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.

Tomorrow Came Way Too Fast

I am flying to Swaziland tomorrow and I'll admit it, I'm slightly terrified. I've been playing it cool all this time thinking, "I've done long flights and a foreign country before. This is no big deal!"Honestly, I think that the only reason I felt that way was because I couldn't believe that I was actually going to Swaziland. Getting to go on this trip was such a crazy blur of events that were so incredible I couldn't even grasp it all. I kept saying, "I'm going to Africa this summer!" But, it was just talk, just a concept, too amazing to be a reality. It feels like forever ago when I was riding home from Iowa for spring break and got a text from one of my friends who saw on Facebook that my sister had won a t-shirt contest. That moment of pure joy and gratitude put me into a kind of blissful shock and today I woke up and realized that this crazy "leaving tomorrow" thing came way too fast.

I feel unprepared even though I've checked and double checked that I had everything I needed for this trip. I've crossed everything off my list but no matter how much I reassure myself that I've got everything down, I can't help but be completely positive that I don't have anything down at all.

But when I stop and really think about that, I realize that it's going to be okay to be unprepared. Yes, I undoubtedly will forget something, maybe even something important, but it's okay because it's going to work out for the best. The beautiful and terrifying thing about all of this is that I don't know what "for the best" is. I don't know what to expect and that's mortifying but spectacular too. I used to say that this was no big deal, but it is. Going on a mission trip to Swaziland is a big deal, but it's also the right deal. It's a deal that I suddenly found my heart fully committed to before I ever knew that there was a crazy t-shirt contest in store for me. This is what I am supposed to be doing. Yes, I cant shake the feelings of nervousness, terror, feeling unprepared, and a thousand other things that are haunting me right now, but I also can't shake the overwhelming knowledge that this is beautifully and inexplicably right.

Tomorrow is happening. It's going to be here before I can blink an eye and I'm not ready, not at all. But  even with all the time in the world to spend thinking and preparing, I still never would be. All I can keep telling myself is that the fear, the nerves, and everything else is okay. I've never been in this alone.

What Do I Absolutely Need?

Today is Saturday and I just finished cramming most of what I need to survive in a third-world country for nearly two weeks in a backpack. It's a large backpack, but still, a backpack. I am leaving for Swaziland on Tuesday morning. Well, sort of. First my team has to get all of our bags loaded in a van, then drive to Chicago, then fly to Atlanta, then catch tremendously long flight to Johannesburg, South Africa and then, finally, drive the five hours to Swaziland.

I've never thought of myself as a particularly heavy packer. I know girls who go through three outfits a day. I only need one, thank you very much! I don't straighten, curl, or even blow dry my hair. I wear a minimal amount of makeup if I wear any at all. I always try to pack just what I absolutely need. But, as it turned out this time, what I absolutely needed wasn't able to be zipped closed in my bag. I tried rearranging again and again to no avail. I simply had too much stuff.

I was in a predicament. Most of this stuff was just what our team leader had instructed us to pack. But, clearly, something had to go!

"Okay," I thought, "What do I get rid of when I have everything I am supposed to have?"

I stared down into the chaotic tumble of travel items. The first thing that caught my attention was the mini pillow and blanket. These were not huge items. It wasn't like I was bringing a full sized pillow and a comforter, but did I really need both for the plane? No. The blanket could be folded to make a pillow if I needed it and I already had two sweatshirts with me. So, just like that, a surprisingly large chunk of space appeared.

Next came the shoes. Did I really need a pair for the carepoint, church, and the plane? No. The shoes I wore on the plane could very easily double as church shoes, so I chucked the shoes I had carefully matched with my dress for church into a pile in the corner.

I got rid of some skirts, t-shirts, pairs of socks, bras, and limited myself to one pair of jeans (sorry if that horrifies anyone). Eventually, the bag zipped and honestly, I am pretty sure that I am still over-prepared in the wipe, tissue, snack, medication, hand sanitizer, toothpaste, and soap department.

It's funny how much I still have even after stripping away nearly a quarter of what I was sure I needed. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised at all if I got rid of a few more things before I leave on Tuesday!