. I say this in the best possible way. While much of Africa wrestles with tribalism, my island wrestles, or maybe embraces, town-ism. Your town is your clan. When we moved from the airport town to our current town, we were warned against the people of this town. “They are bandits!” And while all towns have some rivalry with one another, it seems that my town has a special reputation for being troublesome. As Bert told me in the taxi, “Our town youth like ‘noise’”- meaning, causing trouble.
4. God can use any situation. Jesus says in Matthew 10:19, “When they deliver you over, do not be anxious about what you are to speak or what you are to say, for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour. For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” In front of important and influential men, Jesus’s teachings were proclaimed today (even with poor grammar) because a possibly crazy, probably high young man decided to follow three girls home.

And so I reflect on all the crazies in this situation. The young man was accused of being crazy. Maybe I was crazy for provoking him. My town has a reputation for being pretty crazy. Mobs are always crazy. And I am reminded of Francis Chan’s Crazy Love when I say, ever so reverently, that only God is crazy enough to have orchestrated all of this for his own good purposes.

*all names have been changed

I Know How You Feel

I think I’m ready now to write this. It’s difficult to describe. I would liken it to living in a constant haze. An all-encompassing fog that surrounds heart, soul and mind. It deadens the senses. Colors become muted, voices and music are blocked out, laughter is forgotten, memory quickly fades and concentration is a thing of the past. Emotions are stifled, apart, perhaps, from an overwhelming sense of self-pity and guilt. Habit is the only reason to get out of bed in the morning. The motions of life continue: eating, sleeping, work, meetings, obligatory greetings but there’s no enthusiasm. The joie de vie has fled. The mind is a funny thing.

I have no idea if I’ve adequately described it or if these feelings are unique to me. But this is my experience with depression.

It’s why I haven’t written in the last month. I’ve had plenty going on, many stories that I would have enjoyed sharing but I could never gather the necessary je ne sais quoi to sit and write. My stories would have been tinged with a lie if I had not expressed my inner emotionlessness.

I felt the first signs of oncoming depression during my training. I communicated what I was feeling somewhat in my last post. I was able to distract myself during my vacation to Mombasa with constant activities and good food. But returning to Clove Island the haze settled on me deeply and firmly.

Circumstances certainly didn’t help. I arrived on my island thoroughly seasick only to discover that five weeks had accomplished none of the promises our landlady had made and we still had no water. After a discussion with her, it seemed she had given up and there was no hope of getting water running to our house…ever. Without water, the house stayed covered in its filth. The dust made me physically ill and the mess drove my OCD, Type-A personality to the brink. The next three days were spent searching for someone who could deliver water to our cistern. After hours in the baking sun, on the third day, I finally had success. Three thousand liters and $50 later, I lay on my bed exhausted and spent but proud that I had accomplished something. With my last reserve of energy I bought some bleach and climbed the stairs to the cistern on the roof in order to sanitize the water that was pulled from a river used for laundry, watering animals and trash disposal. As I came around the corner and caught a glimpse of the cistern, my shoulders dropped and my head fell as I watched my hard work pouring out of the seam of the cistern onto the hot roof in two steady streams. I “Charlie-Brown” walked back down the stairs, put in a call to my leader, curled up on the floor in the fetal position and cried. Though I’d been on the verge of tears for days, especially when talking with others, I’d held back, swallowed the lump and starred ahead resolutely. This last thing broke through and ripped out the pent up emotions and I cried softly until one of my teammates arrived with various rubber object (including a flip-flop) to try and stem the flow of precious water.

From that day things didn’t really get better. I had about 50lbs of laundry that needed to be washed including all the curtains and couch covers that were covered in dust. The power situation has returned to pre-World Cup state, meaning very little of it. We went 36+ hours without this week, allowing the food in the refrigerator and freezer to thaw and rot. There are problems with the English classes that are supposed to start next week. The stress and water hauling has caused my back to feel like it did after my accident last February-in other words, bad. Etc. Etc.

But life is always hard on Clove Island. Things are constantly going wrong. If circumstances were all it took, I would have lived in a constant state of depression since arriving. So what makes it different now?

