14 years ago at this time, my dad left (straight from my ballet recital, pictured!) for St. Louis, where he joined “600 of the most important people in the ELCA” at the Youth Ministry Networkers Extravaganza.
Today, I leave for St. Louis to be participant and speaker at the very same event. My heart is racing…with excitement and gratitude!! I cannot wait for the opportunity to share about my experience as a YAGM in South Africa with such a special group of people.
I am the luckiest YAGM.
I said this often to my host family and friends in South Africa, and I meant it. In my very biased opinion: my host sister cooked the best food, the kids at my daycare center were the cutest, and my community was the most gracious and giving of all. As I dance through the process of reentering into the life that I left behind in Minnesota I continue to say: I am the luckiest. But am I? Keep reading…
Thanks to a Word document ‘journal’ kept and shared with me by my dear Aunt Suzie, I rediscovered the emails that my dad sent out while battling a nasty, fast-spreading, fatal cancer 13 years ago. Suzie had compiled his inspiring emails along with her own raw and eloquent daily reflections and conversations with friends and family. Wow. My people in South Africa sure taught me how to be strong; but in reading Suzie’s journal, I reconnected with my long lost spiritual gift of free flowing tears. I simultaneously laughed and cried as I read the words of my dad, uncle, aunts, cousins and others. And it all hurt SO good.
Just months away from his eventual death, my dad recollected how full of beauty his days had been. In his writings, he was continually blown away by the support of family and friends, coming from a “tremendous well of Love – given to us all by the creator of love and life…Talk about gratitude in scoops and buckets.” This is exactly how I have felt since landing in MSP just over two months ago. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of Gratitude for the people who have been on this journey with me from the start, and for those who continue to find a way into my life. Ice cream pails of Gratitude.
I’ve lost track of the number of coffee dates I’ve had, and feel bad about how many one-sided conversations I’ve spent blah-blah-blahing about the wonder of my experience in South Africa. I can’t at all compare YAGM-reentry-gratitude with my charming and feisty Lutheran Pastor Dad’s knowing-that-cancer-would-end his-life-on-earth-gratitude. But I give thanks for the example he was of how to celebrate each conversation, each human connection, and each breath, with Gratitude to the One who gave it all to us.
Like I said, I’ve shared countless lunch hours and beers with friends and family, and in the process also lost track of the number of resumes I sent into cyber space. I told someone that I was trying to be worry-free, prayerful, and calm about the whole job application process. The words surprised me as they came out of my mouth. I sort of suck at being all three of those things! Or maybe I used to suck at these things…? I don’t know for sure yet, but I GOT A JOB. Uh, what?! I am excited and humbled (and many more indescribable human reactions) to share that at the end of October, I will begin working as an RN on the University of Minnesota Medical Center’s Surgical/Oncology floor! I certainly think it’s no coincidence that my favorite cancer patients’ words found their way back into my heart the day before I got the offer.
So here I am again, feeling lucky.
I had a nursing professor who, while distributing the world’s most difficult exams would say, “There is no such thing as good luck…only good studying.” Sent me into panic mode every single time. Oh God. She’s right. Going to fail for sure… I’ve been wrestling with some guilt about the luck of my life these days; alerted to my privilege while in South Africa, and coming home to what seriously feels like a charmed life. I guess, in true YAGM fashion, I can admit that I’m still not exactly sure what to do or where to go with these feelings. But I’m starting to think that what Dr. Bokinski said really is the truth. This is something much bigger than good luck. I’m no theologian, but am pretty sure that God doesn’t work in such a way that good things happen only to those he chooses are the lucky ones. I’m pretty sure that this all-inclusive God chooses the most surprising people and changes their lives in the most surprising ways.
