• when i have to say goodbye

    March 20, 2013 / 2 Comments

    i.
    a pile of folded clothes sits atop the black suitcase, ready to be packed. photos come down off the walls, the closets are cleaned out and bathroom shelves cleared off. two large duffel bags, fifty pounds a piece, contain four years of memories. i think of the boxes and bins waiting for me back home and marvel at this, a life lived in such a way, packed up and stored at a moment’s notice. i suppose that i should be thankful; i’m free, refusing to be weighed down by possessions and all my stuff. 

    i am thankful, but i’m also a little sad.

    ii.
    i sit at her feet, this liberian mama of mine, and clutch her hand while i pray for her. daily, she and i hug in the kitchen, laughing and talking about kids and food. i realize who she is to me: a friend, a sister, a mother, and i choke back tears. she’s taught me so much, about love and humility, serving others, living by grace.

    i pray, and i cry, and i don’t think i’ve ever loved her more than i do in this moment.

    iii.
    it’s four a.m., and i lay awake under the mosquito net. my head feels heavy from fatigue and allergies, yet i know sleep will elude me. another restless night–i’ve had so, so many.

    in less than a week, i’ll be in a bed. it will be quiet; i will be comfortable. i dream about sleeping away the exhaustion of the last three months.

    iv.
    she shows up for work crying, and she somehow seems smaller than even the last time i saw her. they stole from her last night, broke into her home, her sense of safety and security, and took what wasn’t theirs. she swallows her tears and doesn’t want to talk about it. everyone rallies around her, offering sympathy, understanding, murmurs of encouragement. people here are forever losing, losing children, losing the things they scarcely have to begin with. when does it end?

    and i, in my excess, feel guilty, ashamed.

    v.
    “auntie elena, you will not forget about me, yeah?” she whispers it softly into my ear as she hugs me goodbye, and time suddenly stands still. little hands claw at me, begging to hold, to be held, but all i can focus on is this one before me, jaw set with resolve, tears and questions in her eyes. i cup her face in my hands and meet her gaze; i can scarcely choke out the words. “i will never forget you. never. i love you.”

    i see she believes me, and she rests her head on my shoulder. our hearts forever connected, our tears mingle in tiny pools, soaking the red dust of the earth where we stand.

    vi.
    i sit and stare, at nothing in particular, really. i think nothing in particular, feel nothing in particular. emptiness. it’s all that’s left. every word has been spoken, every prayer been prayed. the season comes to its close, as i always knew it would, eventually.

    i lived well here; i loved well here. i did what i came here to do, did it the best way i knew how.

    and then i hear it, an echo in the emptiness, a hint of hope in this barren heart:
    “this chapter may be over, but the story’s just begun.”

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  • saying goodbye to Lamie

    November 9, 2012 / 6 Comments

    today, i write to honor the life of a friend. i met Lamie around Easter of
    this year, while i was still in Liberia. he was sick and listless, unable to move (presumably because  of a stroke he had suffered.) he was sleeping on the ground, in a pile of garbage, directly across from a dumpster. during the day, he was there, baking in the hot sun. at night, he was there, exposed to the elements. he was starving; he was thirsty; he was homeless. he had been abandoned and left to die. upon investigating, some friends and i were able to find out more of his story, and our hearts were broken for this man who had suffered so greatly. we knew we had to help. nobody deserved to have to live as he did.

    fast forward a few months. Lamie was off the streets, had a roof over his head, and seemed to be improving. it had been a rough go, both for he and those of us involved in helping him. he’d gone from sleeping in the garbage heap to sleeping in his own room to sleeping on my front porch to sleeping in a Liberian-run facility for the elderly. poor Lamie had been tossed around from place to place, and my heart broke as i imagined how badly he ached for home.

    then, it was all of sudden august. it was nearing the end of my stay in Liberia, and i knew that i had to walk away from Lamie. i knew i had to entrust him to the care (and i use that term loosely, unfortunately) of the people running the home he was staying in. more importantly, i knew i had to entrust him to God. i had to be okay with walking away, not knowing what would happen, but knowing i had done all i could to love Lamie and care for him as Jesus would have.

    this is the last photo i have of Lamie, taken only a week or so before i left Liberia. this is how i always want to remember him:: fat cheeks, bright eyes, and a tender spirit. he never once complained about his situation or all that he had gone through. he would smile wistfully as he remembered his younger years, when he had been a tailor and had a family. he’d get this dreamy look on his face, and i knew he was longing to go back to that time. yet he also accepted the cards life had dealt him, and i believe he really did try to make the best of them.

    unfortunately, Lamie died last month (and i just found out about it today.) i have no idea what happened, other than he had been sick. i don’t know what he was feeling when he passed away, if he was lonely, if there was anyone at all by his side. and if i let it, the not-knowing will shatter my heart and crush my spirit.