This is where the guilt comes in. I’m not dying. No one close to me is dying. I didn’t just break up with the love of my life or get fired from a job. I have friends and family who love me and pray for me. They encourage me as best they can. When an encouraging phone call, email or hug brings no emotion, or worse yet, annoyance, I am soon overcome with guilt. I try to avoid being around anyone because I am afraid my seeming indifference will hurt them. I am disappointed in myself and I can’t help but think I’m letting down all those who love and care for me.

Christians shouldn’t be depressed, right? “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!” We learn that from childhood. I just need to pray a little harder. If I just cast my cares on him, I will experience a peace that passes all understanding. I know. I’ve thrown these same platitudes at my friends. But it hasn’t been that easy. So what is the answer?

This morning I was doing my normal devotional, another daily habit that continues whether I draw anything from it or not. I do it because I know I should. And I read and underlined this partial sentence, “…every steep circumstantial hill that has zapped our spiritual and emotional strength, and every deep valley of depression that has left us gasping for hope.” Whoa, hello. Are you talking to me? The next line read, “Consider Jesus[i]”.

I decided to take that as a challenge. Jesus suffered during his life, not only at the cross. Jesus wept when he heard of Lazarus’ death (John 11:35). He sought solitude when news of his cousin, John the Baptist’s beheading reached him (Matthew 14:13). And I read an interesting blog that argued Christ was depressed on the night of his betrayal.

Never tell someone, “I know how you feel.” I’ve heard this many times in my sensitivity trainings. It’s well meaning but false. You don’t know how I’m feeling. I don’t know how you’re feeling.

But as I considered Jesus, I came to the conclusion that he actually does know how I feel. Intimately and lovingly. And he doesn’t have his arms crossed, looking down on me from heaven with disappointment, waiting for me to pull myself together so I can get back to the work of loving him and loving others. No, he’s right here with me. Even when I don’t feel it, when I don’t feel anything. My feelings don’t change the fact that he is walking beside me. When I don’t have the strength to lift my eyes to see where I’m walking but can only watch my feet as I shuffle through life, he is beside me with his hands on my shoulders, gently leading. He is my shelter; my strong tower and I will hide under his wings until my bruised soul heals.

[i] Harper, Lisa. Hebrews: The Nearness of King Jesus. Pg. 47

Bridges

I woke up. A film of sweat coated my entire body. I tapped my phone lying next to me. It was 4am. Why was I awake? I lay on my back and stared at the dark ceiling. My eyes immediately widened. Big, black, shadows moved ominously overhead. There was no electricity in my neighborhood, nothing to create moving shadows. But these were not the shadows that run escaping light. These were deep, shadows, darker than the night that surrounded them. They drank in and swallowed the dark.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I closed my eyes for several seconds and reopened them. Still the shadows remained. And I began to fear.

I am aware that there is a spiritual darkness that smothers this island. Whispers and rumors have reached me. My island friends have made comments that reveal a worldview far removed from the orthodox version of the religion they practice. They reveal a world filled with powerful spirits that wreak havoc and a world of witch doctors that diagnose illnesses caused by the spirits sent by jealous relatives. It is a world of fear, a world of power and ultimately a world of darkness.

Darkness and fear had now invaded my bedroom. I did the only thing I could do. I prayed. I called aloud for protection using the only name imbued with power to defeat darkness and evil. The shadows continued to churn relentlessly above me. I closed my eyes and began to sing (well, croak, if we’re honest). I croaked out a familiar song of love for Him that paid the price for our protection against our enemies. When I opened my eyes again, the darkness was once again simply the darkness before dawn. The shadows had disappeared. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep knowing I rested under the protection of my Father’s wings.

I awoke that morning, refreshed and ready to face the day. I was disturbed by my nighttime experience and shared it with several people before my language helper came over. Our lesson began normally but halfway through I felt prompted to share my story with her in local language.

With vocabulary and grammar help we processed the story together. I told her everything and she told me that those were spirits. She asked if they sat on me. I said no, they had not touched me. She shared that every night she is awakened by spirits that sit on her, causing great pressure over her entire body. I asked what she does when this happens. She explained that she quotes memorized sections of her holy book. Does it work, I asked? Sometimes.

