Longing to Return: A Time to Mourn

Today marks the 4 year anniversary of leaving a place very dear to me: Namwianga.  I am torn about how to feel because society says things like, "Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened."  Well that is all well and good, but I believe that there is a time for everything: "...a time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."

So today I mourn for a time that I will never get back.  I mourn for children I will never hold again.  I mourn for friends that I will never see or hear from again on this earth.  I mourn for adventures that are over and for lessons that have been long learned now.  I mourn for the relationships that I had with my classmates that have dimmed over the span of time and distance.  I mourn as I read through my Zambian journal and remember the goodbyes that I wrote about:

"As I was walking away, she told me to wait and asked for a kiss.  I kissed her on the cheek and she didn't wipe it off.  There is no word to describe how much I love that 5 year old girl. She told me that she loved me too."

"I said, 'I love you.'  He said, 'I love you.'  Then I asked for kiss and he gave me one.  I have never been so happy to have the snotty face of a little boy pushed up against mine as I was in that moment."

"...we drove down that beautiful tree lined road to the Havens and my heart shattered.  I will never have this again."

But I do not mourn as those who have no hope.  I have the hope that just as Jesus promised, those who mourn will be comforted.  I have hope that I will have something better after this world, even if I will never have it again in this world.

This is a poem that I wrote just after I arrived back in the States.  I still long for this.

Return

I want to see the Jacarandas, Bright above the sand.

I want to walk a mile just to hold a tiny hand.

I want to sing and dance and talk

Where people understand.

I want to leave the task by task,

Return to that still land.

I long to feel connections and not minutes slipping past.

I long to comfort those in pain, not stare with eyes aghast.

I long to walk and pray and dwell

On things I know will last.

I long to be a hand of God,

Help the weak to hold Him fast.

But I’m not there, for I am here so distant from my heart.

I have to face the future, seeking what life can impart.

I want to remember everything,

With mem’ry I’ll not part.

I’ll use the past and clean the slate,

Give this place a fresh new start.

So, I’ll see the Jacaranda’s warmth in a smile so sweet, unplanned.

I’ll walk many more miles holding to a larger hand.

I’ll go and sing and dance and talk,

Help people understand.

As I wait, someday I know I will

Return to that still land.

Say It, Don't Slay It

Being back in the States has both made me marvel at the extreme consideration and shudder at the utter carelessness of the words and actions of those around me.  So this is a list of DOs and DON’Ts to consider for those returning after an extended stay in another culture.

DO ask specific questions.

            Some of my favorite conversations about India have consisted of concise and specific questions.  Questions like “What was your first impression of India?”, “What do you think God was trying to teach you?”, or even “What kind of clothes did you wear?” are all appropriate.

DON’T ask about “favorites.”

            It is extremely difficult to describe one’s entire experience in response to “What was your favorite thing about being there?”  A better way to start a discussion might be the “Tell me about a time when…[you were scared, you felt the most excited, you saw God work, etc.].”  This will ensure a single story (which IS the aim of the “favorite” model) without causing the overwhelming feeling of ranking experiences.

DO be very tactful when asking questions based on stereotypes or cultural assumptions.

            I cannot count the number of times that I was asked about curry (because, of course, that is the only thing Indians eat), turbans (because obviously every Indian man wears a turban), call centers, Slumdog Millionaire, belly dancing, snake charming, and “those forehead dots.”  It is perfectly fine to be curious about a new culture.  But it is important to remember to ask these things in the right way.

Example:

Turn “How did you handle eating spicy curry every day?” into “Describe the local cuisine. What did you eat on a normal day?” 

DON’T make the statement, “I bet you are so happy to be back.”

            This seems like an innocent enough statement.  However, this statement requires a response…a rather confusing response.  Most people don't only love America or only love their new culture.  There is usually a degree of love of both cultures.  So while it may be totally true that one is glad to be in America, acknowledging that may feel like a denial of love for the other culture.  You see, we spend our time (as in most of our days) trying to fit in and love this new place.  What we don’t need is to feel completely invalidated in our quest because others imply that it is a ‘lesser’ life.  Try instead, “I’m glad to see you back.  We sure missed you and love you!”

DO ask about people.

            I think that many would agree with me when I say that the best things about every place in the world are the people.  The things we miss the most are often the people.  The biggest blessings are the people.  So find out about them.  Listen to their stories and let the knowledge of God’s global work connect you to it.

DO take the time.

            Five second conversations between Bible class and worship services are just not long enough.  Take advantage of these small windows of opportunity to schedule another get together.  It takes time to listen and it takes time to share.  Offer that time.  Offer that gift. 

            Well these are just a few pointers to get people thinking about HOW to talk to our dear friends that return.  Also, I don’t want to imply that perfection is required for these kind of interactions.  Even people that have hurt my feeling so much by saying the wrong things are still very dear to me.  I am not mad.  I have been bestowed with a mess of grace and because of this I have a responsibility to bestow grace on others…as we all do.  

