I haven't written for a while...
Partly, this is due to the fact that the internet has been down for a while...
But mostly, it is because this last week was a very dark time for me.
I have decided to be vulnerable and place these thoughts before you, in the hope that someone might find encouragement in them...
I got sick--again. For several days my stomach hurt so much I could barely eat, and in addition, I got a nasty cold that left me wheezing, weepy-eyed, and, for a few days, barely able to speak.
I was also seized with another illness--acute homesickness. Visions of the beauty of my beloved autumn back home haunted me. I was filled with longing to see my family again, to feel safe and comfortable, to be reunited with so many friends I love and haven't seen for months.
I felt the demands of the physical, emotional, and spiritual realities here start to overwhelm me. My body was severly weakened, and my spirit, even more so. I felt useless in the face of so much suffering, and ashamed of my desire to return to my life of privelige. I felt myself fighting feelings of despair.
What I didn't realize, though, was that this week was a gift. These days of darkness were simply God's way of lavishing his grace on me.
You see, he loved me enough to break me.
All along, He has been longing to carry me in His arms, but I, in my pride, prefered to walk on my own.
And so he tripped me....
....so that he could break my fall.
And as I was plunged into my own weakness, I found myself sinking into grace.
His ever-fresh mercies envelope me more in my brokenness than I could ever experience in pride and self-sufficiency.
I am so thankful that he let me fall apart.
As I cracked and shattered, he bent near and whispered. . .
"Behold, I make all things new."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Blessing
Thursday was a gift.
I spent the day with two of my students, Rabab and Fadah. What an honor. When I arrived at their home, the floor was spread with lovely meal of pasta, bread, and potatoes (no such thing as low carb here!). It was absolutely humbling to see the care that Rabab had put into the meal and to be the object of such ferocious hospitality (‘Eat, Teacher! This is your house. Eat some more!’). I have still not gotten over the remarkable dignity and generosity of the people here, even in such circumstances of lack.
The girls are breathtaking. Fadah (18), the youngest, with her dancing brown eyes, mischevious grin, and the confident stride of the well-loved baby sister…always leaning against me or holding my hand.
And Rabab (20)…what a precious girl. In my eyes, she is a true hero. With her father dead and her brothers gone, she’s been a pillar of strength in her family for years—from far too young an age, I believe. She gives endlessly and doesn’t raise a finger on her own behalf, yet works tirelessly for others—cleaning, cooking, working every afternoon, caring for family members and neighbors. But her eyes lack the sparkle of Fadah’s. Why? Is she burdened? Weary? Lonely? I will make it my aim to do what I can to ease whatever silent load she bears. I long to refresh and encourage her the way she does for so many others.
After lunch and a few hours of visiting, a faint sound of music reached our ears. “Teacher! A wedding! Let’s go!” In Saharawi culture, they informed me, weddings are an open event for the entire neighborhood. So we grabbed our scarves and dashed out the door, following the sound of the drums and singing. We discovered the tent a few blocks away and wriggled our way in. I instantly felt as if I had been flown centuries into the past. Women wrapped in dazzling mehlfas, men dancing in brilliant blue dra’as and turbans—I could have easily been in a remote Bedouin tent in some bygone century.
After soaking in the scene for about twenty minutes, the girls drew me outside the tent, where many neighbors, children, and Spanish journalists and human rights workers had gathered. The sun was beginning to dip, and everything was awash with the orange glow of the Maghreb sunset. And we began to dance. Laughing, spinning, clapping, snapping, stumbling…until the sun fell behind the horizon…
And when the girls pressed my hands as we parted that night, our eyes all spoke the same message to one another—“It has been my honor to be with you today.”
I spent the day with two of my students, Rabab and Fadah. What an honor. When I arrived at their home, the floor was spread with lovely meal of pasta, bread, and potatoes (no such thing as low carb here!). It was absolutely humbling to see the care that Rabab had put into the meal and to be the object of such ferocious hospitality (‘Eat, Teacher! This is your house. Eat some more!’). I have still not gotten over the remarkable dignity and generosity of the people here, even in such circumstances of lack.
The girls are breathtaking. Fadah (18), the youngest, with her dancing brown eyes, mischevious grin, and the confident stride of the well-loved baby sister…always leaning against me or holding my hand.