My own experience opened the floodgates for her to trust me with information about her own life and the things that she and her family experience here. One of her sisters is possessed and while her sister hates the spirits that torture her mind, this is a good thing for the family because they can foretell disaster or give the reason a family member is sick. She spoke about local dances that are done to appease the spirits. How spirits will follow you home if you dump food in the river at night (something I do). On and on we talked for hours. A whole world of understanding was opened to me and a previously unknown level of trust was established because I, a foreigner, with a foreign language and a foreign God had had an experience she could relate to.

 

Today I woke up yearning to do my Bible study and get alone with God in prayer. Yesterday was team day. And it was not an easy day for me. Relations with some of my teammates were strained. Discussions had become too emotional and hurtful things had been said. Add into that mix an unhealthy portion of selfishness and pride on my part and you had me this morning- a completely drained, emotional basket case looking for answers. What do I do, Lord?

For two and half hours I wrestled with questions. I was led to Colossians 3:13, “Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another.” That’s good. But it didn’t settle my soul. What do I do?

As I searched for solutions I read Jesus’ plan for conflict resolution in Matthew 18:15-20. Ok, good. I can do that. But I don’t feel any better. What do I do?

I sat, frustrated, alone, afflicted in my spirit. I had prayed. I had searched Scripture. I knew what I should do later that day but I didn’t feel any better. I quieted my heart and asked God to speak. The following is from my journal as He spoke to me:

“Run to the Lord for comfort. You are looking for instruction on what to do with your hurt. Doing will not make it go away. Give it to God and rest in his comfort.”

But praise God; He did not leave it there. Another language helper arrived this morning. We talked about normal things. We watched a short film. Then out of the blue, she started to tell me what a hard time she is having with her co-workers. They are not hard workers and they gossip about her. She told me that they hate her because she does her work well and makes them look bad. They teach seminars on literacy and she feels that they poison the students against her before she gives her sessions.

She and I have had many conversations about her difficult family life, about the engagement that she does not want, about her hopelessness and despair. But her literacy work has always been a refuge, a place she found solace and purpose. Now she feels utterly alone with nowhere to turn.

We spoke at great length about what she could do, who she could talk to. I shared Matthew 18 with her and told her in vague detail about my own situation with hurt feelings. She loves the Psalms and since I gave her the Word in her second language, she has spent time translating them into local language on her own. So I opened to Psalms 25- this Psalms has spoken directly into my heart repeatedly over the last two days. It is shared in its entirety below.

Two totally different experiences. Two totally different women. Both uniquely reached by a Father that loves them so much that He orchestrated events in my life to correspond with their needs. Bridges were formed that reached across cultures, across languages and across religions.

 

In you, Lord my God,
I put my trust.
I trust in you;
do not let me be put to shame,
nor let my enemies triumph over me.
No one who hopes in you
will ever be put to shame,
but shame will come on those
who are treacherous without cause.
 Show me your ways, Lord,
teach me your paths.
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are God my Savior,
and my hope is in you all day long.
Remember, Lord, your great mercy and love,
for they are from of old.
Do not remember the sins of my youth
and my rebellious ways;
according to your love remember me,
for you, Lord, are good.
Good and upright is the Lord;
therefore he instructs sinners in his ways.
 He guides the humble in what is right
and teaches them his way.
 All the ways of the Lord are loving and faithful
toward those who keep the demands of his covenant.
 For the sake of your name, Lord,
forgive my iniquity, though it is great.
Who, then, are those who fear the Lord?
He will instruct them in the ways they should choose.^[b]
They will spend their days in prosperity,
and their descendants will inherit the land.
The Lord confides in those who fear him;
he makes his covenant known to them.
 My eyes are ever on the Lord,
for only he will release my feet from the snare.
Turn to me and be gracious to me,
for I am lonely and afflicted.
Relieve the troubles of my heart
and free me from my anguish.
Look on my affliction and my distress
and take away all my sins.
See how numerous are my enemies
and how fiercely they hate me!
Guard my life and rescue me;
do not let me be put to shame,
for I take refuge in you.
May integrity and uprightness protect me,
because my hope, Lord, is in you.
Deliver Israel, O God,
from all their troubles!

