Some seasons I just seem to run out of words. And then I attempt to purge them out in a semi-sensible way. {See below.}
After my sisters’ visit, we sort of hit a whirlwind. We got new visas and work permits under high-stress circumstances. I had dengue fever.
This was followed by a domestic dispute incidence in our community that was quite scary, quite messy, and honestly, is still on replay in my head. And then school started in the community, surrounded by a series of dramas, trying to help families who couldn’t afford fees and creating job opportunities and small loan opportunities. One of the job opportunities we provided created all sorts of community drama, requiring us to address that with other community members working in our house, conversations about loving each other and how we are equals. (Oh, and do that in your second language. It makes me tired reliving it.)
School fees also required us to address manipulation and blatant lying with one family; turning into them claiming a “spirit” was involved and blindness. The church was involved, and it was close to home, and it involved kids; and it was just really, really messy. (Oh, and do that in your second language, too. Go ahead imagine all of this in elementary-level language capacity.)
Meanwhile, the government decided to turn off the water supply to the city, and we received about 500 liters in 12 days. That’s difficult to feed 50 kids on every morning; or to make and deliver bread around town weekly. That’s also difficult to mop the floor after the chaos of sewing projects, jewelry projects, bread baking, and breakfast serving; and kids running in and out. It is also difficult to do laundry; so that showering and dressing became quite the challenge. We finally found the bottom of our laundry basket (and the floor around it!) after nearly a month.
This past weekend found me at the hospital for two very long days with our friend who had an emergency C-section before her husband returned from the US, and their baby was admitted the the NICU under scary circumstance. They were just transferred to another hospital for specialized care, and it just all been…heavy.
I’m still working through it all, while it just keeps coming.
A friend asked me this weekend how I was feeling and if I was getting back to normal, and I actually responded, “Was I sick?” He meant dengue, which feels like ages ago. We have been handed so many crises since then.
__________
Since the domestic dispute a few weeks ago, I’ve struggled to move past it. I’ve replayed bits of it in my mind, over and over.
It’s probably the most scared I’ve been, mostly for Stephen. There is something I can’t quite reconcile between the fear, and the natural inclination to avoid that fear ever again; and the assurance that it was and is still the right thing to do. Those aren’t always exclusive.
I’m told this is normal; that its part of traumatic events. That’s what I’ve been taught by books and theories and counselors.
But it’s not true here, really. The mother; the sister; the little boy. The ones who came to our house bloody. They moved on. The next day they waved to us, they showed up for work, they headed off to school. It was like nothing had happened; like they hadn’t spent the night in our house. Like we hadn’t sat for a few hours together on the floor, all of us wet and muddy, waiting to see how it would play out, trying to find the words, trying to distract the kids.
While we sat on the floor together, I felt our camaraderie. We’d feared the same fears; we’d sought safety together. We’d communicated amidst the stress.
The next day, as I carried the weight of the previous evening with me, they didn’t.
I dialogued with a friend about this; how my education, my culture, my experiences, my privilege–it allows for struggle and traumatic recovery and time. We give ourselves breaks and self-care.
Meanwhile so many of my neighbors don’t have this privilege. They have to eat and survive another day; and perhaps this trauma is experienced so regularly. Perhaps you don’t have the privilege to give it time or struggle or care.
But then perhaps that isn’t a privilege, either. Suddenly my “privilege” of education and mental health feels like a stumbling block that has me stuck on a replay from last month, while life carries on for those around me.
Sometimes I wish I could carry on more easily. Or carry more, easily.
__________
We don’t know how long we’ll be here living this life on this street. There are about a million factors at play, not the least of which are the adoption process we started in a developing country, the visas and paperwork that permit us to stay, and sheer capacity.
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the choices ahead. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the choices that got me here.
What if this has been too hard (and ruined me)? What if it becomes too hard (and ruins me)? And how do I not know which side of that I am currently sitting on? And why am I so concerned with my ruin?
Sometimes I am overwhelmed how much their choices affect my trajectory. While living as we do in this community, they determine so much of this. What if they don’t choose Christ|savings|education|fill-in-the-blank-with-anything-I-value-enough-to-choose? Is it worth it?
What if the loss we experience is greater than the benefit we leave behind? Is it worth it?
What if I am ruined? Is it worth it?
Who makes that call?
__________
I chatted with another friend about the questions we as a Church are often asking each other. “Are you ____?”
Are you practicing self-care? Are you being selfish?
Are you being safe? Are you taking risks?
Are you setting boundaries? Are you too comfortable?
Are you following your heart|desires|calling? Are you following wisdom of counselors?
From our perspective here: Are you making this sustainable?
Are you making friends with locals? Are you making friends with expatriates?
Are you in community? Are you taking time to yourself?
Are you taking risks? Are you taking breaks?
Are you [insert whatever particular theory is deemed “right” by the speaker]?
We tend to ask questions that we are asking ourselves or avoiding ourselves; we ask according to what we value. I personally think that all these questions could be right for one person and wrong for the next. Honestly, I hate the questions. I hate the questions I can’t answer that I’m not sure are even questions I should be asking.
I hate that we only ask the questions we want to ask to prove our point or to justify our action.
Do we simply need to ask, Are you being obedient?
Perhaps sometimes that looks like all of the above, depending on who you are and where you are and what you’re doing and who God wants you to be.
Perhaps sometimes that involves the natural inclination to fear and the assurance that you should take the risk all over again.
Perhaps sometimes that involves unequal loss and benefit.
Perhaps sometimes that involves unknowns and more questions than we have answers for.