And Rabab (20)…what a precious girl. In my eyes, she is a true hero. With her father dead and her brothers gone, she’s been a pillar of strength in her family for years—from far too young an age, I believe. She gives endlessly and doesn’t raise a finger on her own behalf, yet works tirelessly for others—cleaning, cooking, working every afternoon, caring for family members and neighbors. But her eyes lack the sparkle of Fadah’s. Why? Is she burdened? Weary? Lonely? I will make it my aim to do what I can to ease whatever silent load she bears. I long to refresh and encourage her the way she does for so many others.
After lunch and a few hours of visiting, a faint sound of music reached our ears. “Teacher! A wedding! Let’s go!” In Saharawi culture, they informed me, weddings are an open event for the entire neighborhood. So we grabbed our scarves and dashed out the door, following the sound of the drums and singing. We discovered the tent a few blocks away and wriggled our way in. I instantly felt as if I had been flown centuries into the past. Women wrapped in dazzling mehlfas, men dancing in brilliant blue dra’as and turbans—I could have easily been in a remote Bedouin tent in some bygone century.
After soaking in the scene for about twenty minutes, the girls drew me outside the tent, where many neighbors, children, and Spanish journalists and human rights workers had gathered. The sun was beginning to dip, and everything was awash with the orange glow of the Maghreb sunset. And we began to dance. Laughing, spinning, clapping, snapping, stumbling…until the sun fell behind the horizon…
And when the girls pressed my hands as we parted that night, our eyes all spoke the same message to one another—“It has been my honor to be with you today.”
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Helplessness.
What a concept—my inner American riots at the thought of it.
Yet helplessness, dependence, and lack of autonomy seems to be a central underpinning to life here. The rhythm of the refugee is integrally linked to outside forces—remote agreements made in the United Nations, the fickle forces of nature, the arrival of the next shipment of emergency rations.
Being thrust into this rhythm for the past four weeks has certainly been a foreign experience for me. Although I’ve travelled most of my life and lived outside the US before, I was still raised with much of the American mentality—one of independence and an almost idolatrous faith in the power of the Choice. Yet here I am, in the land of the Choice-less, among people who live, to a great extent, the lives they are forced to, not the lives that they desire.
My Saharawi family recently received several kilos of flour from the World Food Programme. Thus, we have been eating plain white bread twice a day for the past week—because that’s what they were handed. Before that, we had been given beans, so my creative Saharawi mom served those up in whatever form she could concoct. Because here, we take what we’re given and we try and imagine it’s what we want.
Yes, we aren’t starving, although 1 in 3 children here are malnourished. Yes, there are makeshift roofs over our heads, but they crumble and dissolve when the rain falls. It’s humbling and sobering and occasionally enraging, living here, in the land of the anti-Choice.
What a concept—my inner American riots at the thought of it.
Yet helplessness, dependence, and lack of autonomy seems to be a central underpinning to life here. The rhythm of the refugee is integrally linked to outside forces—remote agreements made in the United Nations, the fickle forces of nature, the arrival of the next shipment of emergency rations.
Being thrust into this rhythm for the past four weeks has certainly been a foreign experience for me. Although I’ve travelled most of my life and lived outside the US before, I was still raised with much of the American mentality—one of independence and an almost idolatrous faith in the power of the Choice. Yet here I am, in the land of the Choice-less, among people who live, to a great extent, the lives they are forced to, not the lives that they desire.
My Saharawi family recently received several kilos of flour from the World Food Programme. Thus, we have been eating plain white bread twice a day for the past week—because that’s what they were handed. Before that, we had been given beans, so my creative Saharawi mom served those up in whatever form she could concoct. Because here, we take what we’re given and we try and imagine it’s what we want.
Yes, we aren’t starving, although 1 in 3 children here are malnourished. Yes, there are makeshift roofs over our heads, but they crumble and dissolve when the rain falls. It’s humbling and sobering and occasionally enraging, living here, in the land of the anti-Choice.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
“Teacher, we never forget this day.”
On Thursday, my English class and I met at the school to embark on a grand adventure: prepare lunch together.
We met at ten o’clock in the kitchen at the school, a small, tiled room equipped with a sink that doesn’t work, a set of plastic lawn chairs, a gas stove that only half works, a large pail of water, and a hodge-podge assortment of plastic silverware.
I have 8 students--bright-eyed, brave, and very unique young women, all of them. We began our effort in earnest, chatting gaily as we peeled our way through a mountain of potatoes. Soon, though, the situation evolved into a pseudo-dance party, as some of the girls hiked up their mulfas and taught me how to salsa, while the other girls ducked every time the gas stove went WOOSH!!!