 

Float On

I’ve lived on a small island in the Indian Ocean for over a month. I see the ocean every day. When I stand on my flat cement roof I can glimpse the blue of the water. Each trip from my town to the capital city takes me along a scenic coastal road. I breathe the ocean air everyday. But until yesterday, my feet had not touched the salty water.

Whole fish, from the day’s catch, are sold from wheelbarrows on the side of the road. Natural freshwater springs spout along the shoreline in some places.  The small boats of fishermen dot the blue expanse. The ocean is life for islanders. But it can also mean death. Many girls, who do not have the same freedom of movement as boys growing up, never learn to swim. Travel between islands is cheapest by boat, but overcrowded and ancient, these vessels often founder and hundreds of islanders perish each year.

My friend, Aisha[1], was traveling to a neighboring island when the rudder broke. The boat was tossed to and fro in the waves and it took days rather than hours to reach their destination. She tells me that she was so frightened; sure she was going to die, because if the boat sank in the merciless waves, she did not know how to swim. Lifeboats and life vests were non-existent on her boat. The fear returned to her face as she recounted this story to me.

I told her that I love to swim and she asked if I could teach her. Absolutely, I say. Sunday afternoon, when the rain had stopped, we headed out to the beach with her sister and sister-in-law. Swimsuits are not really a thing here. While I did wear a one-piece underneath my clothes, because who likes soggy underwear, I had no illusions that I would be able to show it off. Instead I wore boys’ basketball shorts that fell below my knees and a Peace Corps t-shirt. Aisha wore jean kapri pants and a white polo shirt. Her companions were outfitted in equally uncomfortable clothing.

The spot where we swam.

While the coastline runs all along my city, the swimming area is about a 15-minute walk away. Along the road the people on the side of the road were curious where I was going, constantly asking, “Where are you going?” and my reply, “I’m going to the sea,” spoken in my infantile local language.  The “beach” consists of a bunch of rocks. Not pebbles. Rocks. In between, on top and underneath the rocks are all manner of trash from plastic bags and bottles, to broken shoes to unidentifiable sharp metal objects. It’s really quite treacherous. The trash, of course, makes it way to the ocean and floats alongside or wraps itself around all prospective swimmers. Little boys think it’s great fun to find the grossest trash in the water and throw it at each other. The closer they drew to me, the less amused I became.

Aside from the rocks and trash, the water was pleasantly warm and very salty. This, I hoped, would aid my first swimming lesson- how to float. I began to explain in French, that in order to swim one must overcome one’s fear of the ocean. “The sea is your friend,” I explained. Giggles and head shakes came from all three girls. The waves were very gentle, like that of a lake, lapping against the trash-covered shoreline. So I was quick to demonstrate the ease with which I could float. See? Just put your head back, bring your feet up and relax. The ocean does all the work.

I took each girl into my arms, one by one, and had them float on their backs while I held them from underneath. I could feel how tense they were, afraid of sinking, afraid of the ocean. I continued to reassure them and tell them to relax. I’m here; I won’t let anything bad happen to you.  As I went from one to the next, they continued to practice on their own. Their flopping back into the water like whales and expecting to float was rather amusing, but ultimately pointless. Over and over I demonstrated the technique. The first to get it was the youngest, Aisha’s sister. She in turn, started explaining in local language how she was doing it. Then Aisha’s sister-in-law caught on and she began doing it on her own.

Aisha kept trying and I could see she was becoming frustrated. “I can’t do it,” was her phrase of choice. “If this is the easiest thing in learning to swim and I can’t even do that, I will never be able to swim!” I told her floating was not the easiest thing. Perhaps it’s the hardest, but it is foundational. It is one of the most important things to learn so we will continue to practice until she gets it.

And she kept trying. Over and over again, she worked so hard. She flapped her arms about uselessly and sank time and again. Nightfall was nearing and we would have to leave soon, so I grabbed her and laid her on her back. I held her closely so she would feel secure and then I brought her out into the deep. I held her, reassuring her until I felt her body relax in my arms. She finally just let go of her fear. She closed her eyes, let her arms drift out and her legs uncross. And I let go. Though my arms were right underneath to catch her if she panicked, I was no longer holding her. She was no longer working to float. She just was floating.

