“Fortune magazine annually lists the five hundred richest people;

no one knows the names of the five hundred poorest.”

--Philip Yancey, in What's So Amazing About Grace?

go in peace

Life is one beautiful, crazy, busy, confusing, hard, delightful, painful, joyful mess, isn’t it?

I’m back in Dallas after a rather insane Christmas “break” that included scattered extended family, two weddings out of state, and a job that doesn’t quit when the holidays come.  It was truly a joy to see friends and family–some of whom I hadn’t seen since before I left for Ethiopia.  There were sweet, sweet times–watching friends get married, dancing (and I can’t dance), eating, playing games, road trips, soaking in a panhandle sunset.  But there were hard times too–exhaustion, the continued sense of loving two worlds and only living in one, spending precious, hard time with my grandmother.  And now, I’ve been back in the swing of work and classes for a couple of weeks, wondering if that Christmas break ever really happened.  This semester will, I’m certain, be very busy and demanding, but I hope a bit less consuming than the last.  I just got a box of (very expensive) medical equipment in the mail, so I guess it’s official that I’m going to be the one poking and prodding and shining lights in your eyes:)

This month I’ve reflected a lot on what a strange, full, hard year 2008 was.  It was in January of last year that the reality that my time in Ethiopia was drawing to a close really struck me.  I began to prepare, as much as you can, to think about life here and, in essence, end life there.  And I guess it’s been that way ever since.  I wish I could say I’ve learned how to deal with such a drastic transition, but I don’t have those words of wisdom.  Rather, I have continued to learn that the heart of the Father is so much larger, more encompassing, more faithful than I can begin to imagine.  He loves the world in a way I must learn much of.  His love, through suffering, granted the peace, redemption, and restoration that we daily long for and fight for.

I’m reading Luke.  Jesus’ words of LIFE and acts of healing strike me anew.

“As Jesus went, the people pressed around him. And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and though she had spent all her living on physicians, she could not be healed by anyone.

She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment, and immediately her discharge of blood ceased. And Jesus said, “Who was it that touched me?” When all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds surround you and are pressing in on you!” But Jesus said, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.”

And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed.

And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

Would that my faith would cause me to fall at His feet.

shrinking and climbing

Written too late last night:

My house is dimly lit, filled with the quiet melody of Natalie Merchant’s “Break Your Heart”:

I know that it will hurt/I know that it will break your heart
The way things are/And the way they've been

It’s been a wonderfully cloudy, windy day that seemed to usher in the crispness of fall. I’ve needed a melancholy weather day for awhile, but when today came I just wanted to revel in the coolness. So I went running instead of making hot chocolate☺

I live in Dallas now. I’m in grad school. I (finally) got a job.
And those three things have been enough to send me through another tailspin transition, another season of struggling to adjust to new places and things, to find joy in what I have now and not wish for what was the past.
I am really glad to be here, and I’m glad to know I can unpack and be for awhile. I like where we live—SJ and I reside in a character-rich apartment that is part of a 1930s historic home in the middle of a diverse community. We are minutes from the bus stop, the grocery, the pharmacy, the PO, and our work/school locations. I love the heartbeat of the city, and I’m glad to be in the center of a city.

But, alas, I’m not heart-settled yet. I’m not sure, though, that I ever will be again. I’m not sure I should be, but I still want it. I feel weak and overwhelmed and incapable of facing the small mountains ahead of me: surviving (and thriving? Is it possible?) grad school, beginning a challenging new job, seeking out and investing in a new community and new needs.

I started reading Helen Roseveare’s He Gave Us A Valley months ago. She was a physician who spent many years working in Zaire. I put the book down a long while back because Africa was too fresh on my mind and the pain and horror in the book was too real and unbearable. I recently picked it back up and finished it just this week. And the end—it alternately thrills and sobers me. This woman experienced suffering in ways I have not (and I shrink from)—and yet, yet she could say that her 20 years of hard, painful work was worth it. It’s astounding.
I feel small and foolish for cowering in the face of the tasks I’m called to in this season of life. But, somehow, this is for me the mountain to climb. And if I learn to climb not for myself, in the end it will be worth it.

They had called Him ‘a worm, no man’. I said I wanted to be identified with Him, yet did I really want to be a worm, trodden on, spurned, ignored? No!
Yet this was the privilege He offered . . .”
H. Roseveare.

Not together

The last time I balanced my checkbook, I think I was 17. Seriously.

I’m looking around at a mess, and feeling messier inside. Around me I see half-packed boxes, half-unpacked suitcases, piles of bags and clothes and papers. The disorganization frustrates me, but really points to a deeper soul disorganization. I do wish I balanced my checkbook (sort of), but even more, I wished I lived better. I wish these transition months weren’t so yucky, that I had a better attitude, that I grew and learned through them more.

