sometimes the sound of goodbye is louder than any drum beat
armin van buuren
i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.
my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.
i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.
after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.
although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.
my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.
i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.
my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.
when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.
the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.
the sound of goodbye. deafening.
armin van buuren
i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.
my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.
i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.
after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.
although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.
my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.
i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.
my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.
when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.
the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.
the sound of goodbye. deafening.
3 comments:
I shouldn't have read this one at the office. Now I'm crying.
I miss you. I pray that you will continue to find comfort everyday.
Alida - my heart goes out to you.
we miss you and you will always be in our hearts. thanks for the words that say God can use us as long as we allow him. your story is shared inspiration. -the Jim and the Van Farowes in NC
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