A poem by Edgar A. Guest
Home
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories
O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escapefrom these.
Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A case for God's existence and why we should revere Him
Today I have been reflecting on Psalm 145:3 "Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom." We discussed it in a Bible study Wednesday morning. It is one of those things that you read and say, yeah, I agree with that," but do we really understand the implications of this? Has it transformed the way we think and the way we live? When I look around at the way our culture conducts itself, the direction modern science moves forward and the way some church denominations conduct themselves and the way many people live I wonder if people ever really think about this. As a child we hear many little random nuggets of truth from Church or religion that we recognize, but as adults we sometimes fail to put them all together and contemplate what they really mean. The meaning of this verse really sunk in for me on three particular occasions during the last several years, not from a great sermon preached from the pulpit, but from the whisper of God heard in His creation through numerous threads subtly woven into the daily events of my life.
The first one was in Africa, several years ago. The yard where we lived in West Africa was graced with numerous enormous pine trees, planted there in the cooler climate of the high altitudes by the French colonialists some 50 years or more earlier, and in these pine trees the weaver birds loved to put their nests. One particular day a ferocious storm came through and blew down about 10 nests, most of which still had live baby weaver birds in them. The next morning we attempted to gather up all the nests with their hungry little orphaned residents, and placed them in a box. They were at various stages of growth, some just newly hatched, still naked and vulnerable to the elements, while others were full of feathers and nearly ready to venture out of the nest. Over the next several days the kids and I laboriously attempted to search for worms and feed them in various portion sizes to the baby birds. We kept wondering: how much do we need to give them? Does it need to be ground up first? Do we need to give them water? Did I give them too much? One by one we watched the baby birds die, all except for one, which was already old enough to leave the nest a few days after we found him. I remember feeling such a great sense of defeat, yet at the same time I came to greatly respect the mother weaver bird who alone had the ability to give these starving babies what they needed to grow and thrive. I came to have an even greater awe at the God who in his infinite wisdom placed in that little mamma bird's brain all that she needed to know in order to build just the right nest, and search for the right food instinctually, and know just how to give it and how often. In all my supposedly evolved human intelligence, I was no match for the tiniest of creatures and could not come close to knowing the greatness and knowledge of the God who created them.
The second event occurred one day when we and another family were on the coast of West Africa waiting for a boat to take us to an island where we were to spend a few days vacationing in a resort hotel. It sounds exotic, but beach hotels in that part of the world are actually a lot less sophisticated and fancy than those that lace the beaches of the Caribbean, Europe or the US. In order to get to this one, we had to stand on the shore of the mainland which consisted of rocks embedded in sludge cluttered with enormous quantities of plastic bags, dirty needles, tin cans and other garbage dumped in excess by the local population into the ocean without any thought to the effect it had on the ecosystem, much less to the way it destroyed the once beautiful view. Our children, along with the children of the other family, in spite of us adults constantly warning them to keep away from the dangers of the polluted coastline, were fascinated with the whole idea of exploring the beach, however nasty it may appear, and despite our best efforts, kept wandering down into it when we were distracted by our own conversations. Not realizing they had ventured back down into the rocks, our chatting with one another was suddenly interrupted by my daughter's exclamation, "It's beautiful!" We all chuckled at that thought that she could have possibly found something beautiful amongst all that refuse. But then we saw as she emerged from the muddy littered bank that she was holding up a seashell. It was not just any seashell. It was the most fascinating and intricate seashell, as perfect as a seashell could be, with delicate complicated patterns and colors, and without chips or defects of any kind. I took it from her and held it in my hand, and for a brief moment all the ugly world around faded away, and I caught a glimpse of the glory of God unveiled in the delicate beauty and perfection of something made not by a Picasso, but by slug-like creature with a brain the size of a pinhead, all orchestrated by a Creator who was far wiser than I, far greater than I could fathom, and I was humbled. I realized at that moment that man in all his wisdom could never duplicate this shell in the same way that it was formed, could never engineer a creature that could create such a thing, and that no scientific theory could explain this away as an accident.