As I was thinking about this experience this morning, God brought it to my attention that this is a picture of how I am sometimes. I work so hard to keep myself afloat in life. And ultimately it’s futile. I splash and make a lot of noise but I will sink and drown eventually. All the while, God is right there saying, “I’ve got this, my child. Relax.” All the worry and anxiety is meaningless. Jesus said in Matthew 6:27 “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

To sum it up, I am also reminded of the great philosophers of Modest Mouse who sang:

And we’ll all float on, ok

And we’ll all float on, all right

Don’t worry; we’ll all float on

Even if things get heavy, we’ll all float on.

Right on, Modest Mouse.

---

[1] Names have been changed

One Week In

I have been on the islands for one week today. It feels like so much longer. I’ve experienced such a wide variety of emotions; I’ve eaten completely new and unfamiliar foods; I wear new clothing; I speak a new language. But it’s not the new that has overwhelmed me, it is the familiar.

The first night I spent on the islands I wrote this in my journal: “Since we arrived on the island I have been in a state of semi-shock. I think, of course, I’m exhausted and feeling jet-lagged but it’s more than that. This island looks and smells so similar to Guinea and that makes me scared out of my mind!”

That night I was comforted by two promises. First, I am not alone. Matthew 28:20b says, “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” And Jeremiah 29:11 which promises that God has good plans for me. It is through my own failings and weakness that fear consumes me when I am reminded of my life during Peace Corps. As my friend Rachel reminded me, this is not the same and I have been brought to this island for a reason.

Following that first night my tension has faded and I have acclimatized once again to life in Africa. What does this mean? For right now it means that I have once again become accustomed to being hot ALL the time. Sweat is healthy. I am taking bucket baths again. The verdict is still out as to what is worse: the heat or the cold baths. I am readjusting to greeting everyone: shopkeepers, people on balconies, people walking by, people sitting, people on cars, people on motorcycles, children, old men, etc. My stomach is once again getting used to a steady diet of rice with sauce.

But the fact is that Clove Island is A LOT different from Guinea. The similarities were immediately noticeable- they were something tangible that I could understand and grab onto. The differences took a few days longer and I have just scratched the surface. The clothing is different, for one. Women always wear a wrap over their bodies and either over the head or just wrapped over the shoulder. When we leave the hotel, conference room or our team leader’s house, we must always remember to put on our wrap. The food is different too, thank goodness! While lunch does consist of rice and sauce most days, I have not found a single rock in my rice yet and the sauce is superb. The sauce I had today I would compare to a beef stroganoff. Being that this is an island, we’ve had fish quite a few times that has been amazing! So far, I am huge fan of the food.

Another difference from Peace Corps is how we will learn language. We’re using a method called L.A.M.P. which stands for Language Acquisition Made Practical. I was very nervous at first, because it is heavy on listening and speaking, conversing with community members and recording conversations on a digital recorder, rather than the traditional classroom methods that include reading and writing.  However, I have been pleasantly surprised thus far with this method. Granted I haven’t learned much. I can’t even say “hello” in the traditional sense. Oh, I can rattle off a bunch of greetings but “hello” is a four-syllable word, which requires one to have the mouth of a contortionist! I have also learned to say “I want to learn the local language”, “what is this”, “excuse me, repeat that please”, “what is your name” and “where are you from”. Every afternoon we spend an hour wandering the streets in pairs to practice the new phrase that we learned. It’s quite intimidating, especially for an introvert but very effective in burning phrases into my brain. I am cautiously optimistic.

My next great challenge will be homestay, which happens this Wednesday. I will be staying with a family in a village. While I will spend two years living in a city, most city dwellers here originate from a village. “Home” is the village. Our organization wants us to also have a connection with a village and better understand village life. I have heard many stories now from the other workers on the islands about the homestay experiences and honestly, I am quite terrified. I was told to expect no privacy and my purpose is to observe. As a natural “do-er”, simply observing or perhaps minimal participation in daily chores sounds terrible. I will also be alone during my homestay so while couples have each other to bounce things off of, I will not. But I think the worst will be with no privacy, there is nowhere to escape and be alone. There is no quicker way for my exhaustion to rise and my attitude to plummet than to take away my personal time. I do understand the importance of a homestay and I know I can do it. But I dread it with every fiber of my being. Yet I am hopeful that when I write next I will have a wonderful story to tell you!