The only Lutheran pastor I obsess over almost as much as my dad is Nadia Bolz-Weber, founder of and pastor at House for all Sinners and Saints in Denver, CO. My dad once claimed from the pulpit to ‘know swear words you’ve probably never even heard of’, and Nadia says she swears like a truck driver. I think they potentially could have been besties if their paths crossed. I first heard Nadia speak at the 2012 Youth Ministry Network Extravaganza, and followed her blog religiously while serving in South Africa. I hung onto every word of her sermons, firstly because they were in English, but more importantly, because she’s incredible. She might want to vomit reading all of my musings about how ideal my life feels right now. But I think she would agree that whether you are wandering through one of the dark and violent neighborhoods of life, or have moved into one of those sickly perfect, white-picket-fence areas…Jesus is always your roommate (whether you recognize it or not.) I have just started reading her brilliant book called Pastrix: The Cranky, Beautiful Faith of a Sinner & Saint, in which she hits so many nails right on the head. She says,
“I can’t imagine that the God of the universe is limited to our ideas of God. I can’t imagine that God doesn’t reveal God’s self in countless ways outside of the symbol system of Christianity. In a way, I need a God who is bigger and more nimble and mysterious than what I could understand and contrive. Otherwise, it can feel like I am worshipping nothing more than my own ability to understand the divine.” (15)
Yes, yes and yes. This whole faith thing is so much bigger than I can even begin to articulate. It’s surprising and confusing and frustrating but sometimes, downright obnoxiously beautiful. So here I am, with a brand new set of colored pens, brushing up on my nursing knowledge, and continuing to breathe in all things beautiful around me. I am praying so hardcore that I don’t get evicted from this neighborhood of Gratitude as the pace of my life starts to speed up again.
And yes, Dr. Bokinski…you’re right. No such thing as good luck. Only good studying and a really good God.
All of my love…from Minnesota this time,
Rachel
“Well God Bless you all! And I say that with a stein of your favorite whatever raised in never ending gratitude to the one who set us all on this planet and filled our lives so richly! I propose a toast, to the Almighty God, universe maker, and lover of our Souls.”
-Tom Hunstad
Following is an excerpt from a blog post written in 2009 by the Mexico Country Coordinator for YAGM, Andrea Roske-Metcalfe (a YAGM alum herself).
10 Suggestions for Helping your Young Adult in Global Mission (YAGM) Return Home
1. Don’t ask the question, “So how was it?” Your YAGM cannot function in one-word answers right now, especially ones intended to sum up their entire year’s experience, and being asked to do so may cause them to start laughing or crying uncontrollably. Ask more specific questions, like “Who was your closest friend?” or “What did you do in your free time?” or “What as the food like?” or “Tell me about your typical day.”
2. If you wish to spend time with your YAGM, let them take the lead on where to go and what to do. Recognize that seemingly mundane rituals, like grocery shopping or going to the movies, may…
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I’m officially shifting gears into the next leg of this pilgrimage; heading home. As I pack up my room in Mabopane, I am reminded of just how much crap I came here with. I way over packed. At our opening retreat, we talked about how difficult it was to leave so much behind. I shared that it was hard saying goodbye to my friends and family, but confessed that otherwise, I pretty much packed everything I would ever need! The other YAGM gave me crap all year about the fact I packed a pair of earrings to go with any outfit, an outfit to go with any mood, and even an eyelash curler…sorry not sorry that some missionaries like to accessorize!
I posted a poem used during YAGM orientation in Chicago called, “Passover Remembered” by Alla Bozarth-Campbell. Echoing Jesus’ directions to his disciples, it begins:
“Pack nothing.
Bring only your determination to serve
and your willingness to be free.”
I pray that I’m doing a better job of following that encouragement this time around! Almost every pair of earrings I came with are now hanging on the earlobes of the beautiful woman at the crèche and the HIV/AIDS ministry. Many of the clothes I brought are being worn by the patients I visit each Tuesday. And my beloved colored pens are being used to document Church Council meeting minutes.
I’m not sharing all of this to elicit accolades for myself or pity for those who have received my things. I have simply learned time and again from the people of SA that, “sharing is caring,” and I’ve realized that it’s my turn to care.
