Coming Back Home

A few days ago I woke up in the middle of the night tense and sweating. “It’s April,” I thought. "And if you’re going to go to Swaziland this summer, you need to seriously buckle down on fundraising."

Unable to get back to bed, I sat up and began typing out a draft of a fundraising letter to send out to friends and family. I started to tell the story of how I got to Swaziland last year, of my desire to serve, of my lack of faith that God would provide a way for this to happen, of that crazy t-shirt contest, and of the journey that changed my heart forever.

But just a few paragraphs in, I had to stop. My arms were shaking, my stomach felt more twisted than a pretzel, and my heart was pounding in my chest. “Why are you even writing this?” a sinister voice whispered in my head. “Do you really think your letter will move anyone’s heart? Do you really think this matters enough to anyone else besides you? You’re just being selfish asking other people to help you.”

Yes, even after all that my journey to Swaziland has done to give me faith in love, compassion, and miracles, I still found myself in a dark room that night wracked with fear and doubt.

“Maybe you should reconsider this…” I told myself. “I mean, just because going to Swaziland was the right thing to do last year, doesn’t mean it is this year.”

I tried to make up excuses. I decided that maybe it was more important for me to work and get some money during that time in July I’d be gone. Maybe, I needed to spend that time with my family instead. Maybe there was some camp in my hometown where I could be of more use. The list goes on and on.

But somewhere in the middle of this mental chaos, I had to face the truth. And the truth is that

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid to ask people to help me get to Swaziland, because I’m afraid to reopen that part of my heart to others. When I came back from Africa last year, I vowed never to cover up how this trip impacted me. I vowed to continue to tell my story, to show people how important this was and how much love I have overflowing in me for a place on the other side of the world. And yet, it’s become painfully obvious just how much of my experience in Swaziland that I have buried inside myself. I have piled pounds and pounds of dirt over the spot where my story rests because I still can’t find the words to use that will make other people see the light of God in the faces of those children in the way that I saw it, or feel the simultaneous heartache and joy of Ludlati CarePoint the way I felt it.

But my fear goes beyond that. I’m afraid to ask people to help me get to Swaziland, because ultimately, I’m afraid that they will. I’m afraid that in its own unique way, like last year, I’ll experience a miracle. I’m afraid God will provide. I’m afraid that I’ll find myself back on that plane to Swaziland, back in Ludlati CarePoint, back with the very children who stole my heart, back to the place I love.

And to be completely honest, I’m afraid to fall in love again, because the kind of love that happens in Swaziland really isn’t easy. This was the love that not only exposed me to the deep and agonizing wounds of others, but also to my own brokenness and inadequacy. This love wasn’t shy. It looked me directly in the eyes and said, “So, what are you going to do about this? How can you solve these massive and overwhelmingly devastating problems?” And I feel almost ashamed to look back, close to a year later, and admit that I still don’t have that answer. I still don’t know.

And finally, I think the biggest thing that I’m afraid of, the thing that makes me want to hide away in the security of my own bedroom, the thing that really and truly terrifies me about taking the journey to Swaziland again is this:

I’m afraid of coming back home.

I’m afraid of tasting my meals from the mouth of a starving child. I’m afraid of walking the well-kept roads of my neighborhood with my unblistered feet, bound up in tidy new shoes. I’m afraid of feeling the fullness of my family from the heart of someone who has none. I’m afraid of looking at my culture through the windows of a one-room hut with a crumbling roof.

I’m afraid to go back. I’m afraid to not have the answers. I’m afraid to not be able to explain the story of Swaziland to others. I’m afraid of falling in love once again.

But despite all of this, despite the fear and doubt and feelings of inadequacy that plague me, there is another voice whispering to me, a voice that has occupied my heart since I first thought about going to Swaziland in January of 2012. This voice has never stopped repeating the same message, over and over and over to me, no matter how many times I have tried to plug my ears or scream to drown it out. This is the voice that says,

“Go.”

And I know that no matter how hard it will be to come back home,  I have to listen.