The third incident was also in Africa, this time in my garden that I had worked for 12 years to nurture from what it once was, the ancient-flashlight-battery-burial-ground-weed-infested-trash-heap of a back yard that we had turned into a refreshing tropical paradise. Over the years I battled weeds, insects, torrential rains, drought and plant diseases to keep my garden looking the way I wanted it to so that I could spend a few minutes each day enjoying a peaceful moment there away from the stresses of cross cultural work and life in general. One day, near the end of our time there, when I was feeling particularly worn and defeated, I took a stroll down the path of my garden and noticed a flower had bloomed that I had not seen bloom in years. It was a ground orchid that someone had given me a cutting of years before, and was mostly a battle to keep trimmed back or alive. Yet there it was, in full bloom without flaw or defect. I stood there for a moment in awe of it's rare beauty. The intricate blend of colors, curves and designs of each petal in perfect alignment with one another took my breath away. And at that moment I could not help but sense the voice of God saying, "see, I created this, this is my glory, my voice speaking, stand humbly before me. And I am standing right here beside you through the storm of what you are going through when you least expected it, when you thought I wasn't there at all. How great is my love for you." At that moment I began to weep. How could something made of simple matter have the power to do that? Nothing made by human hands, let alone by accident, could speak to our souls the way that flower could. Nothing man could create could take the basic elements of soil, water, air and sun, organize it by means of a microscopically tiny and genetically unique and perfect blueprint into something so beautiful that reproduces itself again and again under only the perfect conditions across centuries of time.
How foolish man is that he would presume to know how the world came into being using his own limited lines of logic and reasoning. And how foolish man is to go on his merry way on this earth without a thought of where he is going, what he is doing, any more than to merely please himself and make his own pleasure his god.
King David more than 3000 years ago knew more than the smartest scientists of today did, when he said in Psalm 53:1 says, "The fool says in his heart, 'There is no God.'"
And the writer of Ecclesiastes says "Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart, to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few." (Ecc 5:2)
Psalm 94:11: "The Lord knows the thoughts of man; He knows that they are futile."
So I return to the Psalm "Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom." I pray that you are touched today by the greatness of God and that it does indeed transform your way of life and thinking. Take time to reflect on His hand in your life, and how He has blessed you even in difficult times, even when you turned your back on Him and rejected Him as a childish myth, or a useless religious relic. I pray you see even more so how He is calling you back into a relationship with Him. Stand up for what is good and right and reject the mainstream mindset of our culture that says we can live without thought of God. Make a choice to not live a Godless life, but to let Him begin to find His way back into your life.
The first one was in Africa, several years ago. The yard where we lived in West Africa was graced with numerous enormous pine trees, planted there in the cooler climate of the high altitudes by the French colonialists some 50 years or more earlier, and in these pine trees the weaver birds loved to put their nests. One particular day a ferocious storm came through and blew down about 10 nests, most of which still had live baby weaver birds in them. The next morning we attempted to gather up all the nests with their hungry little orphaned residents, and placed them in a box. They were at various stages of growth, some just newly hatched, still naked and vulnerable to the elements, while others were full of feathers and nearly ready to venture out of the nest. Over the next several days the kids and I laboriously attempted to search for worms and feed them in various portion sizes to the baby birds. We kept wondering: how much do we need to give them? Does it need to be ground up first? Do we need to give them water? Did I give them too much? One by one we watched the baby birds die, all except for one, which was already old enough to leave the nest a few days after we found him. I remember feeling such a great sense of defeat, yet at the same time I came to greatly respect the mother weaver bird who alone had the ability to give these starving babies what they needed to grow and thrive. I came to have an even greater awe at the God who in his infinite wisdom placed in that little mamma bird's brain all that she needed to know in order to build just the right nest, and search for the right food instinctually, and know just how to give it and how often. In all my supposedly evolved human intelligence, I was no match for the tiniest of creatures and could not come close to knowing the greatness and knowledge of the God who created them.
