A reunion

This semester, I’ve gotten the incredible opportunity to take the African Biblical Interpretations class, where I am learning how we might read the bible in community across continents, where I am asking tough questions about the bible's connection with colonization and oppression, where I am thinking more deeply what it means to read and teach and proclaim the Christian scriptures. It is also a class that culminates in a funded trip to Uganda, where we will meet with East African church and nonprofit leaders who are working in the area of reconciliation.

This means, among other things, that there will soon be a reunion—between me and Tanzania—me and my Tanzanian friends—me and the me I was eight years ago when I lived in East Africa. I am terrifically terrified.

I loved my time in East Africa in some ways more than I’ve ever loved another time of life. In Tanzania, I fell in love with John, I fell in love with the beauty of the life I’d been given, I fell in love with a million girls singing at night, and with a family who shared with me everything.

And I loved who I became: unconcerned with achievement or measuring up, secure in being valued simply for my presence, full of laughter and music. Tanzania healed me of doubt, made me generous and spontaneous, showed me a new kind of person I could become, dwelling in possibilities.

What frightens me is that I no longer feel like that person. Over the past few years, I feel like I have become a more critical version of me, more concerned with achievement, more needful of control and planning, and laden down by the burden of owning couches and dressers and a 401K (by marriage). It seems worlds away when I was able to live out of a small duffel bag for a year, to live without electricity or internet, to hop on the minibus and crack a joke in Swahili to unsuspecting ears.

In the same time, the memory of Tanzania has become more complex for me. Intellectually, I've learned to interrogate any missionary project. Emotionally, I think as often of the annoyance I felt at cat calls and constant standing out as the utter joy and belonging I was gifted without ever deserving it. And when I talk to my host sister Esther on the phone, she complains I’ve forgotten Swahili. So I don't call much anymore, unless it's about the money she needs. She named her first daughter Katie, which somehow has the effect of making my feel guilty rather than honored, because I have not called often enough, and I have not always said yes to her pleas for help. Many days, I remember the hassle of the phone calls more than I remember the mosquito-net-covered bed we shared for months, the whispered confidences and the side-aching laughter. 

Beyond Esther and her family, I’ve lost touch with the others. I don’t remember how to weave through the complex bus system to their homes, and I’m not even sure I’m laid-back enough anymore to ride those buses. I'm considering forking out $200 for the plane from Tanzania to Uganda rather than the long-distance bus that might give me a panic attack, speeding through the night.

//

It's clear that this reunion will not be simple. But then, what reunion is? They often fail my expectations. The conversations aren’t as deep; the time is not enough; the mutual understanding has shifted or faded. I am forever learning that my rosy spectacles of nostalgia for the past will often be disappointed.

And as much as I may lament the loss of a relationship with my host family or even the loss of some piece of myself, the truth is that I don't want to be my 22-year-old self again. Sure, I was learning to be carefree and independent and full of complicated love. But there was also a lot I was unsure about, a lot I didn't know.

I didn't know, yet, that three or four years later I would begin to explore and confirm a sense of this call to seminary and ministry--a call that has been terrifying and beautiful all at the same time, because it's so real and meaningful and yet so vulnerable to being subverted. I didn't know, yet (though I certainly hoped!) that on my next trip to Africa, I'd be four years into this marriage that is no longer a wade into the stream but a full submersion into this life together, with all its ups and downs. I didn't know yet how much I still needed to be humbled, by all the injustice in the world to which I am a part; I didn't know how much I still needed to be built up, with affirming communities and spiritual practice to unravel harmful self-talk.

I see the Spirit working in who I have become, who I am still a long way from becoming. I do not want to go back, nor can we, ever.

//

Still there are questions. When our plane lands in Tanzania, will there still be deep love and gratitude in my heart when I touch that ground? Will I feel a sense of that giddy, carefree Katie, or is it even fair to wonder? Which do I fear more, that my friends will ask for money, or that they will not, and I will have nothing else to give? How will I re-learn to receive? What will I see differently this time? How can I let Tanzania speak to me not as I was but as I am?

