Happy 4th of July!
While
I’m looking forward to the delicious food and loud fireworks that are here to
help us Americans celebrate Independence Day, today actually marks 1 year since
I returned home from Chad, so this long weekend has been a natural time to
reflect on the past two years, my year spent there and the year since I left
it. Now it’s hitting me that for one whole year I haven’t seen a single person
who was with me during that time. No one who met even one of the individuals I
called a friend, student, or “Maman.” No one who looked out on the same sometimes
harsh and sometimes breathtaking landscapes, who heard the same sounds, who
experienced the same heat, who juggled the same feelings of joy, isolation,
independence, claustrophobia, love, gratitude, blah blah blah. I have no reason
to feel shocked by this, as it’s exactly what was to be expected when I
embarked on a year of life in a small city in Chad, and yet I feel it earns me
the right to take to my soapbox today and share some reflections with you.
I don’t
talk very much about my year in Chad. It’s not to say that friends don’t ask
from time to time. But part of the problem is that I hate the sounds of myself
talking about it. I hate how flat my descriptions fall and how, in trying to be
honest and pragmatic, I say chipped, negative things about the challenges and
lessons I learned. I detest saying hackneyed, unimaginative stuff about all the
“beautiful, generous people I met” and the children I taught who ended up being
some of my best friends and most patient teachers. I fear that by saying
anything wonderful and romantic about my time, I lump my experience in with
those of everyone who’s ever done a one-week service trip abroad, but by dwelling
on anything else does a disservice to my community there.
This
is something that might get easier as the experience drifts further and further
behind me. I will feel more comfortable saying broad, happy things because I
won’t feel the palpable presence of my relationships and emotions. I can speak
about them from a distance, which is terrifying to understand. But that’s what
happens. Experiences become memories if we’re lucky, and they are forgotten
otherwise. I really had to come to terms with this last year whenever I wanted
to hold onto something that was really important to me but knew I’d have no one
to reminisce with about it. For example, last June, after school had finished
for the year, I was biking home from choir practice when I heard someone shout,
“Madeleine!” I turned and saw a little boy from my school selling hard boiled
eggs along the road. I skidded to a stop and went over to say hello. I bought
and egg and we smiled and I asked him how he was doing. As I finished my bike ride
I could not stop smiling and my heart felt so full. I sat down a little later
and included that snippet in my journal. There was nothing profound about that
moment but I was so happy to see him again and to know that he lived right
there, and that we were still friends and that I might even see him again
before I left.
That
month, I passed him several times selling eggs on the street. Each time I
cheered internally. “Last time wasn’t the last time I’ll ever see him! But maybe
this will be the last time. I’ll have to remember this.” I had these thoughts
with all of my students and friends. I tried to maintain mental snapshots of
the last times I would see them. I went back into my journal sometimes and
documented the last memories I had of people, often when I didn’t realize it
would be the last time. I started collecting interactions like precious stones.
Why
was this such an important practice for me? Looking over my journal this
weekend, I think the reason lies in a journal entry I wrote during our one-week
retreat in Ethiopia. I had been struggling to understand my role for the year.
I was working with an international development organization, but I felt like
every day I was just playing it by ear. I didn't know if I was doing my job well. I felt like everybody
else was doing a better job of building up their organizations, working to
improve infrastructure and systems. They had a critical eye towards our partner
organizations and wanted to leave these organizations in a better place than
they found them. I, on the other hand, was this Rando who did not train to be a
teacher, did not intend to go into the teaching field, failed to maintain any
semblance of control in the classroom, and spent hours a day coloring and doing
“Auto-Rap” with students on my iPad. I didn’t know if my job as a teacher and
my broader position as an American volunteer in Africa was fundamentally
positive, negative, or plain selfish.
During retreat, I had a revelation. It was during a time of discussion and reflection about our roles and responsibilities, while we were discussing how to convey to people why we wanted or needed to be halfway around the world to do our jobs when there was plenty to be done in our own backyards. Suddenly I thought of the hymn “Here in the place” that I sang so much growing up. Basically the hymn says that Heaven can be “here in this space” rather than somewhere “lightyears away.” I’d sung this a thousand times, including with my singing group “Les Semeurs” in Chad. But suddenly on a personal level I understood that I had experienced snippets of Heaven countless times with my friends and family in Moundou. Heaven came in the form of a familiar, happy flutter in my soul, like the one I felt when I saw my student selling eggs and waving to me. It came every single time one of my students raised their hand and answered a question in English. It was there each time Maman Kiri or a caretaker at my school raised her eyebrows at me and started to dance, imploring me to join in. I felt it every time I heard the laughter of a child outside the door of my house and I knew exactly who it was and how their eyes probably looked in that moment. Those moments were little snapshots of Heaven.
I'm not saying I
needed to travel around the world to experience these happy moments. And I
definitely don't think anybody in Chad needed me to come smile at them or dance
with them, or lay out a mat on my porch and play BINGO with them. I don't mean to suggest I was feeling aggressively happy or playful for much of the time I was away.
What I want to say is
that everyone should understand the role they play every day in making life
better or worse for others. We are so prone to plan for the future, and the
best of us focus so much energy on cultivating ourselves, our families, our
organizations, and our communities to be better, healthier, bigger, and
stronger down the road. We want to have a lasting impact. We want to strategize
and learn. That's all amazing and necessary.
The thing is we cannot
know what lasting impact we will have on our communities, if any. We don’t know
if our long-term efforts will succeed or crash. We don’t even know who will be around
to share in our joys and triumphs. That’s not to say we shouldn’t try each and
every day to build up our communities and be smart. But let’s also keep in mind
what we do know. What we know is that we are all on this planet for a finite
amount of time. And wherever we are, we can make that place Heaven, if only for
a moment.
A year after I’ve
returned from Chad, I see something pretty clearly. Last year was a time when I
had very little control over my life and I relied so much on the kindness and
grace of other people. I could so easily fall into slumps of feeling isolated
and disconnected. Being so vulnerable, I did a much better job of treating
people well, of working tirelessly to make other people feel happy and
appreciated and respected. I was acutely aware of the moments when life was
just plain beautiful and I appreciated people in a way that is much harder for
me to do when I’m comfortable on my own continent. I went to bed at night
replaying the smallest smiles and handshakes that people gave me. I understood
that someone patting a space next to them on a mat was as important to me as a
good meal. I soaked up touch and music like a dry, thirsty sponge. I am
thankful to everyone I met in Chad who shared spectacular, small moments with
me… some that I have sadly already forgotten and others that I will always
remember. Who knows if we will see each other again, but I hold the snapshots
close to me like precious stones.