I’ve actually written a couple of posts in the time since I’ve blogged, but I haven’t been bold enough to post them. Words can belie what we can hide in our faces . . . and sometimes “we’re most of us stories we’re scared to explain” (Ellery)

I’m thinking October will be good. In my (fairy tale?) dream, most everything will be more settled then and I’ll have a rhythm and routine of life, school, work, church, and community. Either that, or I’ll need to be banished to a desert island.

I’m looking forward to this next season; I’ve not by any means moved past the pain of leaving the last season, but there will be sweet joys ahead. Living with Sarah Jo, finding a new community of co-laborers, growing in my knowledge of medicine, running outside, having Friday night cousin dinners, finding the nearest hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant, volunteering at a community clinic . . . I know so much of this is ahead, yet still my faith is frail. He’s never failed me, but somehow I doubt that God can or will bring these things about in my life. I’m so grateful that my faith, and God’s provision, is not dependent on how I feel in the midst of this current chaos.

“I’m lookin’ forward to lookin’ back on this day.”

Over the Rhine

different experiences of death

This week I’m in the Texas/Oklahoma panhandle spending some time with my grandmother and extended family.  It’s hot, dry, and windy out here.  It’s so windy that as I walked out into the flat brown pasture I thought the wind was going propel me to my knees.  I love it, though.  I love that last night I sat on the stiff grass in my grandparents yard and stared at the sunset-pink sky and the grain towers 4 miles away.  There’s a strange freedom to this barren place. 

I’ve been thinking this week about the different experiences of death in this culture as opposed to the Ethiopian culture.  I had become almost used to the mournful wails and very public displays of grief I experienced there.  I grew to expect the sight of a khaki-green tent blocking a street–the sign that yet another soul had been captured by death and the family and friends were gathering for the wake.  I learned to understand the timing of death and burial and days of mourning and visiting and often had to plan my calendar around that schedule.  I knew to cover my head, to greet the grieving family seated on a mattress somewhere in the big covered tent or inside a tiny home.  I began to resonate with the drum beat and shrill cries that came after a death.

Here, it’s much more silent, experienced more as personal grief.  I stepped off the plane on Tuesday morning to find out my great-aunt had died while I was in the air.  I was close to this aunt and as I sit and think about her I remember countless games of Uno and Dominoes (she always won).  The funeral was yesterday.  Quiet viewing at the church, organ-led hymns, a reading of Psalm 23.  There were sniffles and kleenex was passed around.  We drove the short distance to the cemetery in caravan, and quietly walked across the dry cemetery grass to the graveside tent.  The family was seated next to the casket.  In minutes, the service was over. 

Death is a uniting reality in our world.  What a strange and horrible reality. 

“I came that they may have life . . . ”

Jesus in John 10

night drive

Memory seeps from my veins . . .

It’s late and I’m driving 75 down the fluorescent-lit interstate.  I’m lost in my thoughts as the miles fly behind me.  I’m here, but in my mind I’m thousands of miles away.
I’m in Addis on a late night, looking out the smudged taxi window as we travel through the night-barren streets at 40.  Then, I’m thinking about life—about how big it is, how uncertain I am about my future, how I’m not sure how to leave.  We make the big roundabout turn towards my home, under the bridge, down the rough rocky road, up to the big grey gate that hides the house.  I pay the taxi driver $4, say thank you, unlock the metal door, and step inside the quiet compound.
I shake my head, trying to chase the memories away.  I’m thinking about life, about how to live here, how to savor the good and accept the hard.  I turn my blinker on, smoothly take the curve onto my street, hit the garage door button, and pull in.  I unlock the green door and step into the quiet house.

lyrics by Sarah McLachlan

Castles, groceries, and the inside of it all

Scotland has been a good in-between place, a time for the sound of braying donkeys to fade and the quiet hum of the washing machine to become normal again.  I think I never realize how weary I am until I stop–and then I crash and wonder if I’ll ever have strength again.  I know I’m going back to an incredibly busy time in the US–grad school interviews, family times, coffee chats, job searching, car buying  . . . So I’m trying to soak in the quietness of having a cup of tea and the flat all to myself.  I have a million thoughts swirling through my mind, and in my weariness I don’t want to deal with any of them.  I’m still overcome with the sorrow of having left my home in Ethiopia.  I still wake up thinking of the patients we need to check on today, of the medication that needs to be purchased, of the lab results I need to get.  I don’t expect to ever find the perfect balance of closing this season of life out and yet morphing it into who I am in the next season of life.  But I’m learning to appreciate the small things in this season, and I know that Ethiopia can’t be forgotten in my heart.

I’ve had sweet times with my brother and my good friends here–we’ve laughed and played and visited castles and celebrated St. Patrick’s Day.  I’m glad for this.