Running with Christian

I don’t know how it is for the rest of the world, but there are very few things I feel less motivated to do in my day than go to the gym. It doesn’t matter how completely free my schedule happens to be, or how many calories I’ve consumed on the previous day to warrant a workout or five, because when I think of working out, I just tend to be filled with dread. At least, this is how it usually is.

            A few weeks ago, I woke up one morning with the sudden and most out-of-character urge to run.  I bounded out of bed, got dressed, and ran to my window to open the blinds and let some light in. However, when I looked outside it became clear that my urge was not going to be easily satisfied. Every inch of the sidewalk and street was covered in sheets of ice and snow.

            “Oh well,” I thought after the disappointment had subsided, “I’ll just go to the recreation center after class.”

            I went through my day with continuous excitement. I couldn’t wait to put my tennis shoes on and get to work.  Several times during the day I got asked by friends to hang out in the afternoon. Normally, I’d say yes in a heartbeat, abandoning my feeble thoughts of exercising. On this day, I refused every offer I received. I was on a mission to build muscle and no one could alter my plans!

            True to my word, I made my way to the gym that afternoon. I slipped on my tennis shoes and walked past the tennis and basketball courts to the track. After a quick stretch, my muscles were itching to go.  I was ready to run, ready to go, ready to do whatever it took to fulfill my desire! I walked up to the starting line and took off across the track with determination.

One lap down. Two laps down. My heart starta to race and adrenaline rushes through me. I feel huge, I feel powerful, I feel unstoppable. But, as I finish my third lap I am greeted with the unexpected.

“Hey!” a tiny high pitched voice squeals from behind me. “Hey! Wait for me!”

Without stopping, I glance behind me and see a little round faced boy in an orange shirt running with all his might toward me.

“Hey! Wait up please! I want to run with you!” he calls out to me again, completely breathlessly.

            In slight annoyance, I slow down momentarily and let the boy catch up to me. He is adorable and under any normal circumstances I know I would have loved to have played with him, but today I have come with a purpose: to run. Fast.

            “Are you here with someone?” I ask the little boy wondering why he isn’t with an adult.

            “My mom works here,” he says in between gasps for air, “But she’s busy and can’t play with me right now.”

            I want to say, “I’m busy and can’t play with you either!” but something makes me stop.

            “What’s your name?” I ask instead, still trying to remain concentrated on the track ahead of me.

            “Christian,” he says. Streams of sweat are trickling down his forehead and into his eyes, but he still looks up at me with a smile.

            “How old are you, Christian?”

            “Six.”

            I smile a little, but can’t seem to shake my focus on the task I have started on. This is my running time, and little Christian was interrupting it.

            “Hey!” he says again. “Hey, you’re running too fast for me!”

Without slowing down, I look back at Christian who’s completely red-faced and soaked in sweat, barely able to pick his feet off the ground.

“My legs are too little to run like yours,” he remarks sadly, the smile now faded from his face.

I knew I was here to run. My plan was to run. I had to run. And yet, right there behind me was a six year old boy begging me to be his friend.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, “I’ll slow down.” And I do.

 Christian’s running speed more closely resembles my walking pace, but I continue around the track with him for five laps until his mom comes and collects him.

“Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m here and we can run together again!” he calls out to me as he leaves with his hand tightly grasping his mother’s.

“That sounds like a great idea!” I reply with a smile.

In the end, I barely broke a sweat. I ran five laps at a walking pace with a six year old, and then had to make it to a dinner appointment. But my experience running with Christian has really been making me think.

I wonder how many times I’ve gone about life finishing my own agenda without even realizing that there’s something more important that needs my attention. I make plans, I make so many plans, and they always seemso important. But after that day, I wonder what I have missed out on all of the times I have been too busy or too determined to get all the things on my checklist crossed off that I’ve missed the little six year old details around me. I wonder how many times my own plans have consumed so much of my attention that I fail to see a bigger plan happening around me. I wonder if everyone else is doing the same thing?