Day TwentyFive: Pain for a Purpose

*The following post is written by my lifelong friend, Leah. Check out some of her work by clicking here.*

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

Have you ever thought about this verse? How interesting! Why would someone who mourns be considered blessed or another use of this same Greek word is happy. So… happy are they which mourn?  I don’t know about you but I am not happy when I am mourning.

I recently learned about this portion of scripture and thought it very applicable to my profession.  I am a Doula. The word doula means servant or slave in Greek.  But today a doula is what is known as a non-medical support for a woman giving birth.  Some refer to a doula as a birth companion, coach or advocate.

Several months in advance I will meet with a mom-to-be.  After she decides that I am a good addition to her labor team, a new relationship begins.  Close to her due date, I am on call for her at any hour of the night.  At the onset of labor I am notified and hours later (usually) I am requested at her home to help her and her husband with comfort measures, positioning, relaxation techniques and other support.

Usually a mom requesting my services is one that desires to have a natural birth.  By natural I mean an unmedicated, vaginal birth.  At this point in telling people what I do I either get an eyebrow furrow coupled with a slight head tilt or I get a smile and a nod. The first expression indicates “Why on earth would a mother choose no medication for birthing a baby when the medicine that is available is used by millions of people and is proven to have positive effects…I know from personal experience.”

The culture we live in today wants nothing to do with pain.  I dare say that there is some type of medication to numb every kind of perceived pain – emotional, physical, and spiritual.  But is that really how pain should be handled?  Is that how God intended pain to be treated?  Or is there some greater purpose to the pain that we experience?

While all of the pain that life brings us can and should be addressed individually, I am only going to address the pain of childbirth. Starting with all of the risks of medication would be an easy way to scare people away from its use, but first I would rather shed light on some potential benefits of making a decision to forgo medication in childbirth.

The verse above indicates a very REAL truth: Those that mourn will be comforted.  One of the most amazing benefits that I have seen in natural childbirth is the bonding experience that takes place between a husband and wife.  It’s hard to comfort someone that seems to be handling things on their own.  The few times that I’ve seen an epidural administered I’ve also seen a complete dynamic change.  Now, there’s nothing for the husband to do – just sit and wait for a doctors instruction.  He will start watching t.v., playing on his phone or sleeping.  The pain medication has now taken the place of the husband. On the opposing end, I have seen how attentive, caring, empathetic and comforting even the sternest of husbands are when they see their wife, a person that they deeply love, working so hard toward a goal.  I can speak from experience when I say that the birth of our son left a deep and lasting impression that further sealed our love for one another.  For him it was seeing a vulnerable yet strong woman and for me it was his service and attentiveness toward me.   

Another benefit I often observe from women that choose natural childbirth is the inner confidence they have as a mother.  The use of medication can leave a woman feeling like they barely played a role in the birth of their child. And becoming a mom can be a very confusing time with lots of learning and questions.  “Am I holding him right?,” “Is he getting enough to eat?,” “Is he sleeping too much?,” “Is he not sleeping enough?” All questions that I hear asked time and time again.  After going through the difficult and trying moments of labor (especially transition) and coming out at the other side realizing “Wow, I did it!” You have an inner confidence in your body, yourself, your ability to mother and the God that designed it all.

Talk to any Obstetrician and if forced they cannot deny the “Cascade of Interventions.”  This phrase means that with each intervention used during labor, a greater risk to the mother and baby exist and further it can require yet another intervention to “fix” the latest intervention which often times results in a c-section.  Right now the U.S. C‑section rate is at 33% (that’s 1/3 of the population born by C‑section).  Before you think “It’s a good thing we have modern medicine to save so many women and children” consider this: The World Health Organization states that the best outcome for women and babies occurs when cesarean rates are between 5%-10%.  Any more than that is doing more harm than good (childbirthconnection.org).