The second event occurred one day when we and another family were on the coast of West Africa waiting for a boat to take us to an island where we were to spend a few days vacationing in a resort hotel. It sounds exotic, but beach hotels in that part of the world are actually a lot less sophisticated and fancy than those that lace the beaches of the Caribbean, Europe or the US. In order to get to this one, we had to stand on the shore of the mainland which consisted of rocks embedded in sludge cluttered with enormous quantities of plastic bags, dirty needles, tin cans and other garbage dumped in excess by the local population into the ocean without any thought to the effect it had on the ecosystem, much less to the way it destroyed the once beautiful view. Our children, along with the children of the other family, in spite of us adults constantly warning them to keep away from the dangers of the polluted coastline, were fascinated with the whole idea of exploring the beach, however nasty it may appear, and despite our best efforts, kept wandering down into it when we were distracted by our own conversations. Not realizing they had ventured back down into the rocks, our chatting with one another was suddenly interrupted by my daughter's exclamation, "It's beautiful!" We all chuckled at that thought that she could have possibly found something beautiful amongst all that refuse. But then we saw as she emerged from the muddy littered bank that she was holding up a seashell. It was not just any seashell. It was the most fascinating and intricate seashell, as perfect as a seashell could be, with delicate complicated patterns and colors, and without chips or defects of any kind. I took it from her and held it in my hand, and for a brief moment all the ugly world around faded away, and I caught a glimpse of the glory of God unveiled in the delicate beauty and perfection of something made not by a Picasso, but by slug-like creature with a brain the size of a pinhead, all orchestrated by a Creator who was far wiser than I, far greater than I could fathom, and I was humbled. I realized at that moment that man in all his wisdom could never duplicate this shell in the same way that it was formed, could never engineer a creature that could create such a thing, and that no scientific theory could explain this away as an accident.
The third incident was also in Africa, this time in my garden that I had worked for 12 years to nurture from what it once was, the ancient-flashlight-battery-burial-ground-weed-infested-trash-heap of a back yard that we had turned into a refreshing tropical paradise. Over the years I battled weeds, insects, torrential rains, drought and plant diseases to keep my garden looking the way I wanted it to so that I could spend a few minutes each day enjoying a peaceful moment there away from the stresses of cross cultural work and life in general. One day, near the end of our time there, when I was feeling particularly worn and defeated, I took a stroll down the path of my garden and noticed a flower had bloomed that I had not seen bloom in years. It was a ground orchid that someone had given me a cutting of years before, and was mostly a battle to keep trimmed back or alive. Yet there it was, in full bloom without flaw or defect. I stood there for a moment in awe of it's rare beauty. The intricate blend of colors, curves and designs of each petal in perfect alignment with one another took my breath away. And at that moment I could not help but sense the voice of God saying, "see, I created this, this is my glory, my voice speaking, stand humbly before me. And I am standing right here beside you through the storm of what you are going through when you least expected it, when you thought I wasn't there at all. How great is my love for you." At that moment I began to weep. How could something made of simple matter have the power to do that? Nothing made by human hands, let alone by accident, could speak to our souls the way that flower could. Nothing man could create could take the basic elements of soil, water, air and sun, organize it by means of a microscopically tiny and genetically unique and perfect blueprint into something so beautiful that reproduces itself again and again under only the perfect conditions across centuries of time.
How foolish man is that he would presume to know how the world came into being using his own limited lines of logic and reasoning. And how foolish man is to go on his merry way on this earth without a thought of where he is going, what he is doing, any more than to merely please himself and make his own pleasure his god.
King David more than 3000 years ago knew more than the smartest scientists of today did, when he said in Psalm 53:1 says, "The fool says in his heart, 'There is no God.'"
And the writer of Ecclesiastes says "Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart, to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few." (Ecc 5:2)
Psalm 94:11: "The Lord knows the thoughts of man; He knows that they are futile."
So I return to the Psalm "Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom." I pray that you are touched today by the greatness of God and that it does indeed transform your way of life and thinking. Take time to reflect on His hand in your life, and how He has blessed you even in difficult times, even when you turned your back on Him and rejected Him as a childish myth, or a useless religious relic. I pray you see even more so how He is calling you back into a relationship with Him. Stand up for what is good and right and reject the mainstream mindset of our culture that says we can live without thought of God. Make a choice to not live a Godless life, but to let Him begin to find His way back into your life.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Close to the Earth - Close to God
When we lived in Africa one of my favorite things was my garden - Over the years I had collected over 250 species of tropical plants, taking cuttings from the gardens of many people over the years, as well as digging up wild plants, ground lilies, pulling orchids off of trees and regrafting them onto my own. Something about working with nature, nurturing it, watching it grow and best of all, watching the flowers come into bloom, always drew me closer to God. I always marvel at the perfection and beauty in each flower.