A few girls from the Primary School who live on my block have been begging me all year to the room where I stay. Last week, I finally invited them in! After trying on my scarves, dancing around the Deanery building to AGAPE, and eating biscuits together; one of the girls ran back home to get a pair of her earrings to give me. Some call it karma, some say “what goes around comes around,” Jesus says “love your neighbour as you love me,” and now I say again that sharing truly is caring.
It was not easy to say goodbye to those beautiful booger faced kids and huge hearted teachers at Modisa Early Learning Centre. On my final day, each baby pooped at least twice, and all of the recently potty trained kids had a messy accident in their pants. They let the kids loose to run around and play as loud as they wanted. No rules, “…to celebrate Mama Rachel’s last day!” I danced and sang and changed poopie pants alllll day long! I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect farewell if I’d planned it myself.
One of the families I’ve spent a lot of time experiencing South Africa with surprised me with a farewell party! We ate lots and stayed up late singing and dancing around a fire in their back yard. So much fun and mutual gratitude was shared! On Sunday morning, I worshiped at their church, and was asked to read the Gospel for the day. (Luke 8:26-39). In brief, Jesus freaks out a bunch of people when he commands some unclean spirits out of a demonic man, and INTO a heard of pigs. (Who then drown themselves…uh, what?) Classic, sort of strange, but totally awesome Jesus moment. After all this happens, “The man from whom the demons had gone out begged that he might stay with him, but Jesus sent him away saying, “Return to your home and declare how much God has done for you!”
I’m not sure if I’m stretching this story a little bit too much to fit my own; but I sure feel for that guy, begging to stay just a little bit longer in the clarity of God’s goodness. And I definitely feel for him as he imagines how he’s possibly going to explain to his peeps at home all that God has done for him. I pray for patience and Grace from those who I will be returning to in “some few” days, as I do my best to share all of the experiences I’ve had!
I’ve already shared the many personalities I’ve acquired this year: Mama & Aus Rachel, Mricho, Kelebogile, Mmapula, Church Secretary and “wedding crasher.” Now, to add to the list: Soccer player, and GOAL SCOARER! For anyone who knows me at all, this is more than comical. The woman who I accompany each week for the HIV/AIDS ministry asked me to attend her Granny Soccer League! I expected to just take photos, but didn’t get off that easy! I stood on the red dirt, wearing ballet flats, dancing to the music from passing cars, screaming each time the ball reached me. I had way more fun than I ever did during my 2nd grade soccer career, during which I spent most of the minutes I played begging to be taken out! I’m fairly sure the grannies let me score the first goal of my lifetime. Again, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect way to end my year in South Africa. After the game, we celebrated with a braii (BBQ) and spent time together singing and laughing. (I also showed off my new Traditional dress, handmade just for me!)
It’s crazy to think that is likely my last blog post from South Africa. I’m surprised that I kept up blogging all year long – I’ve enjoyed it more than expected! It’s been wonderful to be able to share my experiences and lessons learned in this way. Remember that the story I have shared is only what I have seen from where I have stood. South Africa is a complex, beautiful country and I know that I only got a taste of all that it is. There is no doubt that I have learned a lot, grown a ton, and am not the same person that I left MN as. I appreciate all of the virtual love too much, and look forward to being near(er) to all of you soon. Love love love, Rachel
After posting my last blog, I spent the day at the Primary School across the road from where I stay. At the end of the day, one of my little Grade 5 friends pulled me away from the group I was chatting with. She took my hand and drug me toward the gate of the school. “Come on, Aus Rachel! Let’s go home.” She had never done this before, but must’ve just known that I needed a friend that day.
Kids often ask why I wrote “Gratitude” on my arm, and I always love the chance to talk about my dad and what he taught me about thanking God always. As we left the school yard, I remembered that this little girl had told me that her dad had also died. “Guess what?” I said. “Today would have been my dad’s 59th birthday!”
“Oh, Happy! But…hmm. How will you tell him Happy Birthday if you can’t go…Ah. What’s it called in English…” she searched for the right word.
“Oh, the grave?” I asked. What a great question, my darling.