What if, every once in a while, we took our eyes off that rigid and narrow track we’ve set in front of ourselves and looked around the broad and open gym. There are things we are missing, things that need our attention and these things, as much as we wish they were, aren’t always convenient. Sometimes these details can ruin our plans. They can slow us down like trying to run with a tiny-legged kindergartner. But these details are still important, probably more important than the schedule we are trying to stay on or the checklist we are trying to complete.

Plans aren’t everything, schedules are not the ultimate rulers, and fast isn’t always better. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is to give up, at least for a moment, your own agenda, and run five plodding laps with a six year old who needs a friend.

Breaking Down

Let me take you back to a day about fourteen years ago. I'm standing on the blacktop basketball court in front of my elementary school's playground staring at the sky. The clouds above me are a murky grey, ominously promising rainfall. I wonder what the clouds must feel like. Are they soft like my stuffed animals?

A dozen other six year olds are scrambling around me, lining up to go inside after recess.  

         

"Come on, Alexandra!" my teacher calls to me from down the sidewalk.

I tear my gaze away from the clouds, completely dazed. My teacher motions with her arms for me to hurry up. With a glance back up at the expansive heavens I say a secret goodbye to my cloud imaginations. I begin to take a step toward my teacher then–WHAM–my body slams face-first into the solid cold concrete.

"Move!" yells a voice behind me as a girl from my class pushes over my fallen body.

At first, I am too shocked to even move. Then, it comes: the pain. First it's just a light stinging in my forehead, then I feel the giant lump on my left cheek beginning to form, and finally I realize that the skin on my knees has broken open and notice the warm blood dripping down my tiny legs like water from a leaky faucet. And I can barely breathe. I can barely breathe because it hurts so bad. 

After reprimanding my attacker and promising the child a punishment when we get back to the classroom, my teacher runs over to me.

"Oh, sweetie! Are you okay?!" she asks me in astonishment.

I can't talk. I'm using all of my willpower to keep myself composed.

My teacher looks at me with those all-knowing adult eyes and realizes how close I am to falling apart.

"Alexandra, you can cry, honey!" she whispers to me as she leans down to help me off the ground.

I take her hand but shake my head. "No," I say, "I don't cry at school."

And it was true. As much as I could possibly avoid it, I didn't. I'm not sure how it started, but even as a first grader I had this conviction. 

Don't cry at school. Don't cry at school. Don't cry at school.

It was a motto I more or less lived by. And as I got older, the motto expanded and became, "Don't cry at school, or in front of your friends, or in public. Ever." 

At eight, I fell at my friend's skating birthday party and fractured my wrist. My face grew boiling hot with the pain, but I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. Later, in middle and high school, I'd often feel gripped with the pain of being the subject of snide comments or false rumors spread by the people I called friends. And it would hurt. It would hurt so badly. But as much as I could help it, I wouldn't let the public see my tears.

Today,  there's a part of me that still tries to hold onto those old mottos of childhood. "Don't cry in front of people!" my mind shouts at me whenever I am on the verge of falling a part. 

But last summer in Swaziland my eyes saw and my heart felt far too much for me to be able to live very effectively by my motto anymore.

I saw distended bellies protruding from dust-covered shirts. I saw the tattered shoes worn by seven year olds who walked three miles to get a meal for the day. I saw the rickety roofs and crumbling walls of one-room structures that were inhabited by five or six people, but completely empty of any furniture or material belongings.I saw dozens of beds crammed together in a big open room, filled with sick children, some of whom I know have gone up to heaven by now. I saw the sparkling eyes of a twelve year old boy and heard his sweet soft voice uttering, "That was beautiful." as a friend and I sang to him at his bedside.

I saw the pain. I saw it clearly. But I also saw the joy.

I saw children with smiles so vibrant it was almost breathtaking. I heard the cheers of the boys on the soccer field and the shrieks of laughter from the girls as we each took a turn dancing in the middle of a big open circle. I heard the tremendous voices of children singing the most heart-felt praise to God. 

I saw gratitude. I saw faith. I saw love.

And so, a few weeks ago, when I stood in front of the building that contained my classroom on a murky grey day much like the one I experienced at age six, I was hit, quite suddenly, with the realization of all that I had left behind in Swaziland. 