The past year however has been one in which we have lived in the city, in a house without a garden, with only little reminders from the landscaping of neighbor's yards to glance at at a distance in passing.
Now we are fin
ally living on our farm where every day I can breathe in the the vastness of the unending pastures, the sound of the wind blowing in the top of the trees in the woods, the sounds of mysterious birds busy in the forest, the amazing variety of wildflowers
growing at every turn, the soft chorus of frogs in the distant pond at night, and the peaceful solitude of the country with a rare sound of a tractor or truck passing by in the distance maybe 2 or 3 times a day.
Today we spent hours outdoors, cleaning out the barn and putting up fences around the pasture. It was hard work, but good work. Here Jim and I feel like we can finally really become whole again after all we have been through. It is a place where God's presence is evident like never before. How true the statement of the apostle Paul in Romans 1:20: "For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse."
I think all too often we get caught up in the business of our modern lifestyles and fail to recognize the simplest things that are there to draw us back to God. That is why I think I like nature and the outdoors so much. God's echos are everywhere. When I hear the chorus of birds singing, I weep, because in them I hear the voice of God saying, "be joyful, do not fear, do not worry, enjoy life in my presence, embrace the simple, be happy in the moment, there is hope, there is newness of life." When I see the intricacies of a delicate orchid I hear God whisper, "be humbled and in awe of me, the Creator, for only I could create this; you too are fearfully and wonderfully made."
A friend pointed out a great quote today from the blog of Ann Vaskamp:
"One difference only between the dirt in my hand and my hand... The breath of God."
May we never forget this.
The past year however has been one in which we have lived in the city, in a house without a garden, with only little reminders from the landscaping of neighbor's yards to glance at at a distance in passing.
Now we are fin
ally living on our farm where every day I can breathe in the the vastness of the unending pastures, the sound of the wind blowing in the top of the trees in the woods, the sounds of mysterious birds busy in the forest, the amazing variety of wildflowers
growing at every turn, the soft chorus of frogs in the distant pond at night, and the peaceful solitude of the country with a rare sound of a tractor or truck passing by in the distance maybe 2 or 3 times a day.Today we spent hours outdoors, cleaning out the barn and putting up fences around the pasture. It was hard work, but good work. Here Jim and I feel like we can finally really become whole again after all we have been through. It is a place where God's presence is evident like never before. How true the statement of the apostle Paul in Romans 1:20: "For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse."
I think all too often we get caught up in the business of our modern lifestyles and fail to recognize the simplest things that are there to draw us back to God. That is why I think I like nature and the outdoors so much. God's echos are everywhere. When I hear the chorus of birds singing, I weep, because in them I hear the voice of God saying, "be joyful, do not fear, do not worry, enjoy life in my presence, embrace the simple, be happy in the moment, there is hope, there is newness of life." When I see the intricacies of a delicate orchid I hear God whisper, "be humbled and in awe of me, the Creator, for only I could create this; you too are fearfully and wonderfully made."
A friend pointed out a great quote today from the blog of Ann Vaskamp:
"One difference only between the dirt in my hand and my hand... The breath of God."
May we never forget this.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Reflecting Back to One Year Ago
I was looking back at pictures from March a year ago. We were in Africa. It was dry season and we were all thankful that the political situation seemed to be improving. We had had nearly 3 months without having to wake to gunfire or fear what was going to happen next. The kids were playing happily in our yard. Joshua had caught a beautiful irredescent green sunbird, much like a hummingbird. He was building a fort in the back yard. Jim had installed an exercise bar on the tree house so the kids could learn to do chin-ups for P.E. That was the month Jim repaired our washing machine. It was also the month we were revamping the electric wiring of our house because a bolt of lightening in an unexpected storm had fried our wires. He was building a really cool electric solar panel control center, and I was painting the battery room, all in anticipation of preparing the house for another family due to arrive in July, who would live in this home which we had so lovingly cared for and improved for 12 years. We had put in hundreds of trees in an orchard out back, and planting a cool inviting garden that was a peaceful place to relax after a stressfull day outside the gates.