We laughed, they inquired over and over again why I don’t have a boyfriend, they told me of their own love lives, they taught me how to clean and cook a chicken using only one pot, and we ran to a nearby tent to beg for some onions. We shooed away neighbor boys who were drawn in by the smell of cooking food—GIRLS ONLY!! We sang along to Celine Dion at the top of our lungs, and they taught me how to make salad dressing. They watched me with bewilderment as I demonstrated how to make “American Potatoes” (mashed potatoes). They scurried back and forth between the kitchen and our class room, eventually blindfolding me and leading me into the room, where they revealed with delight that they had transformed the room into a banquet hall.
Chicken, potatoes, fruit, salad, Coca Cola, yogurt, and bread—it was indeed a feast, and we had done it together. (They absolutely loved the American Potatoes, by the way…) We lingered over the meal for over an hour, laughing, gossiping, and eating—then, bellies full, we spent another hour scrubbing down the kitchen—a bigger adventure than the preparation, I assure you.
It is an incredible gift to be in these girls’ lives. To literally break bread with them, to hear their stories, to bless them and be blessed. It was an exhausting, 7 hour project….But when the girls announced they wanted to do this again, soon, I nodded as earnestly as the rest. What an honor.
On Thursday, my English class and I met at the school to embark on a grand adventure: prepare lunch together.
We met at ten o’clock in the kitchen at the school, a small, tiled room equipped with a sink that doesn’t work, a set of plastic lawn chairs, a gas stove that only half works, a large pail of water, and a hodge-podge assortment of plastic silverware.
I have 8 students--bright-eyed, brave, and very unique young women, all of them. We began our effort in earnest, chatting gaily as we peeled our way through a mountain of potatoes. Soon, though, the situation evolved into a pseudo-dance party, as some of the girls hiked up their mulfas and taught me how to salsa, while the other girls ducked every time the gas stove went WOOSH!!!
We laughed, they inquired over and over again why I don’t have a boyfriend, they told me of their own love lives, they taught me how to clean and cook a chicken using only one pot, and we ran to a nearby tent to beg for some onions. We shooed away neighbor boys who were drawn in by the smell of cooking food—GIRLS ONLY!! We sang along to Celine Dion at the top of our lungs, and they taught me how to make salad dressing. They watched me with bewilderment as I demonstrated how to make “American Potatoes” (mashed potatoes). They scurried back and forth between the kitchen and our class room, eventually blindfolding me and leading me into the room, where they revealed with delight that they had transformed the room into a banquet hall.
Chicken, potatoes, fruit, salad, Coca Cola, yogurt, and bread—it was indeed a feast, and we had done it together. (They absolutely loved the American Potatoes, by the way…) We lingered over the meal for over an hour, laughing, gossiping, and eating—then, bellies full, we spent another hour scrubbing down the kitchen—a bigger adventure than the preparation, I assure you.
It is an incredible gift to be in these girls’ lives. To literally break bread with them, to hear their stories, to bless them and be blessed. It was an exhausting, 7 hour project….But when the girls announced they wanted to do this again, soon, I nodded as earnestly as the rest. What an honor.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Selah
We slept out under the stars last night, on mats in the sand, breathing the cool air of the desert night.
I lay next to Tikera, my Saharawi sister, and could hardly keep from wriggling with delight under my blanket.
I’ve never experienced a more brilliant sight than the jeweled majesty that was spread above us.
Quivering diamonds, bright, pulsing planets, and the creamy cascade of the Milky Way spelled glory, glory, glory, and I could not sleep, because my heart sang along. With each shooting star that darted across the heavens, I forgot my tired, dusty body and I felt myself caught up in an ancient, living song. I felt tiny but so very, very safe.
“Is not God in the heights of heaven?
And see how lofty are the highest stars!” (Job 22:12)
And still, the I Am of the galaxies and ages was beside me, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. I fell asleep in the arms of El Shaddai, the Unapproachable One who is so desperately near, so preciously personal. And it was close to eternity, last night.
I lay next to Tikera, my Saharawi sister, and could hardly keep from wriggling with delight under my blanket.
I’ve never experienced a more brilliant sight than the jeweled majesty that was spread above us.
Quivering diamonds, bright, pulsing planets, and the creamy cascade of the Milky Way spelled glory, glory, glory, and I could not sleep, because my heart sang along. With each shooting star that darted across the heavens, I forgot my tired, dusty body and I felt myself caught up in an ancient, living song. I felt tiny but so very, very safe.
“Is not God in the heights of heaven?