My classmates were bustling past me, my teacher stood a little ways down the sidewalk and I was stuck, feeling that white-hot pain that makes it impossible for me to breathe.

"Don't cry at school!" my six year old self shouted in my mind.

But, I couldn't listen. I couldn't obey. I couldn't follow my motto anymore.

All I could do in that moment was cry. And as the first glimmers of shame and embarrassment crept into my mind, I realized right then that crying in front of people wasn't going to destroy me. I realized that there are magnificently huge pits of exquisite emotion within all of us and that sometimes keeping these pits tucked away and hidden is not only an overwhelmingly impossible task, but, in fact, is a disservice to the world.

In that moment of breaking down on the sidewalk in front of my classmates and teacher, I let more than just my emotions fly out of me. I let out my story. I shared part of what makes me who I am and I had to be frighteningly vulnerable to do it. But, instead of this locking me in a prison of shame as I had expected it to for all of those years, I found that it was in breaking down, that I was finally able to set my story free. 

And now, I can only wonder what the world would be like if all of us, instead of being gripped by the fear of vulnerability, were flooded by the power that comes from showing the world exactly who we are.

Swaziland Remembered

Not a day goes by where I don’t think about my brothers and sisters across the world. Sandile, Kholiwe, Danele, Colile, Takhona, Gizy, Tlamiso, Dumsile and dozens of other names and faces run through my head as I go about my daily activities. It’s been almost three months since I left for Swaziland and I’m still processing. I’m still on that struggle bus.

When I first got back to the USA, everyone I came across flooded me with questions about my trip. They asked what I did, what I saw, what I learned, what I accomplished, how I changed. For two or three weeks I was constantly reminded of what I had experienced. I was forced to pull up memories that were both beautiful and agonizing. My heart stung with grief every time I had to recall what I had left behind, but I was glad to tell everyone so many stories and details from my trip. During those first weeks home, I felt like I had the power to impart on people what I had encountered, the power to change their minds and their hearts, to make them realize what lies beyond the American reality.

But just as I began to feel this sense of power, the questions started becoming less and less frequent. Until, somewhere around week four, people stopped asking me about Swaziland all together.

My power, my strength, was just an illusion.

The only thing harder than telling people about those heartbreaking stories from Swaziland, is not telling them. I feel like my experiences are stuck inside me like an oversized animal in a tiny crate. I walk around carrying this knowledge of the grave reality of Swaziland, and the people in my American life have all but forgotten that I even went there.

At times I feel sucked into what our culture calls normal. I complain about long lines and lunch menus. I spend far too long picking out the perfect shining piece of jewelry to go with my far too clean clothes. But there’s a part of me always whispering, “Why are you doing this? This doesn’t really matter.” There’s a part of me that can’t ever truly live the American dream, a part that was shaken awake, a part that can’t close its eyes or turn away from what’s uncomfortable to think about.

People have forgotten my summer in Swaziland. They have forgotten because to them, it’s just stories. They haven’t seen the children with legs caked in red dirt smiling up at them, they haven’t felt the dry wind in their faces or the warmth of a tiny dusty hand glued to their own, they don’t know the absolute joy and terrifying pain that pervades a tiny nation far away.

Sometimes I wish those things were just stories for me. I wish I too could forget, that my experiences in Africa could fade away like sidewalk chalk on a rainy day. But they can’t. My experiences still cling to me. They comprise me. And every time I try to rinse away what happened in Swaziland from my mind, God pulls at my heart and says, “Remember. Remember Swaziland.” And so I hold fast to my memories, to my experiences, to the exquisite beauty and devastating pain of it all. I remember. I remember Swaziland. And I know He does too.

What Else Can You Do About It Except Laugh?

Monday morning was my first day of class. I got up around 7:30 am, got dressed, and plucked my toothbrush and toothpaste off the counter in my room and carried them down the hall to the bathroom. There are four sinks in this bathroom. I went to the one farthest away from the door. I applied toothpaste to my brush and began brushing. After about a minute, I spat and turned the handle of the faucet to wash my mouth out. Sounds simple enough, right? There was only one problem, when I turned the handle of the faucet, no water came out. Thinking I must be imagining things I tried turning the other handle of the faucet, still no water came rushing out, not even a trickle. Unwilling to accept this, I went down the line of sinks, turning the handle of each one. Water did not present itself.

