Well, this is the final week. I
have been thinking, sometimes dreading and sometimes dreaming, about this
moment since before I left the States. And now the final days, final hours, are
passing by. It is a very strange feeling. It has taken me 3 days to try to scribble
this out and its time just to post it now and risk sounding like a crazy
person.
I spent the first two weeks of July
in Moundou drinking in the last moments of my Chadian life. I said a variety of
goodbyes (more on that later) and caught the early bus up to N’djamena on
Sunday. Now I am staying with other MCC peoples, finishing up last minute
projects, and trying to process this transition.
I think every SALTer blogging about
leaving their countries is probably using the word “bittersweet.” I’d use it
too, but it only describes two of the flavors.
From the beginning of my term, I
used the lyrics of My Shepherd Will
Supply My Need to get through rough days. I hung the words on my wall and
hummed them almost constantly the first week in Moundou. My Shepherd will supply my need…He leads me…in paths of truth and grace.
I honestly repeated these lyrics over and over to keep myself from panicking.
And then life got little easier and the words changed. It became all my works be praise and my cup with blessings overflows, and I
worked really hard to keep this mentality. I tried not to think about the
things I missed about home and focus on the mountain of blessings I was
experiencing here.
Even up to last week, I made the
decision to be intentional about being in the moment – be happy about going
home, yes, but don’t throw away opportunities or experiences even if they are
emotionally hard at this point. I bounced around Moundou seeing friends,
playing VB, singing and playing guitar, eating avocados, and dominating at UNO.
There was so much to do that I didn’t let myself get depressed about goodbyes
(with a few exceptions – but I’m human). They were wonderful last weeks.
Then my last evening at home
suddenly appeared, my bags were packed, and my walls were bare. I said au revoir to my closest friends even
though it did not seem real and set my alarm for 4am feeling numb. And then the
next morning I left before most of my Chadian home was awake.
It’s a little hard to explain how I
feel now. There seems to be a constant emotional weight on my body that I
sometimes forget is there. Like wearing a heavy backpack for six hours and
every once in a while realizing the straps are cutting into your neck and
shoulders. As long as your keep busy it doesn’t matter, but when you have a
moment to just stand, weight takes its toll. But I love what is in my backpack
and I am not ready to set it down quite yet, so I will take the moments of
“remembering ache” for a little longer.
What makes this goodbye hard is its
finality. It has been hard for me to communicate with loved ones in the US this
year and I have money. For my family
and friends in Chad, the people that physically, emotionally, and spiritually
took care of me for an entire year, calling the States is not financially
feasible. Skype is impossible and internet is slow and expensive. It takes 3
months for a letter to reach the states if it doesn’t get lost (which they do
half of the time). I’ve had moments of complete panic when I realize I really
might never contact some of these people again. I’ve fallen in love with this
hot, rustic place and I fallen harder for the people. Goodbyes are difficult.
But let’s look at the glass half
full. I have had a good year. I made it through a year in Chad, and once you
have lived here for a while that becomes a big accomplishment. I learned to
love the good parts and learn from, or ignore, the bad parts. I’ve built
relationships that stretched my already full heart like a Glad Bag, and with
those people I have built memories that will stay nestled in my heart forever.
I have been pushed past my limits and surprised myself with my accomplishments.
I learned humility and gratitude on a whole new level, and discovered the
courage it takes to let others take care of you. I have grown on a diet of
blessings and I am determined not to lose that growth after I go home.
I am going to mourn this departure
for a while, because this really is my other home, and it is going to be rough,
but I am also the kind of person that lives in the present and prepares for the
near future. I am at the point where I can allow myself to miss home home. And
I do miss it.
I miss my parents. I miss my
brother and sister and people who understand my jokes. I miss English. I miss
driving. I miss my wonderful friends. I miss singing really loudly in my car. I
miss trash cans. I miss faucets. I miss jeans and tank tops. I miss being
inconspicuous. I miss the farm. I miss electricity. I miss drinking out of a
cup instead of a water bottle. I miss normal cuts of meat. I miss drinking
fountains. I miss my grandparents, my supportive aunts and uncles and cousins.
I miss playing piano. I miss grass. I miss unlimited texting and phone calls
that work. I miss cheese. I miss sandwich meat. I miss ice cream. I miss
baking. I miss the prairie – a world without brick walls or compounds. I miss
harmless mosquitoes and days that don’t start with malaria medication. I miss
my church. I miss being clean. I miss Freeman and the people that make it home.
I miss the blonde boy who works at Jamboree. I miss being comfortable, not just
physically, but on every level.
I always stood out a little in Chad.
My accent, my skin color, my behavior was different, and although I became part
of a family here, I wasn’t often completely
at ease. Do I shake hands when I say goodbye? Do I walk them to the door, or to
the gate, or to the road? Should I do the little bow thing that women do, or
does that promote gender inequality? How much do I change to fit in and how
much is acceptable as is? As I was always the guest, I washed my hands first,
sat in the only chair while my elders sat on mats, and ate the chicken gizzard
until I told my host mother that Papa Joe could have the honor. I was mentally
exhausted at the end of the day just from trying not to accidentally do something
culturally insensitive or embarrassing. And if I did slip up, everyone would
know because I was always on display.
But now I am going back to a world
where I understand my place a little bit, and I am looking forward to that
comfort. Chad has changed me and will continue to shape my perceptions of
pretty much everything, and I wouldn’t trade this experience. I am extremely
grateful for every accomplishment and challenge, but I looking forward to a
respite. A settled rest, you might
say. No more a stranger, nor a guest, but
like a child at home. Moundou
has found a permanent place in my heart, and I will desperately miss my
students, my Chadian family, my friends, the music, the mangoes, the motos, and
those Chadian laughs that always made me laugh along. I am happy (and sad) to
miss those thing, but I am also happy to be going the other direction. I am
coming home.
In case you want to be reminded of the words...
Jehovah is His Name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways,
And leads me, for His mercy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death
Thy presence is my stay;
One word of Thy supporting breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thine oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode,
And all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.