At this point we had reached the gate of the church where I stay. My instinct was to turn and say goodbye, but I felt my acquired inner South African urge me not to. I kept walking, hand-in-hand with my little friend in her bright blue school uniform. That’s what people do here, walk each other home. Talk about accompaniment!
We proceeded down the road slowly, but her mouth moved a mile a minute. A rare occasion, really, since a lot of the kids in Primary School are just beginning to feel comfortable communicating in English. She told me all about the day she came home from school and learned that her dad had been beaten and killed. I didn’t follow all of what she was saying, but saw in her a reflection of myself. She just wanted to talk about her dad, long for him, share his story, and celebrate his life as well as the strength of her mom. She was eating up this opportunity, and I was taking it all in.
When we reached the halfway point between her house and mine, she stopped and turned to me. “Look how happy we are, Aus Rachel. To walk together and talk. …See you when you see me!!” I watched her run the rest of the way to her home, and as I stood there, I couldn’t stop smiling.
Too many children I meet here in South Africa don’t have fathers to celebrate with today. I lift each of them up to be surrounded in prayer, hoping that they too can find comfort in memories and the sharing of stories. I am grateful to be a wanaMoruti, pastor’s kid, this year while in South Africa. I have been reminded just how hectic and special the life of a pastor is! My Daddy Moruti has without a dount demonstrated how to be a faithful leader. And best of all, like my own dad, he always has a smile on his face and a giggle to share.
Grateful to have inherited so many goofy facial expressions!
“Storytime Mama Rachel?!”
It won’t be easy to quit wanting to be a dominant repository of truth. It is not easy to operate in obedience from weakness. It won’t be easy to put our desires for success on the back burner and our own ecclesiocentric mission to rest. But ultimately, though hard on our ego…it is infinitely more feasible and possible to put the responsibility of mission where it belongs.”
-Tom Hunstad
Soooo, my dad pretty much knew what was up.
In the 12 years since he died, I’ve always loved searching through his notes, sermons, emails and other writings. When I flip through the pages he wrote on, I seem to always find the perfect bit of wisdom and usually a good laugh…just what I need at that moment. Throughout this year, I have thought about my dad often and missed him terribly. I’m missing him double-time today, May 9th – his birthday! He sure knew how to party here on Earth….so I can only imagine the rage-er that he’s having up there with the big guy. I would give just about anything for a quick conversation him about mission, grace, gratitude, and where the party’s at.
This week, I came across a photo that I took of an essay he’d written while at Luther Seminary. Even though I’m not 100% sure what “ecclesiocentric” means, I decided that the above excerpt is too perfect not to share.
I’m pretty sure that he was writing about mission in the context of the operation of a church, but the message resonated with me as a mission-ary. As my dad so honestly warns; it has not been easy to put aside my own desire for success, perfection, and wanting to “make a difference,” in order to simply love my neighbour and let God handle the rest. I have no clever conclusion or cute moment from the crèche that helped me understand how to center my year of service outside of myself. I’m only offering an honest confession that I have yet to figure it out. To be honest, some days I struggle to love all of my neighbors. Some days, I’m really flipping tired of living outside of my comfort zone. Some days, I have a hard time making this year not about me. Some days, I give up completely on a making a difference, because no change is happening before my eyes. Yea, yea, yea, “…blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe…” Some days, that promise is easier to highlight in my bible than to truly find rest in.
A few weeks ago after a day of home visits with the HIV/AIDS ministry ladies, I wrote the following in my journal: “As we were walking along the long dirt road, I mostly just listened to the ladies talk. I really do enjoy listening to their laughs and super enthusiastic Tswana conversation. But today, I was SO tired and kind of bored. A journey goes faster when distracted by fun conversation. I asked Ruth to point out where in the distance our destination was, it made me feel better just to know. I thought about my future as a point along a dirt road…and my desire for a visual of where I’m headed. I’m not sure that God works that way. Yes – he has given me some annoying tugs, but I never seem to pay very close attention, brush them away. I really don’t know if God ever gives us a clear, no-doubt-about-it, this-totally-makes-sense vision. Not yet – but we’ll see, I guess. I pray that in these next few months I gather everything I need and want before leaving SA.”