I do not know the answers. I do not know if there are answers.

What I pray for is grace--grace for me, grace in me for others. That I may be slow to judge and quick to listen and full of compassion. And I pray also, I think, for just a glimpse of my 22-year-old self. Perhaps she has something to offer me for today.

Africa slipping away

I was twenty, swimming in questions and doubts and grieving broken friendships and a lost relationship, when I arrived in Tanzania the first time. I woke up early to climb up to the roof, to gaze at palm trees and women wearing colorful clothes and carrying bright red and yellow buckets of water on their heads, to take in this new brightness in the world and in myself. Late at night, I sat on a stool in the tiny, smoky kitchen with my friend Monika, the cook, learning Swahili and empathy through her stories of ambition and heartbreak. In between university classes I read big words in the Bible, words like “there is now no condemnation in Christ” and “there is no fear in love,” and I began to discover the openness of my heart, the vastness of God.

It was two months in before I realized I hadn’t cried in this country, which was remarkable considering that I’d cried nearly every day the year before. Here in Africa, I didn’t have to answer the questions or muddle guiltily through messy relationships or be good. I had only to see, to partake, to love.

I partook, one day, after enduring constant teasing from my friends for the fact that I’d never in my life skipped a class. We left Swahili behind, hopped on a minibus early one Thursday morning, bottled water and inaccurate map in hand, and set out to find a fishing village noted in the guidebook. Smushed into a crowded minibus, the three of us miraculously found our way and two hours later, we were walking out on a reedy beach south of the city, following a young boy to the nearest fries-and-eggs stand for the cheap, greasy local food we were craving. I stretched out my arms as wide as I could and felt the wind on my face and the last drop of tension draining from my bones and I wanted to sing for joy.

A few days before it was time to return to the US, I lay on a red couch with a lump in my throat, because in returning, I would be leaving this place of vast open spaces. I knew that in the US, I would revert back to the self that had to work and fight and say and do the right things, in order to be good enough.

I preemptively mourned the loss of this expansive self.

*

I was a little homesick my second time in Tanzania. But in the evenings, when my English students and I gathered in the cafeteria, their thirteen-year-old hearts and my twenty-two-year-old hearts melded together and we poured out our loneliness until it disappeared. They taught me their songs (“God created us skinny, God created us fat”) and I taught them mine, and we crooned together against the darkness, “We all need someone to be there and someone to be there for.”

Together we were dancing, together we were celebrating the wideness and love of God and community, together we were making it through the nights away from home. When Zawadi couldn’t get through class without crying for homesickness, I longed to make her smile. When Nambayo got healthy enough to concentrate better, I put smiley faces on her quizzes with pride. When Napoki got pregnant and had to leave, I wanted to cry. I loved those girls with as deep an affection as I have known. They were, for a while, home.

When I returned to the US this time (for good?) I wore four beaded bracelets—their gifts to me—until they fell off one by one over the next year. I grieved the loss of a love and a song across cultures, borne out of loneliness and a need to belong, bringing the kind of deep gladness that is usually a long time in coming.

*

The year I got married was 2012, the year I had promised I would go back to Tanzania to see my students graduate. The wedding conflicted. I didn’t go. I haven’t been now, for six years.

When I think of Tanzania now, I confess I don’t think of the colors or the openness of my heart or the songs. I don’t think of the plates of food I shared with friends like Communion, or of brushing my teeth under the stars, or of the gift of acceptance the people gave to me, or of the adventurous, open person I became in that place.

Instead, I think of the obligations. The need to measure up and be good enough. I think of the phone calls to friends I don’t want to make, because they will tell me my Swahili is slipping, and though it is silly banter to them, it is a reminder to me of a part of myself that is slipping. They will mean well when they ask “When are you coming back?” but I will feel guilty in my inability to answer, my shifted priorities, my complicated living out of some American (un)dream that no longer gives me the freedom to visit them.