Treasure

Well, I had thought that after some time I would write about re-entry into American culture.  But, you know, it hasn't been that bad.  I can’t really put my finger on why: I have already done it once, I missed people, Prayers.  It almost feels wrong to not be freaking out.  But I’m totally not going to let myself pull that “feeling bad for not feeling bad” stuff.

The strangest thing has been moments where I totally forgot something.  It is hard to recall incidents of this because after one moment of déjà vu, the details just mold right back into my picture of the way things are.  Little things like door knobs and light switches.  Or brushing teeth with tap water. 

I think one of the trickiest things to navigate is not having someone to experience the memories with.  When “This one time in India” gets old to everyone else, I can’t turn to someone and say “Remember that one time in India…”  I just remember to myself.  Hindi is almost like my own secret code now…which is cool, but is also ironic considering that it is the 3^rd most spoken language in the world.  I miss people that nobody around me now even knows.  

It is easy to let myself get down about this.  But I’m reminded of something very simple that a friend wrote to me sometime around the beginning of the year: “Happy last few months in India.  Treasure them.”  This really struck me then and it continues to resonate with me now.  It reminded me of Luke 2:19.  “Mary treasured up all of these things, pondering them in her heart.”  This may seem like a stretch.  I’m under no delusion that my life experience is anywhere as unique as Mary the mother of Jesus Christ.  However, this did plant the idea in my head that these experiences might be a gift from God that is just a treasure for me, something to just keep in my heart that is special.  Don’t be misled though!  I will talk your ear off about India if you ask me to.   But if you don’t, that’s ok too. 

In other news, I have decided to continue this whole blogging thing.  No life is composed of only the “exciting” parts of international travel.  Actually it can be pretty exciting at home too.  Regardless, please continue to read.  Thank you.

Looking Back: September to December

The following are assorted excerpts from my journal at the beginning of my trip.  I don't know whether these are comical, blunt, or insightful.  Honestly, they really have no rhyme or reason.  Enjoy.

“The rest of the night included an overflowing diaper, some more wonderful Indian food, another train, another rickshaw, and a collapse in bed.”

“I think I am suffering from a hefty case of caffeine withdrawal.”

“…she asked me to make tea and I panicked.”

“I guess that’s normal in India.”

“Also, they don’t have manila folders in India.”

“Bus to Gorakhpur: 2 hours, no room, sleeping, bag fell on my head.”

“Train all day.  Sick & miserable: tells no one.”

“My room is once again crazy central.”

11/3 one word entry: “Blur”

“I hate not being perfect…”

“Jay walked into a glass door.  Funny, but not funny.”

“Orphans, in my experience, are the sweetest human beings.”

“Grocery shopping: check! Terrible Daal: check!”

USS Playtime

I was once a child.  In fact, I held on to many childlike qualities longer than most people.  I won’t lie.  I enjoy a good bed sheet fort.  I may eat pancakes in the middle of the night.  But after some time, responsibilities come.  Responsibilities and expectations and grown-up things are all good.  Working is good.  Sometimes, though, I have found that the energy spent on these grown-up things really takes the wind out of the sails of the USS Playtime. 

However, during certain times during my stay in India, I have rediscovered the joy and sheer necessity of play.  And let me tell you: It is stellar.  The children that I am around on a near daily basis are always at me to play with them.  Example: *After 5 minutes of me working on my computer* “Are you going to be working ALL DAY?”  And sometimes, I dig deep to find the energy to play from somewhere between yesterday’s biryani and a rib.

Some days I am a carnival ride, flinging children here and there while trying to avoid the ceiling fan.

Some days I am a mountain.  I lean back in a chair and hold little hands as little feet make the treacherous climb to “Shoulder” peak.  This is inevitably followed by an avalanche of epic proportions. 

Some days I have to fight off Vesuvius.  I’m sure you heard of him.  He is the mind that lives inside my right hand.  He often wakes up from naps and is very hungry for tickles.  I try to hold him back from little ribs, but to no avail.  Vesuvius occasionally will turn on me to feed his tickle appetite.  Et tu, Brute?  He is also open to answering any questions with a mere nod or wag of the hand.

Some days I succumb to the kazillion begs to go down with the children to the playground.  At first this is just another job, but wait until a swing opens up.  There is nothing quite like swinging through the warm Indian air, rickshaws buzzing in the background, girlish giggles resounding below my feet.  Of course, this is usually interrupted by requests for the famed “Big Boost” on the swing that comes in three levels: To the Moon, the Sun, or the Stars.

And on the one occasion that I spent a few hours at the Embassy, I took full advantage of a field of none other than my former-nemesis-turned-bff: grass.  Tag and running.  How many cartwheels can I do without stopping? 