    so instead, i choose to join my friend Ashley in seeking the joy in an otherwise terribly sad situation. she says it best in her tribute to our dear friend::
    Lamie’s body is whole again. Lamie died knowing that those crazy white people loved him. We fed, clothed and gave cold water. We fought for truth, justice and for what was right. It didn’t matter that we were different or that he was from a certain tribe or that he was a stranger. It didn’t matter that he was physically disabled–his heart was gold! He brought laughter and unity and compassion. He was an example, and a reminder. There is no happily-ever-after for this story and this morning, Lamie’s story came to a close. But, I know that his story and his life weren’t told and lived to be forgotten. He lived his story so that he could be remembered. He faced insurmountable obstacles, but he kept that spark in his eye. [He had] joy in his smile, despite his circumstances. [He was a] literal example for us to be the Good Samaritan. Lamie was my friend–my beautiful, laughter-filled, sweet-spirited (unless he wanted a haircut from Momo) friend. At one point, Lamie had taken everything out of me, but I pressed on because Jesus filled me and equipped me to keep going. Lamie was and is a part of my story…and a reason why I just can’t walk away from Liberia.

    Lamie was–and is–a lesson to me to love others. to love freely, wildly, without holding back. to love with my whole heart. even when it hurts. even when i think i have nothing left to give. he taught me to love others because sometimes, my love is the only Jesus they will ever know.

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  • when there are no more words

    September 12, 2012 / 2 Comments

    as my time in Liberia comes to a close, i look back and reflect and remember. i know people back home are going to ask questions. they’re going to want stories, want to hear of my life for the past six months.

    the problem is::
    for the first time in a long time,
    i don’t have words.

    maybe i haven’t fully processed all i’ve seen and heard and felt here yet. maybe once i do, the words will come.

    or maybe some things are simply so full of raw…feeling that they exist outside of language.

    i don’t have words to speak of grieving families who have lost loved ones too soon.

    i don’t have words to speak of fear that grips in the middle of the night when you realize your neighbors are being robbed.

    i don’t have words to speak of lifeless bodies in the aftermath of a car accident, bloody and broken on the road.

    i don’t have words to speak of how guilty it feels to have a full stomach when so many around you go hungry.

    i don’t have words to speak of children starved of affection, desperate for human contact.

    i don’t have words to speak of a crippled man sleeping in the garbage and the dust, abandoned and left to die.

    i don’t have words to speak of the vacant look in a child’s eye who is merely existing and doesn’t know how to thrive.

    i don’t have words to speak of thirteen year old girls raped by men in their twenties.

    i don’t have words for the silenced voices of so many children who have been told they’re worthless and that they don’t matter.

    i don’t have words for the dozens of amputees wandering the streets, victims of a war that is over, and yet they still bear the scars.

    i don’t have words for being sick in bed with malaria while at the same time realizing how many lives have been lost from the same illness–simply because they didn’t have access to the medicine.

    i don’t have words to speak of children laid out on a table to be whipped or pushed up against a wall to be hit.

    i don’t have words for little girls literally starving, for bony shoulders and skinny legs and how frail they feel when you hold them.

    i don’t have words for an education system that has failed so many of its children, for fifteen year-olds in the fourth grade or a second grade student who can’t even write the alphabet.

    i don’t have words.
    i have a heart that bleeds
    and tears that fall
    and knots in my stomach
    and hands that wring.

    but more than that,
    i have hope.

    because while this place can be filled
    with pain and poverty and sorrow,
    i have also seen::
    seen that Jesus lives here.

    i’ve seen Him in the prayers of a mother for her children.

    i’ve seen Him in the grateful look in a dying man’s eyes.

    i’ve seen Him in the healing of kids who were once frighteningly sick.

    i’ve seen Him in the sheer joy of the Church praising Him.

    i’ve seen Him in kind eyes and warm handshakes.

    i’ve seen Him in a nation full of people looking forward to brighter tomorrows.

    i’ve seen Him in students who realize they’ve been given a chance, who start dreaming for their futures.

    i’ve seen Him in the whispered prayer of a teenage girl who has begun to recognize her value.

    i’ve seen Him in blazing sunsets and soft sunrises, in blue sky meeting green tree meeting red earth.

    i’ve seen Him in children who cling to the leg, rest heads on the shoulder, intertwine fingers with mine.

    i’ve seen Him in the faces of little boys and girls who finally understand that they are loved.

    i’ve seen Him in the dreams of those who want to grow up and transform their country.

    i’ve seen Him in the innocence and excitement of children who, for once, are just allowed to be children.

    i’ve seen Him in unity and brotherhood and acceptance.

    i’ve seen Him.

    i don’t have words::
    but i have seen    .

    and because of that,
    i have a heart that hopes
    and eyes that look up
    and a growing faith
    and a tongue to encourage.

    it is in the ugly that i have found the beautiful.
    it is in despair that i have found strength.
    it is in the hard places that i have found new life.

    i don’t have words,
    but Jesus is here.

    and so i know that one day,
    somehow,
    (because of He and not i)
    everything is going to be alright.

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