After a moment or two I realized that I still had a full water bottle in my room so I jogged down the hall with my tooth brush in my mouth to grab the bottle. I returned to the bathroom and finished brushing my teeth with the water from the bottle. As I peeked into the bathroom stalls and saw the mess people had been forced to leave in the toilets, I felt a surge of anger come over me about the situation. I wasn't so much angry about the inconvenience this was to me, but about how the rest of the residents in my dorm would act. I am the RA for the first floor of my dorm. While I love being a RA because it means I get to help take care of people, the job also has its downsides, one of which is that resident advisors tend to get hit with a lot of complaints. I don't know many Americans who are used to going about their daily routine without water so I expected I'd be met with dozens of angry residents. Just what I needed on my first day of class!

I am happy to say that I was completely wrong. As I walked down the hall and met people with soap suds drying on their legs, water bottles and toothbrushes in hand, I was shocked by the strange and unexpected reaction I got from my residents. They were smiling. Each and every person I ran into was smiling. And when their eyes met mine, we all just burst out laughing. And I mean hysterical, tears-rolling-down-face laughing, because as one resident said in between giggles, "Well, what else can you do about it except laugh?"

Some students ran over to the recreation center to take quick showers. Others (myself included) headed over to the student center for a bathroom, face-washing run. And as I ran into more and more people trying to get ready for the day all over campus, the more laughter and hilarious comments I heard.

And so for that morning, I was proud that people were able to walk across the street to use the toilet without their whole world crashing in. I was proud that people either took the trek to the rec center to take showers in good spirits, or realized that going one day without bathing wouldn't kill them. That morning, I was proud of people from my culture. I was proud that I heard laughter in abundance and not a single complaint. I was proud that people could defy my expectations and that we could all accept that crazy stuff does indeed happen and being inconvenienced doesn't mean the day should be spoiled by bad attitudes. 

Sometimes, things don't go as planned, even something as simple as brushing your teeth. It's so easy to get angry or annoyed in these situations but so much more fun to laugh and embrace the spontaneity of life.

I Am Here and It Is Now

 Since I got on that first sixteen hour flight to South Africa, time has not been pulsing at its normal rhythms for me and, on occasion, has disappeared from my consciousness all together. I didn't wear a watch in Swaziland, my cell phone remained off, I didn't check Facebook, and only checked my email twice for the sole purpose of assuring my parents that I was alive and wishing my grandma a happy eighty-sixth birthday. Occasionally I would ask a teammate what time it was, perhaps out of habit, but I don't remember ever really listening to the answer. So, as you can imagine, it came as a shock to me to today to check my calendar and suddenly realize that as of tomorrow, it will be a week since our last day at the carepoint.

Nearly a week has past since we said our goodbyes and my heart broke and grew and transformed all at once. I can keep saying that over and over in my head but it still doesn't seem real. I haven't quite come to terms with the fact that I am in America, that I have, as people keep telling me, "re-entered." Every once in a while I feel like a map with a big red X and the words, "You are here" is being shoved under my face as my mind tries to convince me that I should accept my surroundings. But, my heart insists, "You are there. You are there." and I don't have the strength to argue because I want so badly for that to be true.

It's hard to be back on a schedule, to have to adhere to the rigid command of time. I have to wake up at seven, shower at eight, eat breakfast at nine, go to training at ten, break for lunch at noon, return at one, train some more until four, work on projects in the dorm until seven, eat dinner, work some more, go to sleep and repeat it all again the next day. I am virtually always aware of what time it is down to the minute and as much as I love my job and my friends and my school, I find myself missing my life in Swaziland where time wasn't a constant grip on my neck, but a soft hand on my back, pushing me ever so gently throughout my day.