And they won’t be objectifying or using me when they most certainly ask for money for the latest education plan for themselves and their children, because to share money means to be a part of a family; yet even though they treated me with nothing but acceptance and an open hand when I lived among them, I will feel now objectified and used for my connections and my relative wealth. My heart will sink as I realize that even were I to offend or insult them, they would stay in touch with me if only for the hope of money, and I will feel angry and resentful maybe most of all at myself for no longer loving them as people.

So I don’t call back, and the relationship rift grows, and the open-hearted Tanzanian inside me drifts further away. I grieve the loss.

Detox

I have gradually become addicted to entertainment and communication technology. It started a couple years ago with a little TV to unwind after work. Since I started living in the middle of nowhere, it has grown into Netflix and blogs and Facebook galore, trying to find ways to connect. I no longer think, as I once did, that these technologies are inherently bad. I have seen how wonderful it is to catch up with old friends on Facebook, or to share real stories via social media, or to relax with a glass of wine and a comedy.

But as I was driving home the other night at twilight, with the windows rolled down, watching thousands of fireflies twinkle in the lush grass, I felt I was tapping into some beauty that I've been missing. I am tired of living in the numbness that I've made for myself. I feel like I can only concentrate in 3-minutes segments. I find my favorite books, and the Bible, boring. My thoughts are sometimes fuzzy and unable to be separated from the cacophony of images and voices in my mind. As I'm doing something enjoyable or clever or ironic, I find myself thinking in 150 word blurbs, thinking how I would present my experience to the world via Facebook or my blog.

I want to take a break. So I am going to attempt to remove myself for an experimental period, from most entertainment and communication technologies: mainly Facebook, articles and blogs (including this one; I need to take some time to write just for myself again), and television. Debating about the Orioles games, but following them online is lame anyway so I think I'll just get the scores from my brother! I will attempt this with some degree of grace and reason, in order to avoid the legalism and asceticism that I have so often tried unsuccessfully. I am planning to do a 7-day backpacking trip in August, and when I return from that I will reflect on the experience and may come back to the blog and Facebook.

 I wish it didn't feel so radical to half-unplug for 6 weeks (after all I'll still be on email, phone, google maps, etc). I know this is going to be difficult. I'm so accustomed to coming home from work, getting myself a bowl of ice cream, and flipping on the computer in order to read blogs or watch something. But I'm ready for this to be hard. I'm ready for a challenge. I'm hoping this time will give me a chance to reflect, to learn again how to pray, and listen, and process, and hurt, and be bored, and sleep, and wake, and go on walks, and sigh contently. To live my own life and think my own thoughts. I'll let you know...

More or less

On the radio I hear it again: the stock market rose today. The economy grew. Housing market resurgence--great! Ford sold more cars--awesome! An unnoticeable part in me sighs with relief. But, is more the answer to inequality?  How often do we question the innate goodness of growth?

The belief that bigger is better seems embedded in all aspects of our culture. In the fitness world, if you can run more miles (ultramarathon anyone?) or lift more weight, you are stronger, healthier. In church I see the pastor smiling: "the church is growing." This implies not only more money but also more momentum. More kids at Sunday school and youth group. More ministries in the community. In the nonprofit world, serving more students/clients/patients is a good thing. While there are some quality standards, funding is often doled out primarily on the basis of the number of people served.

There is, of course, the sustainable growth thing. You hear it from humanitarians and environmentalists. A realization that growth can't go unchecked forever, that we have to be careful about it--but still generally viewing growth as a good thing.

I think we need to stop for a minute before we buy into all this more is better stuff. Even with the good things, like ministries and nonprofits. Even when it's sustainable growth. Depth might be more important than quantity. Equality might be more important than quantity.

Jesus founded what some would call the descending way. The opposite of growth and success. He became smaller--from God to human. He focused on a few people and led them lower and lower in society, to humiliation and death. So if our bible study is only two people, if we only have one student in GED classes today, if our "impact" is small, maybe we're on the right track. It may not make sense, but the last will be first, and the humble will be exalted. So let me shoot for the tiny, small things I can do here in Cherokee, and let's all shoot for the tiny small ways we can love, forgive, and fade into obscurity.