We knew we were going to be leaving Africa soon. I was having health issues and we were emotionally weary. Weary of many long years working cross-culturally, speaking two languages not our own, constantly battling logistic problems in a country with poor infrastructure, with constant plumbing and electric problems, fuel shortages, phone and internet aggravations, and cross-cultural stress on a daily basis, treating sick people with less than adequate supplies, and getting sick ourselves on a monthly basis with malaria, amoebic dysentery, or typhoid. We sewed up lacerations, treated countless burns, machete wounds and the like. We lived through periods of political unrest, not knowing at times from one day to the next if we were staying or leaving, and/or even wondering if we could leave I we needed to, all while trying to get the job done that we came to do.
Secretly during the last three years there, I lived with a growing awareness that I wasn't okay, and that I had not recovered from some of the traumas I had lived through in Africa. Those of you who know me know what those are. I won't go into the details. I struggled to cope on a daily basis as constant triggers bombarded me, all without warning, and my body reacted in ways that I had no control over. I hated feeling paralyzed by this thing. I hated admitting that I was weak.
It wasn't always this way. I remember when I was younger when I first arrived in Africa I wasn't afraid of anything. I remember seeing the mountains for the first time, and the feeling that they took my breath away, and I had a sense that I would never want to leave this enchanted place. There, I felt empowered to do anything that God set before me. There I became a somebody in a world of nobodies. I found that I could walk through an open door of uncharted waters, and amazing things would happen. I had courage, not knowing where it came from. I was the one who would walk up to soldiers and instead of being intimidated by them, I would befriend them, offer them a book, some medicine or a piece of sisterly advice in their mother tongue, and then be allowed to pass, having spread "world peace" and leaving warm smiles behind.
Now, 19 years later, I know that years of living amidst the cross-cultural tension that was always under the surface, coupled with multiple traumatic events, many of which I apparently came through fine at first, some may even say heroically, can have their toll on your psyche in the end. Having half my thyroid plucked out didn't help. 2 years ago, struggling to cope, I went to one of the trauma counselors who was visiting our field, and was told I had PTSD. I already knew it to be true. But somehow now that I had that label, I felt like I had to admit that I was "crazy" or something. Labels are hard to get rid of. But I also began to feel like I was not alone. I was given a book to read about PTSD in war veterans, and soon began to feel a kindred spirit with them. I began to realize that there are millions of people who struggle with this. Your body and mind do strange things. Your face gets hot and flushed and your heart begins to race at the sight of something that somewhere in the recesses of your brain sub-consciously reminds you of some peripheral aspect of a traumatic event you lived through, benign things like the paint peeling off a wall, the back-firing of a car or a sick child. You shut down emotionally and block out conversations of people around you at random moments, while inside you feel like crawling up in the corner and hiding. You have memory lapses where you can't remember entire conversations with people and you lose your ability to multi-task. You get teary-eyed when you least expect it.
That was my reality 2 years ago. So many people have told me they considered me their hero. I felt the farthest thing from it. A hero would have fought to the finish. I felt like a failure. I had to confront the fact that this place in the world that was once my dream and had become my life for so many years was now becoming my nightmare and a threat to my well-being and my health. My counselor advised that we "get out of our Vietnam". So a year ago in March we were taking steps to do just that, and bring closure to the "Africa chapter" of our lives. But we wanted to do it slowly and on our own terms.
As we were preparing the house for another family to move into it, Jim and I had begun laying the foundation for building a new dream that would carry us into the next phase of our lives. We made a commitment to move toward using our gifts more to enhance our lives and the lives of others, and this in turn would help us find ourselves again and become whole. For the first time in about 20 years we began to pursue some of our other passions: art for me and writing for Jim. These things really helped us bridge the last 8 months in Africa that became increasingly difficult for us as we longed to bring closure to it.