While going into an operating room may not seem like that big of a deal, remember: This is the first time you are meeting your baby! You are either unconscious or in a very uncommon state;  your baby is in a cold, sterile environment where it first gets suctioned (most likely with a tube down the throat, which makes breastfeeding more challenging later), weighed, wiped down, diapered, blanketed and THEN given to you.  Furthermore, mental and physical recovery after this operation requires hours. You have just had a major operation and are expected to care for an infant that needs to be fed every 2-3 hours through the night. Holding the baby and breastfeeding are painful. After the early, difficult problems subside, there are long-term effects: an increased chance of uterine rupture each time you have a c-section and doctors that don’t like to take on vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC) patients.

What I just described is not completely certain to happen to you of course. There are particular instances that end in necessary cesareans.  However, wouldn’t you rather understand the risks before you concede to a birth without pain?  It can come at a cost.  I believe that God’s design – to experience pain in childbirth – ultimately is a great gift that has significant rewards that are hard to comprehend unless experienced.

I want to be very clear in saying that I do not believe that the use of medication is wrong.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  But I encourage you ask the question “Why am I experiencing this (physical, emotional or spiritual) pain?”  Seek to cure the source rather than simply eliminate its effects. Use pain as an indicator of something deeper.

Day 3: Happily Ever After

Tonight I listened to a 22-year-old pour her heart out. Three months ago she broke up with her boyfriend of two years. He is now dating someone else; someone who, in her words, could be a top model. She spoke of a damaged self-image and not being good enough. She’d stayed with him for so long, despite bad treatment because who else could love her? And now she’s left alone.

In a room full of married women, they were quick to jump in and give her hope. Everyone has a similar story about the boy they dated that they weren’t meant for. And then they found Mr. Right. And while it’s not quite happily ever after, it’s exactly what she wants to hear. She smiles a teary-eyed smile and realizes that could be her too. Mr. Right could be at the next Bible study or at the next job; who knows, maybe she’ll meet him at the grocery store tomorrow or bump into him on the church steps this Sunday.

As the oldest single in the room, I listened. Like I said, everyone has a similar story. I could have been her 4 years ago. A two-year relationship ended. And basically my life was over. I stayed strong on the outside to anyone who asked. But I was broken inside. That was probably my only shot at happiness- gone. And I didn’t stop thinking about him two months later or even two years later. Every sappy song, every romance movie brought up what could have been.

So I sat and listened to the married women give hope to the single, young woman and I remained silent. I did not have the words that she wanted to hear. I am the portrait of what she does not want to become. I am a reminder that not all journeys have a storybook happily ever after with Prince Charming on his knee at age 22 or 25 or 27.

But if I were to speak with her, this is what I would say.  I know you’re afraid to end up alone. So am I. But God is bigger than our fears and He is there to comfort us in our pain, broken-heartedness and anguish. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalms 34:18.

And then I would tell her that no one should bring someone in to share their life if they do not know who they are with Jesus alone. Todd Wagner, pastor of Watermark Community Church in Dallas, puts it this way, “Any relationship is only as healthy as the least healthy person in it. […]Some people are single and God’s grace is sufficient for them. Some people are single because God is gracious to others.[i]” So often I see my friends go from relationship to relationship. They are serial daters and the lucky (or maybe not so) get married. They do not know what it’s like to be alone, to depend on God alone. They may need validation, or constant attention or someone to nurture or change. I pity them.

God still has things in store for me before/if He decides to bring someone else in to add to the picture. I am wholly invested in becoming who He wants me to be in the meantime and following His path for my life even if I must follow that path with His company alone.  

Sometimes I feel lonely. Sometimes I want to have someone to call my own, to do their laundry and make them sandwiches. I desire to have someone depend on me and love me as I am. But ultimately, this will never satisfy my deepest desire to be known and loved by God and to love him in return. The prayer of my heart is clearly spoken of in Psalms 63:

You, God, are my God,

earnestly I seek you;
I thirst for you,
    my whole being longs for you,
in a dry and parched land
    where there is no water.

Because your love is better than life,
    my lips will glorify you.

On my bed I remember you;
    I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
    I sing in the shadow of your wings.
I cling to you;
    your right hand upholds me.

 

It is still hard but God’s grace is sufficient for me. And it can be for you too. Even without  the traditional happily ever after. That’s what I would tell her.

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[i] http://wordsfromwags.com/why-am-i-still-single/