And see how lofty are the highest stars!” (Job 22:12)
And still, the I Am of the galaxies and ages was beside me, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. I fell asleep in the arms of El Shaddai, the Unapproachable One who is so desperately near, so preciously personal. And it was close to eternity, last night.
Friday, October 9, 2009
It has not been an easy few days.
I knew this period would come.
I want to watch the seasons change back home. I want be near my loved ones. I want to rest on a real bed and drink cold, clean water.
I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m covered from head to toe with bug bites that keep me up at night. I feel frazzled and small and un-beautiful.
I haven’t cried since I left home, but I came very close today.
I know this won’t last. I know this is worth it. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
I thank God for the perseverance and courage I know I am gaining. I truly am excited for the ways I'm being refined and stretched. I pray I’ll be able to manifest Christ in a whole new way as I travel through these months. . .
Miss you all....
"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish it's work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." James 1:2-4
I knew this period would come.
I want to watch the seasons change back home. I want be near my loved ones. I want to rest on a real bed and drink cold, clean water.
I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m covered from head to toe with bug bites that keep me up at night. I feel frazzled and small and un-beautiful.
I haven’t cried since I left home, but I came very close today.
I know this won’t last. I know this is worth it. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
I thank God for the perseverance and courage I know I am gaining. I truly am excited for the ways I'm being refined and stretched. I pray I’ll be able to manifest Christ in a whole new way as I travel through these months. . .
Miss you all....
"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish it's work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." James 1:2-4
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"Somehow we realize that great stories are told in conflict, but we are unwilling to embrace the potential greatness of the story we are actually in. We think God is unjust, rather than a master storyteller."
-Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
Well, if this is true, I should take heart. Today was an especially difficult day.
-Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
Well, if this is true, I should take heart. Today was an especially difficult day.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Bon appetite
::Mariam and I eating dinner::
(Power shuts off in the camps at night, and we eat dinner in the dark)
::Chewing::
Me: "This is pretty good."
Miriam: "Mmm..." *flips on her flashlight* "WHAT'S THAT?!"
Me: "Dang girl, why you gotta be like that? Why you gotta turn on a flashlight?!"
Moral of the story: Some things are better eaten in the dark, especially when you find yourself in an African refugee camp.
(Power shuts off in the camps at night, and we eat dinner in the dark)
::Chewing::
Me: "This is pretty good."
Miriam: "Mmm..." *flips on her flashlight* "WHAT'S THAT?!"
Me: "Dang girl, why you gotta be like that? Why you gotta turn on a flashlight?!"
Moral of the story: Some things are better eaten in the dark, especially when you find yourself in an African refugee camp.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Rub a dub dub....
I took my first shower yesterday. Yes…I spent 4 full days in the Sahara, trudging in the hot sun through goat herds and clouds of dust, without a shower. That is about par for the course—I was told to expect a shower once every 4-6 days.
How does a shower here look, you ask? Let me set the scene: A 6x6 ft sand-brick shanty/outhouse with a sandy cement floor. At one wall is a ceramic tile with a hole in the middle. This is the toilet, or “squatty potty”. Yeah, it does smell, if you’re wondering.
A large bucket is filled with water from the large barrels that are trucked in by NGOs—there is not much to go around, so any sort of running water for a shower is out of the question. Instead, you fill the bucket with water and use a large cup to scoop the water out and pour it over your body, whilst standing near the “drain” (toilet).
It was a rather tedious process, and very chilly. ‘Washing’ my hair was particularly difficult…it’s not easy to rinse. However, it was the first time since I arrived that I got the chance to wash myself with water—for the most part, our hygienic routines consist of wet wipes. So, all things considered, it was quite a luxury, and I enjoyed it immensely.
I’m expecting that some of you are horrified. That’s okay…I might be dusty, but I feel alive.
How does a shower here look, you ask? Let me set the scene: A 6x6 ft sand-brick shanty/outhouse with a sandy cement floor. At one wall is a ceramic tile with a hole in the middle. This is the toilet, or “squatty potty”. Yeah, it does smell, if you’re wondering.
A large bucket is filled with water from the large barrels that are trucked in by NGOs—there is not much to go around, so any sort of running water for a shower is out of the question. Instead, you fill the bucket with water and use a large cup to scoop the water out and pour it over your body, whilst standing near the “drain” (toilet).