That was a year ago. Little did we know that just a few weeks later our time-table for departure would get an abrupt kick into light-speed, when on a quite leisurely day while visiting with friends from out of town, a couple soldiers came to our gate, marched into our yard, painted those dreadful red X's on our walls and told us the house was being reclaimed by the new government, which had just a few months earlier taken power in a bloodless coup. So much for well-laid plans. Now my home which I had nurtured and which I had been slowly saying good-bye to was being ripped out of my hands before I was ready. We could have tried to stay and "wait and see what happens", but we knew the safest and wisest thing to do then was to leave. Our emotional state at that point was already such that we were resigned to leaving, and this only confirmed in our minds that we needed to go. At that point we mustered up the courage to bring closure to everything in just 8 days, the house, the possessions, the friendships, the neighbors, the lifestyle, the community, Africa. It was the most exhausting, bittersweet week of our lives. I still remember seeing Jim lying face-down on the tile floor of the guest house, looking as if he were passed out, from exhaustion. We headed out of town, never looking back, and a few days later flew out of Africa, for me probably the last time.
I look back and think how hard it was to leave while at the same time easy. I'm glad we left. It was time. I don't feel like a failure so much as I did then, but more so that a season of my life has drawn to a close and a new one has begun. I admire those colleagues we left behind, those who are still full of that courage I once had to stay in a very difficult situation and, with God's help, make amazing things happen. They are my heros. And if someday they find it is time to leave, I will understand.
For the past year we have been operating on auto-pilot, trying to take the necessary steps to start a new home and keep our family functioning during a huge transition period. It's been hard, but not nearly as hard as the last three years in Africa were. Healing has begun. But now we find ourselves so incredibly busy just trying to make ends meet, we are wondering where all the creative energy went that we had committed to using.
I long for the day when we are finally settled in our new home we are building, in a place where we can finally relax, take inventory and find those creative moments once again. This new home is very symbolic for us. We so desperately need to have a place we can call home that no one can take away from us, that embodies our dreams for the future, and our hopes for rebuilding our lives and ourselves in this new season God has given us. I do realize that this is not a perfect world and that anything can happen. I know that all too well. But the new dream God has put in our hearts is what has kept us going and moving forward, and God willing, by his mercy we will realize it.
We knew we were going to be leaving Africa soon. I was having health issues and we were emotionally weary. Weary of many long years working cross-culturally, speaking two languages not our own, constantly battling logistic problems in a country with poor infrastructure, with constant plumbing and electric problems, fuel shortages, phone and internet aggravations, and cross-cultural stress on a daily basis, treating sick people with less than adequate supplies, and getting sick ourselves on a monthly basis with malaria, amoebic dysentery, or typhoid. We sewed up lacerations, treated countless burns, machete wounds and the like. We lived through periods of political unrest, not knowing at times from one day to the next if we were staying or leaving, and/or even wondering if we could leave I we needed to, all while trying to get the job done that we came to do.
Secretly during the last three years there, I lived with a growing awareness that I wasn't okay, and that I had not recovered from some of the traumas I had lived through in Africa. Those of you who know me know what those are. I won't go into the details. I struggled to cope on a daily basis as constant triggers bombarded me, all without warning, and my body reacted in ways that I had no control over. I hated feeling paralyzed by this thing. I hated admitting that I was weak.
It wasn't always this way. I remember when I was younger when I first arrived in Africa I wasn't afraid of anything. I remember seeing the mountains for the first time, and the feeling that they took my breath away, and I had a sense that I would never want to leave this enchanted place. There, I felt empowered to do anything that God set before me. There I became a somebody in a world of nobodies. I found that I could walk through an open door of uncharted waters, and amazing things would happen. I had courage, not knowing where it came from. I was the one who would walk up to soldiers and instead of being intimidated by them, I would befriend them, offer them a book, some medicine or a piece of sisterly advice in their mother tongue, and then be allowed to pass, having spread "world peace" and leaving warm smiles behind.