I could probably whip out another parallel to the road to Emmaus after this dirt road story. But instead, I will end again without a cute conclusion. Just another honest confession that I really kind of suck at giving up control of my life. I have gathered many experiences and moments that I will bring back with me, and I can only hope that as I slowly unpack them, the pieces will fall into place. I ask for your prayers that my heart and mind don’t wander too quickly towards what’s coming after SA. I still have time. I pray that I can breathe it ALL in, before taking the next step.
My dad has been in my thoughts like crazy these days, and my mom has also. I certainly don’t need Mothers’ Day to remind me to be grateful for all that my mom is to me, but the upcoming holiday has brought our relationship to the forefront of my thoughts. Among countless other things, she has shown me what living a faithful, grateful life looks like. We both wish we would have been born as Mother Teresa instead of ourselves, but to me – she is greater than Mother T. The frequency of our conversations has decreased dramatically this year due to different time zones and international fees. But her constant love and support have not dwindled a bit.
I’m also especially grateful this Mothers’ Day weekend for all of the women here in Mabopane who have loved me as if I were their own. Refer to my latest newsletter for visuals of the wonderful ladies who have given me advice, pushed me, listened to and encouraged me, called me “baby girl,” and made sure that I never run short of hugs and kisses.
One such woman is Mama D.K., a fellow teacher at the crèche who has taught me a multitude of lessons about life in this country of “Ubuntu.” I sort of invited myself to spend the weekend with her and her family a few weeks back. She gladly accepted, and hosted me graciously. In South Africa, a woman often refers not only to her biological offspring as children, but calls her nieces, nephews, and any others who she might willingly take in (including YAGM who invite themselves in) daughter or son. Resources and love are spread out to as many children as circumstances require…neither seeming to run out. What an honor it was to be introduced all weekend as, “Kelebogile. My first born. My daughter.”
So there you go…a series of fairly disconnected thoughts and experiences, compiled into a blog post, without a cute conclusion. Happy Birthday Dad! Happy Mothers’ Day too all it concerns! Peace and love and happy days to each of you, my blog-followers and wonderful supporters.
A fellow South Africa YAGM wrote in his own blog that taxi riding in SA can truly be a spiritual experience. I have to agree. Today I dropped off Alex (another YAGM who visited me this weekend) at the bus station, went to the mall, and then returned to Mabopane. It might sound simple, but I rode in SEVEN different taxis to achieve it! Not an easy task…and not a journey made without an elevated heart rate at times. On the last leg of the ride, two beautiful little girls and their dad crawled into the back seat of the taxi with me, filling the 9 passenger vehicle with 10 bodies (plus our shopping bags and groceries). I scooted as close as I could to the open window to make room on the mangled leather seat. It took no more than a minute for the young girl closest to me to cuddle under my arm, and fall asleep. As my new friend drifted into dream-land, her body heat warmed my side and the beauty of the moment warmed my heart. A spiritual experience, indeed!
In that moment, I was feeling so proud of myself for successfully navigating the taxi system across all corners of Pretoria and Mabopane. As I recollect the day now though, I realize that I did not accomplish it unaccompanied. I can recall the face of a gracious stranger at each point in my journey who I couldn’t have done it without. Seven taxis. Seven faces.
Yesterday, Alex and I attended the memorial service of a woman who I had visited a few times throughout her battle with kidney cancer. We stood lining the street with other members of Modisa Lutheran Church, waiting for Aus Lizzie’s body to return to her home from the mortuary. While we were waiting, Alex pointed to a full rainbow that had appeared through the stormy looking clouds behind us. “Ga ayo mathata,” we sang, “No problems,” for we have God on our side.