Time isn't just holding me, it's holding our entire culture. I've been asked what time it is by a friend at least ten times in the past two days. Every time this happens I get a surge of distress. I want to scream at them, "You are here and it is now! That's all that matters!" But, instead, I slip back into the cultural norm, pull out my cell phone and inform my friend that it is one o'clock and that we need to get back to training.

I feel like I am starting this life all over again. The twelve days I was gone feels more like twelve years. Everything I once called normal seems completely unfamiliar. This world feels like a museum instead of a home. Things are too clean. I am too clean. I miss blowing dirt out of my nose at the end of the day and shaking rocks and dust out of my shoes. I miss really having a reason to shower. The roads in this world feel too smooth, the lights feel too bright, the cows are far too fat and the dogs are ostentatiously well-groomed.

There is time here. There is so much time. And it has so much power. I want to love it. I want to say I feel so blessed to be back in America. I want to say I am so glad for all of the freedom we have. I want to be proud to call this place my home but I'm just not there yet. I'm not sure I can ever fully be there again.

It's 10:35 pm in Iowa and I don't know what that really means. I am here and it is now and I'm still living and breathing and ready to be in reality again serving my brothers and sisters.

Inadequate Words

I'm sitting in my dorm room in Iowa, tired, sore and sweating. With the help of my father and several friends, my stuff has all made it into Hildenbrand Hall and I start Resident Advisor training tomorrow. It's crazy to realize that four days ago I was in another country, continent, and hemisphere. Everything that's happened since landing in America has been a blur. I feel disconnected, like a brainless robot performing tasks but unable to truly think or feel.

One of my family members asked me the other day if Swaziland had been an unbelievable experience. The truth is that it wasn't unbelievable, not at all. I have never felt anything so incredibly real as I did during the few weeks I spent in Swaziland, I have never felt so alive. The experience that's unbelievable is returning to America, returning to a place that I once called home and realizing that my heart is still in the rolling hills and mountains of a country far away. What's unbelievable is waking up each morning ready to spend the day at a carepoint with smiling, wonderful children and realizing that it will be at least another year until I can be in their presence again. What's unbelievable is spending my time away from my loving and fantastically supportive teammates who, in a matter of hours, became my family. What's unbelievable is coming into a world where we complain about five extra minutes in traffic, a broken air conditioner, hair in the sink, too much grease on food and a million other minute details. Swaziland was real. The shock of America is what's unbelievable.

As I adjust to existing again in my native land I feel, as my friend and teammate Sierra would say, like I'm on "The Struggle Bus." Friends and family members alike have been asking me countless questions about my experience in Swaziland and as I recount story after story to them I realize how incredibly inadequate my words are. I can describe my horror and pain witnessing the children's ward of the hospital we visited, I can describe the landscape and how many children came to the carepoint barefoot, some traveling three or four miles on roads of dust and rocks. I can describe the crumbling huts made out of branches and mud that many children come home to with no dinner on the table or parents waiting to care for their needs. I can describe so much of the pain and suffering I witnessed and experienced alongside the people of Swaziland but it's inadequate to just tell these stories without being able to describe the unspeakable joy and peace that permeated the entire country and its people.

I don't know how to describe in words the source of the light that shone out of the children of Ludlati Carepoint. I don't know how to explain their gratitude and contentment despite the grave odds they face. I don't know how to explain their resilience, their kindness, their bravery, loyalty, or beauty. I don't know how to convey to people how inexplicably happy these children are, how blessed they are to be able to survive on God's grace alone and be constantly thankful for even the smallest blessings. I can't explain how much peace I felt holding little Danele against my chest, or the excitement of a chat with the animated Colile or how my heart shattered into a million pieces as sweet Kholiwe called out to me, "I will pray for you all year!" as I walked towards the van on our last day.

My words are inadequate and that's hard. I want so badly to tell everyone the stories of my trip but nothing I describe can truly bring that place justice. I am on The Struggle Bus and don't know if I will ever be getting off. I can only take peace in the fact that while my words are inadequate, God's love for these children is not. I rejoice in the fact that while so much about the lives of these kids is broken, their spirit remains strong. They are an indescribable blessing that I can only make feeble attempts to put into words.