It was a rather tedious process, and very chilly. ‘Washing’ my hair was particularly difficult…it’s not easy to rinse. However, it was the first time since I arrived that I got the chance to wash myself with water—for the most part, our hygienic routines consist of wet wipes. So, all things considered, it was quite a luxury, and I enjoyed it immensely.
I’m expecting that some of you are horrified. That’s okay…I might be dusty, but I feel alive.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I’ve been here in the Sahara for a full week now. In some ways, I’m starting to feel very at home.
I absolutely love my family. My two younger “sisters” and I have been able to spend a good amount of time together—In fact, I couldn’t get away from them if I tried. Whenever Miriam and return home, little Selma comes running out to us, her little bare feet kicking up puffs of dust behind her. She hugs our knees and kisses us and leads us inside.
Selma is pretty relentless—she’s so full of energy, always babbling in Hesseniya, running back and forth, jumping on our laps (or our faces when we’re trying to rest!), and squealing with delight at the tiniest little pleasure. I absolutely love playing with Selma, and after a few minutes with her I’m always laughing hysterically.
Shebab and I are also becoming very close. My Arabic is rapidly improving, since she forces me into conversation whenever she catches me at home. (Whether I’m sleeping, reading, writing, or on the phone—it doesn’t matter, when she wants to talk, it’s time to talk!). We spent over an hour yesterday talking about school, her future, and boys. (She’s let me in on the elaborate drama of her love life, always admonishing me, “but don’t tell momma.”)
Last night was a difficult one for both of us, though. Shebab had been planning to head off to college in Algiers this weekend, and I was so excited for her. But last night I noticed her sitting alone outside the door, her usually animated face looking extremely downcast. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but for a long time her only response was silence.
She told me we could talk inside the tent, and so I went in with her and sat by her mat. After a few minutes of silently wiping away tears, she told me that her mom had just told her she wouldn’t be able to go away to school. When she told me this, my heart broke—not only for her loss, but also for the courage and humility in her eyes as she tried to hide the disappointment.
In broken Arabic, I tried to reassure her and offer her some comfort, but soon we both fell silent. She took my hand and simply held it. I sat by her for a quarter of an hour, in the dark, her hand in mine, just wanting her to know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to offer hope, but sometimes all you can do is try and ward off despair.
By the time the rest of the family returned from the neighbors’, it was about 1 A.M. When Shebab heard them coming, she told me to go to my bed, and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you sister. I’m not sad. It’s nothing.” Her eyes were still gleaming with tears, and so were mine. But what was left to say?
Love hurts.
I absolutely love my family. My two younger “sisters” and I have been able to spend a good amount of time together—In fact, I couldn’t get away from them if I tried. Whenever Miriam and return home, little Selma comes running out to us, her little bare feet kicking up puffs of dust behind her. She hugs our knees and kisses us and leads us inside.
Selma is pretty relentless—she’s so full of energy, always babbling in Hesseniya, running back and forth, jumping on our laps (or our faces when we’re trying to rest!), and squealing with delight at the tiniest little pleasure. I absolutely love playing with Selma, and after a few minutes with her I’m always laughing hysterically.
Shebab and I are also becoming very close. My Arabic is rapidly improving, since she forces me into conversation whenever she catches me at home. (Whether I’m sleeping, reading, writing, or on the phone—it doesn’t matter, when she wants to talk, it’s time to talk!). We spent over an hour yesterday talking about school, her future, and boys. (She’s let me in on the elaborate drama of her love life, always admonishing me, “but don’t tell momma.”)
Last night was a difficult one for both of us, though. Shebab had been planning to head off to college in Algiers this weekend, and I was so excited for her. But last night I noticed her sitting alone outside the door, her usually animated face looking extremely downcast. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but for a long time her only response was silence.
She told me we could talk inside the tent, and so I went in with her and sat by her mat. After a few minutes of silently wiping away tears, she told me that her mom had just told her she wouldn’t be able to go away to school. When she told me this, my heart broke—not only for her loss, but also for the courage and humility in her eyes as she tried to hide the disappointment.
In broken Arabic, I tried to reassure her and offer her some comfort, but soon we both fell silent. She took my hand and simply held it. I sat by her for a quarter of an hour, in the dark, her hand in mine, just wanting her to know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to offer hope, but sometimes all you can do is try and ward off despair.
By the time the rest of the family returned from the neighbors’, it was about 1 A.M. When Shebab heard them coming, she told me to go to my bed, and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you sister. I’m not sad. It’s nothing.” Her eyes were still gleaming with tears, and so were mine. But what was left to say?
Love hurts.
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