Last night I almost had a melt down in the grocery store.  There were at least 10 potato choices–how was I going to make a decision?  There were sounds and colors everywhere–and while I’m coming from a world of chaos and brightness and noise, I had become used to that place.  So again, I will become used to this.  I’m just glad it wasn’t Super Walmart I had to deal with.  Yet.

I leave Edinburgh Wednesday morning, make it to Charlotte Wednesday night, and arrive in Jackson Thursday afternoon.  Maybe in those hours of dwelling too much on the swirling in my heart I’ll make sense of the mess inside.

And it’s funny how we speak so clear
while such a mess inside
I mean more than I’m saying here -
You know that just as well as…

I guess I know better now
That few things ever go
The way that we mean anyhow
That’s better I suppose
–Ellery

The awkwardness of my own

I step off the plane into another world—one that is busy and bright and shiny and bursting with all things modern and fashionable.  I’m overwhelmed by the glittering duty-free shops, the profuse signs pointing a hundred different directions, the heavy odor of expensive perfumes.  I search for the baggage storage, then descend to the train station.  I stare in confusion at the ticket directions.  Where do I want to go?  How do I figure this out?  Do I look lost?  I bump someone with my bag, and I say “yee k’ur ta”.  Too late, I realize my mistake—choose another language, Sara.  I finally ask for directions, and respond with “Ishi”.  I sigh, realizing that I will continue this for the weeks and months to come.  I eventually catch the train headed for the city, and after a few wrong choices make it to the old city center.  I talk to a man on the street, I walk around in the cold wind looking at the grand old architecture and warm, inviting pastry shops.  Finally the frigid drizzle drives me in for coffee and a pastry; I look for kuchen and think of Tanta Marta and Aunt Elsie (they make the finest German kuchen).  This time I remember to say “Danka shen” but a moment later I answer the woman’s question with “Aww”.
I feel awkward in this world.  I’m looking around for clues of what is normal, what has changed since I was last here.  Are my clothes shabby?  Can I eat while walking on the street?  Should I say hi to that stranger passing me?  Is it ok to cross the street before the green light blinks?  I speak, and through the tiredness of the night flight and the realization that my familiar world is back in Ethiopia, I feel lost.  I blend in with the place, and someone asks me for directions.  I like being anonymous.  Then a woman riding a bike startles me by spitting in my face—maybe I don’t fit in.  Can she see it in me, this uncertainty of time and place and belonging?
I just want to belong, I think.  I should feel comfortable here in this world of progression and availability.  It is, after all, my own.  But I gave it up for another, and now I am alone in this place.

The beginning of the Lasts

I woke up this morning to a Thursday.  It seemed like most other Thursdays—sunny, bright, loud with morning sounds, busy with the knowledge of all that needed to be done today.  But then I realized it’s not just another Thursday.  It is my last Thursday to wake up in Ethiopia.  I have begun a week of last days before my flight departs late next Wednesday.
I don’t know how to live well these last days.  They will be full of work and passing on projects, of goodbyes and tears and gifts, of shopping and packing and cleaning.  There’s a part of me that just wants this week to be over—I hate this transition, the painfulness of ending.  But then I realize that in less than 7 days, it will be over.  And I will wish for these days back.

Goodbyes with a Lideta women’s support group

paradox (and sheep wat)

The paradox of life happens every day, but I don’t always notice it.  Tonight, I was laughing with friends and team members over Balderdash (and fond Bomgaars house memories), weird dreams, and Monty Python.  Just a few minutes later, I walked into my house and the pungent smell of simmering sheep wat filled my head.
This is my life, has been my life for nearly two years.  In less than three weeks, this reality will be replaced by a far different one that will at the same time be strange and familiar.  I don’t know how to prepare for that kind of transition.  I don’t like sheep wat, but I’m not sure how to live without its presence in my life.
But somehow over the next days I must say goodbye—to minibuses and honking traffic, to dodging donkeys and goats and Isuzu trucks, to being yelled at on the street and being greeted with warm hugs and kisses, to injera and sweet macchiatos, to my friends, my staff, and the project beneficiaries.  It’s an impossible task, and I’m not sure I have the strength to do it well.
Yet as I struggle through the pain of goodbyes, I have been given great joy.  Yesterday at the project office we had a clinic day with the Baltimore team.  Through the course of the day, the four random kids who are all inexpressibly precious to me came by.  I got to hold Deborah in my arms, and we swayed in the crisp morning sunshine.  Abel called for me, holding tightly to my hand as we slowly walked to the candy bag.  Fozia came and smiled her charming toothless smile as she waited on the steps.  Alemayehu brought his young-teenager attitude that covered over his little-boy heart; he let me hug him and put eye drops in; and in the sparkle of his dark eyes I was filled up to overflowing.
So tonight I’m peaceful.  I’m sad about the goodbyes, but I’m glad for the joy I have.
I’m going to smell like sheep wat in the morning.