Now, 19 years later, I know that years of living amidst the cross-cultural tension that was always under the surface, coupled with multiple traumatic events, many of which I apparently came through fine at first, some may even say heroically, can have their toll on your psyche in the end. Having half my thyroid plucked out didn't help. 2 years ago, struggling to cope, I went to one of the trauma counselors who was visiting our field, and was told I had PTSD. I already knew it to be true. But somehow now that I had that label, I felt like I had to admit that I was "crazy" or something. Labels are hard to get rid of. But I also began to feel like I was not alone. I was given a book to read about PTSD in war veterans, and soon began to feel a kindred spirit with them. I began to realize that there are millions of people who struggle with this. Your body and mind do strange things. Your face gets hot and flushed and your heart begins to race at the sight of something that somewhere in the recesses of your brain sub-consciously reminds you of some peripheral aspect of a traumatic event you lived through, benign things like the paint peeling off a wall, the back-firing of a car or a sick child. You shut down emotionally and block out conversations of people around you at random moments, while inside you feel like crawling up in the corner and hiding. You have memory lapses where you can't remember entire conversations with people and you lose your ability to multi-task. You get teary-eyed when you least expect it.
That was my reality 2 years ago. So many people have told me they considered me their hero. I felt the farthest thing from it. A hero would have fought to the finish. I felt like a failure. I had to confront the fact that this place in the world that was once my dream and had become my life for so many years was now becoming my nightmare and a threat to my well-being and my health. My counselor advised that we "get out of our Vietnam". So a year ago in March we were taking steps to do just that, and bring closure to the "Africa chapter" of our lives. But we wanted to do it slowly and on our own terms.
As we were preparing the house for another family to move into it, Jim and I had begun laying the foundation for building a new dream that would carry us into the next phase of our lives. We made a commitment to move toward using our gifts more to enhance our lives and the lives of others, and this in turn would help us find ourselves again and become whole. For the first time in about 20 years we began to pursue some of our other passions: art for me and writing for Jim. These things really helped us bridge the last 8 months in Africa that became increasingly difficult for us as we longed to bring closure to it.
That was a year ago. Little did we know that just a few weeks later our time-table for departure would get an abrupt kick into light-speed, when on a quite leisurely day while visiting with friends from out of town, a couple soldiers came to our gate, marched into our yard, painted those dreadful red X's on our walls and told us the house was being reclaimed by the new government, which had just a few months earlier taken power in a bloodless coup. So much for well-laid plans. Now my home which I had nurtured and which I had been slowly saying good-bye to was being ripped out of my hands before I was ready. We could have tried to stay and "wait and see what happens", but we knew the safest and wisest thing to do then was to leave. Our emotional state at that point was already such that we were resigned to leaving, and this only confirmed in our minds that we needed to go. At that point we mustered up the courage to bring closure to everything in just 8 days, the house, the possessions, the friendships, the neighbors, the lifestyle, the community, Africa. It was the most exhausting, bittersweet week of our lives. I still remember seeing Jim lying face-down on the tile floor of the guest house, looking as if he were passed out, from exhaustion. We headed out of town, never looking back, and a few days later flew out of Africa, for me probably the last time.
I look back and think how hard it was to leave while at the same time easy. I'm glad we left. It was time. I don't feel like a failure so much as I did then, but more so that a season of my life has drawn to a close and a new one has begun. I admire those colleagues we left behind, those who are still full of that courage I once had to stay in a very difficult situation and, with God's help, make amazing things happen. They are my heros. And if someday they find it is time to leave, I will understand.
For the past year we have been operating on auto-pilot, trying to take the necessary steps to start a new home and keep our family functioning during a huge transition period. It's been hard, but not nearly as hard as the last three years in Africa were. Healing has begun. But now we find ourselves so incredibly busy just trying to make ends meet, we are wondering where all the creative energy went that we had committed to using.
I long for the day when we are finally settled in our new home we are building, in a place where we can finally relax, take inventory and find those creative moments once again. This new home is very symbolic for us. We so desperately need to have a place we can call home that no one can take away from us, that embodies our dreams for the future, and our hopes for rebuilding our lives and ourselves in this new season God has given us. I do realize that this is not a perfect world and that anything can happen. I know that all too well. But the new dream God has put in our hearts is what has kept us going and moving forward, and God willing, by his mercy we will realize it.
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