Moruti spoke at the service on a familiar and favorite passage of mine — the walk to Emmaus. In this post-Easter story, a couple of Jesus’ disciples are too caught up in their own sorrows to realize that Jesus was literally walking beside them. I mean, you can’t blame them. They saw him sentenced to death and crucified on the cross, how could they believe he had truly risen to new life!? It wasn’t until the disciples ate a meal with Jesus that their “eyes were opened and they recognized him.” (Luke 24:31) Jesus really does know the way into the human heart…food!! Moruti invited us last night to not become so carried away by our own distress that we lose sight of Jesus’ everlasting presence in our lives.
It’s wonderful to be reminded that through the ups and downs of feeling comfortable and confident, and lost and lonely…I’m not walking alone. I am trying to etch into my memory the image of the seven people who I met along my ‘ride to Emmaus’ today. As I do, I’m also trying to wrap my head around the fact that Jesus was somewhere in each of those beautiful faces, and the Holy Spirit was filling any extra space that was left in the jam packed vehicles in which I rode.
❤ Rachel
What a beautiful Easter Sunday in South Africa. One of the women I work with at the pre-school was inducted into the Women’s Prayer League, and her children were baptized. Lots of singing and dancing, and a few tears of joy! He is RISEN, INDEED!
Happy Easter!
Mamane and I after the induction. What a special day!
My host mom, placing the Women’s Prayer League pin.
“Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” (John 12:1-3)
I know I’m a little behind, but please allow me to back up a bit before entering into the Holy Week that snuck up on me so fast! I experienced yet another 5+ hour church service last Sunday, but was able to share it this time with my mom and uncle! How lovely it was to commune, pray, sing and dance with Mama Lynn and Rangwane David. (They didn’t get the FULL picture since ELCSA Lutherans cut down on singing, clapping and dancing during Lent – the ultimate spiritual practice if you ask me!)
The Deputy Dean of the Moretele Circuit which I am hosted by gave the sermon, and through the gracious translation of a pastor sitting next to us, painted an image of faith that has been on my mind all week. In this part of the Lenten story, the soon-to-be-betrayer Judas wonders why Mary would massage such top notch perfume into Jesus’ stinky feet. Jesus responds with something like, “Shhh. Quit asking questions and let her be.” Moruti’s interpretation of this dinner party of sorts was beautiful, and left my heart wrestling with the following things:
First, that I too must bring my best to God, as Mary did. Whether it’s the dollars or rand I put in the offering plate or the energy I put into building relationships, God does not ask me to be cheap skate. I’m all about good deals, but faith is something to go all out on.
Second, that when I fully put my trust in God, the aroma of that belief fills the space around me for others to breathe in and enjoy. When I choose to be a faithful servant, my whole being will radiate the scent of God’s love. (Including my hair!?)
And last, that Jesus’ perfume never fades. A bottle of cologne runs out after a month or two, but God’s grace is forever. The most monate, delicious fragrance of unconditional love comes to us at no cost, through Jesus’ dying on the cross. Oh, how wonderful it is.
Sitting between my mom and David during worship made Moruti’s message even more special. I had written them an email saying how excited I was to actually smell their perfume and cologne when they arrived! I know that’s a strange thing to look forward to…but how beautiful of an image it is now! Scent is a powerful thing. It bonds a newborn to their mother, brings lovers together, and elicits feelings of comfort and familiarity. The fragrance of faith is a powerful, pungent thing too.
Mama Lynn and Rangwane are back in the USA after a wonderful week spent in South Africa. Having them here was a wonderful opportunity to share this wild journey that I am on; and made me feel evermore lucky to have so much support from afar. The waterworks that occurred when they left weren’t out of sadness, but spoke the feelings of gratitude that I couldn’t quite put into words. I don’t think I say it enough to my community here OR the people that I left behind at home…so…KEALEBOGA! THANK YOU! I pray that the aroma of the Holy Spirit brings each of you comfort amidst the uneasiness of Holy Week.
Love,
Rachel
Mother, Daughter, Elephant
“Hello, I’m your new teacher. David Hunstad.”
