I really hate coming home.
It doesn't make sense: I came home to my husband and my children whom I really missed while I was gone. I love my job and my friends and my church here. And I'm certain that, for right now, Greensboro is home.
But re-entry after serving in a developing country is never pretty. Yesterday was my first full day home. I woke up feeling as if someone dumped water on all the circuits in my brain. I made it to the gym in an effort at normalcy but felt foggy & disconnected. And I spent the rest of the day fighting the urge to go to bed and cry.
I live in a culture where it's perfectly acceptable to focus on myself and what I want. It's not only okay to be selfish and hoard our resources - it's encouraged. We buy big houses and fill them full of stuff only to declare that we don't have enough space and need a bigger house. I've been telling my husband recently about my plan to figure out how to raise the ceilings in our home because I don't feel they are tall enough. My refrigerator is often full of food that goes bad and I have to throw it away. My kids have toys they never play with and clothes they outgrow before having a chance to wear. Just before my trip to Swaziland, we emptied out our attic and had a giant yard sale and I was shocked to see all the stuff we had been "just holding onto" for the past ten years.
And last week I delivered clothing to some families in one of the communities surrounding Project Canaan in Swaziland. One child's only pair of pants were threadbare and holey in the bottom. And we didn't have any bottoms in his size so we had brought two tops. When the family asked about pants for him, the best answer I could give was that at Christmas that family will be invited to Project Canaan to come and pick out clothing for themselves.
The best answer I had for a child with pants full of holes was the hope that a new pair might be available in 6 months. When my kids bust a hole in the knee of their pants, I toss them without a second thought. And I don't have to run out to buy new ones - they already have many extras in the drawer. And this same child, the one whose only pants are full of holes, put on the fleece jacket we had brought and did a dance of joy. He didn't complain that there were no pants, he was thrilled with the new cozy fleece. And I'm once again shamed and humbled.
In Swaziland, people live on homesteads. A homestead is generally 2-4 small mud huts with thatched roofs. One is for cooking, others for sleeping. Here's one I visited last week:
Both of these buildings are sleeping quarters - but notice the one on the right is in disrepair.
The rain has washed away the mud holding the wall together. This building is still in use. People sleep here. If it rains, they just get rained on.
This is inside of a sleeping hut in the rafters just over the bed. Imagine this like your bedside table. At home, my nightstand is filled with a lamp, books, jewelry, and pictures of my family. Here it's one of the few places to stick some tools and store things off the ground.
I'm unmoored. I'm angry. Everything I will do today seems meaningless. I'm going to take the kids to the library to return some books and to Barnes & Noble to turn in their completed summer reading lists and pick out their free book. It should be a lovely day. But instead, I'll fight tears as I look around me, remembering the children with whom I played, whose joy in receiving a piece of much-needed clothing (but not even the most-needed article) was greater than my kids' delight in their free books today.
I'm unmoored. I'm heartbroken. There is so much wrong with this. My prayers are filled with "whys" and "I don't understands." It is so hard to look poverty in the face and find hope. It is so hard to return to the excesses of everyday life in the US and not want to scream and cry. I will never have an acceptable answer for suffering. But I will never stop trying to be part of bringing peace and hope. I pray all the time that God will break my heart for what breaks his. And he has. And sometimes it's more than I can handle.
I want to remain unmoored. I want to stay heartbroken. I want to keep my anger. Traveling to Swaziland brings with it the honor and the responsibility to tell the stories. I have a friend who calls me her "personal dark cloud" because I'm the one who tells her about modern-day slavery, about poverty worldwide. But she says it with a smile because she's made changes in her life to do something about it. Seeing the dark makes me responsible to bring it to light so that we can work together to change things.
And here's what I know: Jesus came to bring restoration. God's plan is to redeem all of this. I can choose to make life about me or I can choose to be part of the work God's been doing since the beginning. For me, the choice is simple. It may be heartbreaking and overwhelming but I cannot imagine life any other way.