Judge me.  Go ahead and think that I’m immature.  But I know the truth.  Play is medicine from God and He has given me five little nurses to make sure that I don’t miss one single dose.  So don’t be too serious.  Buy some sidewalk chalk.  Get sweaty.  Turn on the sprinkler.  Have fun and PLAY!

Esther 4:14

Well it has been several WEEKS since I have written.  Shameful.  I have brainstormed many times over the course of the past few weeks about what I could write: my experience with cooking, stuff Indians DO, all about Hindi movies, September until now, and many other topics.  Give me a shout out if you have an opinion about what you would like to hear about!

But after some consideration, I decided that I must talk about the most important thing.  Have you ever been anywhere and then suddenly had a moment where your past leading up to that one point become perfectly clear?  Have you ever found yourself in a situation that felt like you were meant to be there?  Like everything you thought that you were meant to do was merely just getting you to this point?  I have felt like that more strongly this past month than any time in my life.  I know God has always worked in my life to guide me and use me.  However, this past month I have felt more used by God than I ever have before.  I will try to do this story justice. 

I made my way up to Delhi to visit my dear friend Jill.  She has three kids and her husband had been in the States looking for a job.  I just wanted to visit her, see the sights, and get a little perspective on my time in India.  Just a few days before I left, she called me to tell me that she had been sick for three weeks and wanted to let me know in case I didn’t want to come anymore.  “Whatever.  I am so still coming and I will take care of you.  It sounds like the perfect time for me to come!”  So I went.  We had pajama parties, lots of Mexican food, and lots of heart to hearts.

By the end of the week, I was sad to tell Jill goodbye because I didn’t know when I would see her again.  But ultimately we had a super fun time and she was feeling much better.  Trip success.  Back to Mumbai for 3 or 4 days of intense food poisoning/first time to be sick.  Four days later, I got a text message.  A terrible text message that made me feel sick in a different way.  Jill’s husband had come back on Valentine’s Day to surprise her, but was very sick.  She took him to the hospital in the middle of the night because he was unresponsive.  My first thought: I have to go back now.  I talked with Tammy about it and we agreed that someone needed to go.  A few hours later we got the news that Jill’s husband wasn’t going to make it.  It was just a matter of hours.  Hours.

He passed away that night.  Like that.  A man I never got to meet.  A man that I was excited to hunt for jobs for and that I had so many plans for.  I was heartbroken.  My sweet friend’s life would not be the same.  It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.  This wasn’t the dream. 

The text that Jill sent me: “Thanks for taking care of me so nicely.  I feel like I am so much better so I can take care of all this. Thanks for all your help.”  But, I didn’t even know.

We flew to Delhi the next day, only five days after I had come back from Delhi.  The next ten days were filled with explanations to little girls, hair stroking, songs, prayers, and every possible (moral) coping mechanism.  I did more things in that 10 day period that I never thought I would do.  It was terrible and at the same time I loved it.  I was exhausted and drained, but God filled me.  It was the most giving I have ever been and I don’t say that to brag at all.  It was obviously not me doing anything, but it was God working in all of us. 

And don’t you know that God arranged it all.  I knew where to take the trash and how to turn on the water pump because I had just been there.  I knew what the kids like to eat because I had just cooked for them.  It was as if God could have only brought me to India for the sole purpose of helping Jill that month.  If that was all God did, it would have still been worth it to come.  I am so grateful, though, that He has done even more than that. 

“For such a time as this…”

Fusion

fu·sion 

/ˈfyo͞oZHən/

Noun The process or result of joining two or more things together to form a single entity.

In the past, I have been a person of extremes.  Everything was all or nothing.  I told myself that to be one thing was to refrain from being anything else.  I tied myself to definitions that I had superfluously created. 

I have noticed that since I have been in India, my definitions have relaxed.  At times I went through miniature identity crises.  Things like “I have become boring,”  “This isn’t me,” and so on have run through my head.  But, I have realized something: I can be more than one thing at a time.  I don’t have to make myself into a certain character that I had always imagined I would be.  In fact by doing so, I stunt the growth that God can bring into my life.

I am slowly discovering the beauty of being in two places at once. 

I can act like a teenager, giggle about boys, and jam to fun music.  But I can also run a household, lead a devotional, and travel the world by myself.

I can squeeze through alleyways between small houses filled with sari clad women, pants-less children, and paan chewing men all while listening to jazz or Weird Al on my i-pod. 

I can order a coke and chicken sandwich at MacDonald’s while wearing a salwaar khameez. 

I can speak in Hinglish.  “Aage se right.”  “Che eggs please.  Kitne hai?”

I can be fearless when it comes time to launch myself into a packed local train or cross a street with seemingly unending traffic.  But, I can also be nervous to go to the shop and ask where their mustard seeds are.

I can love India and miss home.

Fusion is right.