Each Tuesday, “from 8:00” (meaning anytime after 8:00) I receive a phone call. “Rachel! Come! I’m on the taxi!” I rush up the road to the small local market where the shared taxis pass through my neighborhood. My brisk pace, skin color, and Tswana greeting elicit giggles and stares from those that I pass. I wave to my left at the crèche children who scream, “MAMA RACHEL!” and to my right at the primary school kids who scream, “AUS RACHEL!” Once I make it to the main road, I wait at the corner, shielding the hot sun with my umbrella and wiping beads of sweat off of my forehead. Taxis fly by with their horns hooting and hand signals flashing. No stress about doing the correct hand signals to flag down the correct taxi. On Tuesdays… I just wait. Eventually – a taxi screeches to a halt in front of me and a warm voice from inside yells, “Rachel, my baby! Get in!” I crawl into the rickety 9 passenger vehicle, bringing about more surprised giggles as I hug Mme Moruti and show off my Tswana greeting to the others who have already boarded.
This is how I get ‘picked up’ each week for my time spent with the HIV/AIDS ministry ladies. We arrive in the rural community of Wintervelt, meeting our third counterpart and continuing our journey by foot (passing the occasional goat along the way.) My love for Tuesdays grows each week as I continue to explore the power of presence in times of trial and chronic illness. In the last few weeks, I have seen both extremes of the quality of life that those who are HIV+ experience.
The first was in the face of a middle-aged man. He appeared weary, weak and discouraged, shivering despite the warmth of the sun. He had had quite the week, battling an uncontrollable “running stomach,” fatigue, and confusion. His visit to the clinic the previous day was the first time that his wife had heard of his HIV+ status. The virus had been hiding until this point, unrecognizable to the naked eye…and he kept it that way. But now, his shame and fear were out in the open, revealed by the full blown AIDS related illnesses that had recently hit.
I witnessed the other extreme in the face of a middle-aged woman. She was jolly, full of belly laughs, and proudly showed off her plastic bag full of medications. Two years ago, she was so “terribly ill” that her 17 year old son had quit school in order care for her. When we arrived this week, she was busy bathing her grandchild and sprung up from the floor to greet us all with a hug and ear to ear grin. She wasn’t shy to share her clinic card with me, displaying her medication regiment and check-ups. When I told her how great she looked, she motioned to her pills and replied with, “It’s the ARV’s!”
The majority of both of these stories weren’t translated and explained to me until after our visits, as we walked along the dirt roads to see the next patient. For most of each of the visits, I hadn’t a clue what was being said and in turn, had nothing TO SAY. My eagerness to learn and help and use my gifts as a Registered Nurse made this all too frustrating for me.
This week, I have been busy reading Henri Nouwen’s, “Out of Solitude.” In this short collection of meditations, he reflects on what it means to care. He says,
“Still, when we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerated not-knowing, not-curing, not-healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”
Well…I sort of had no choice but to be silent. Two weeks ago in the front yard of that man’s home, I looked right at the face of despair and touched the hands of confusion. And in that moment, had to embrace my very own powerlessness. I arrived at his home (via a foreign form of transportation) with little knowledge, no cure, and no healing power. But we sat in solidarity, both of us uncomfortably restless on rusty lawn chairs, not quite sure what was coming next.
Although the ladies that I accompany do come with advice, guidance, and wisdom, I know with all my heart that it is their ability to be silent and share in others’ pain that make their ministry so powerful. I rarely understand what is being said, but recognize the most beautiful active listening imaginable. I wish I could bottle up the sincere, “ooooh” and “mmmm,” that emanate from their souls as they intently listen to the joys and sorrows of their patients.
This is a lesson that I am, and will continue to be grateful for.
I think and wonder and panic about my RN qualifications often. What will I do when I return to the US? Don’t ask me yet. But I know that this new perspective on human despair, wellness, and joy will come with me in whatever I do.
“To care means to first of all empty our own cup and allow the other to come close to us. It means to take away the many barriers which prevent us from entering into communion with the other. When we dare to care, then we discover that nothing human is foreign to us, but that all the hatred and love, cruelty and compassion, fear and joy can be found in our own hearts.”
-Henri Nouwen, “Out of Solitude”
all my love, Rachel
Breathe it all in... 