I'm Just Sayin'

Yesterday, I told my counselor I feel empty. Depleted. I have poured forth so much grief and sadness over the past several weeks, that I just feel drained.

And she told me that was okay. That it was okay to pour it all out. That now I’m in a place where I can refill.

Grieving, for me, is a dark, barren, sad place. I’ve used this analogy before, but I often equate grieving to wrapping myself in a heavy, scratchy blanket. And at some point, that damned blanket is just too much.

But I’ve never been one to just throw the blanket off. I peel back one corner and poke out my hand–praying that someone will be there to grab it. Push back a little more, and the whole arm is out.

And eventually, I push my face out into the light. And I blink in the sunlight. My eyes ache. Everything looks fuzzy. My head hurts.

But the sun. It feels so good on my face.

A week after Akouvi died, I emailed Dela in Togo and asked her for the names of a few children from Akouvi’s project who needed a sponsor. I wanted to honor Akouvi’s memory by sponsoring another child. And I think I also wanted to fill that gaping hole she had left.

The list came quickly. Three little girls. I was drawn to one of their pictures. I don’t know why—just like I don’t know why I was drawn to Akouvi. But then I read the short description Dela had sent. Nadege has health problems. She’s spent her life in and out of the hospital.

And I felt my throat close up.

I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to invest and love and then hurt and grieve. I poured out my fears to a friend, and she urged me to wait, to pray. It had only been a week.

So I did. I waited, but didn’t really expect any kind of confirmation. I felt alone and angry and confused.

But today, in a devotion time at work, God spoke. He spoke through a random parable about a fig tree. A tree that had produced no fruit in years. The owner of the vineyard was ready to chop it down. The tender of the vineyard urged him to wait. Let me nurture the tree for a year, he implored. And then, if there is still no fruit, do with it what you will.

And there the parable ended. Where was the next verse. The verse saying that the next year the tree produced fruit. That it grew and flourished and the master was pleased?

It wasn’t there.

The tender of the tree would spend the next year nurturing and pruning and fertilizing the tree. But the thing is, he had no guarantees.

And when I began sponsoring Akouvi, I had no guarantees. God called me to do it—God showed her to me, softened my heart to her. And in less than a year, she was gone. There were fruits of our relationship, but the harvest was gone much faster than I had ever imagined.

God calls me to relationship—but without guarantees. I thought Akouvi would grow up, graduate, and change her country.

Akouvi died at 8-years-old in the first grade. And she changed my life.

So today, I said that I was willing to sponsor Nedege. If she’s still available, I will form a new relationship with another little girl in a small dusty town in Togo. I will pray for her health. But I will have no guarantees.

It’s terrifying.

But I haven’t.

I was supposed to post a funny post today.

But I can’t.

My heart shouldn’t clench every time I see Akouvi’s name.

But it does.

So, you get to see some more processing today. Don’t feel like you have to read this. I know that grieving with me is not a fun process. But I appreciate it that you do.

A lot of people have asked how Akouvi died, and what happened. A poor friend asked in an email today, and she was greeted with this word spew of a response. I thought I would just repost it on here for those of you who have asked.

When I first met Akouvi, I was captivated by more than her eyes and her smile. At lunchtime, the photographer on the trip and I noticed that this adorable little girl with the too-big dress was sitting alone, crying, while everyone else ate their plates of chicken and rice. Our interpreter was occupied, and we couldn’t figure out what was going on. So the photographer got Akouvi a plate and handed it to her. She put it down next to her, and continued to cry. In a few minutes, an adult whisked the still-full plate away.

Finally we found out that Akouvi can’t have salt. We were told she was “allergic” to it, but I assumed it was more of a situation where her body, specifically her kidneys, can’t properly process sodium. And in their effort to keep Akouvi healthy, when they had food which contained salt, she couldn’t have any. I completely understand that they were trying to help, but we talked to them about the fact that they could take some food out for her before it was seasoned. I actually found out, after I began sponsoring her, that they began doing that.

About a week before Akouvi died (gosh, it’s seriously still hard to write that), I received word from my friend, Dela, who works in the Compassion Togo office, that Akouvi was in the hospital. Dela had gone to visit her, and said that they thought she was getting better. As late as the Saturday before she died, they were talking about when they would discharge her. Apparently, her health declined rapidly, and her body was retaining more and more fluid. She was also being treated for malaria, and I think her body just gave out. The official cause of her death, as far as I know, is kidney failure.

You know, I think I sometimes lose sight of how powerful an enemy poverty is. I was lulled into this false security that, because Akouvi was in Compassion, and because she was being treated in the hospital, she would be okay. Forgetting that she was in a hospital in a third-world country. Losing sight of how serious her sickness was. I’ve even thought lately about Akouvi versus a child here. Children here know what they’re allergic to, know what foods they can’t eat, and they will refuse those foods when they’re offered.

But a child like Akouvi? If you were starving, if you hadn’t eaten in days, would you refuse food because it had salt? Because you knew it would make you sick? Would sickness be an easier choice than starvation? I can’t imagine what that choice must have been like for her.

And I hate that she ever had to make it.

(Just one final note–I’ve let a lot of you know this, but for those who don’t, I am collecting money to give Akouvi’s family a financial gift through Compassion. More than likely, this gift will be used to defray her medical and funeral costs. If you’re interested in giving, you can do so through paypal.com, by making a payment to bcgal80@yahoo.com.)

Nine months ago, I met Akouvi.

When I walked into the hot, dusty church in Togo, my eyes found her. As if they had always been looking for her. She was petite, much smaller than the rest of the children in her group. Her brightly colored dress was too large, and one sleeve constantly slipped off of her shoulder.

I’ve tried to identify what it was about her. She had such serious eyes. Eyes that had seen too much.

But her smile. I couldn’t get over it. I made silly faces at her, trying to draw out a grin. And when she rewarded me with one—I literally felt like my heart got bigger, more full.

When I arrived back to my office the next week, I poured over pictures of the children from that project, looking for those eyes. And when I found her, saw that she wasn’t sponsored, I knew what I had to do. I was on the phone with a Compassion representative in seconds. I didn’t check my bank account or my budget. I just knew I had to sponsor her.

In my first letter, I told her that I had met her, and asked her if she remembered me. She did. I’m sure that dusty little church hadn’t seen many white visitors. I sent her pictures of snowy Colorado, and she drew me pictures of mangoes and crooked houses.

I can’t explain how one comes to love a child who they hardly know. But I can say that I felt like Akouvi was part of my family. I loved her. And so often in her letters, she told me that she loved me too.

I don’t think I understood the depth of my love for her until February 23. That’s the day that I found out Akouvi had died. That’s the day I felt like something had cracked open inside of me, filling me with red-hot grief. Sadness that burned so fiercely that even my tears could not extinguish it.

Eight-year-old little girls are not supposed to die.

They are supposed to play with their friends and sing silly songs. They are not supposed to be carried away from the hospital by their grieving family to the village cemetery.

I don’t know what grieving Akouvi should look like. I can’t go to her funeral, or carry a casserole to her home. I can’t hug her mother, or comfort her sister.

All I can do is cling to the hope that she is in a better place. Believe that in her final days, she was surrounded by people who loved her. People who had done absolutely everything in their power to save her.  Believe that she passed from this world, immediately into the arms of her Father. That poverty and sickness are not even memories for her anymore.

I know Akouvi is healed and whole now. I am so incredibly blessed that she was part of my life for 9 months. But the reality that we live in a fallen world, where little girls die, is heavy on my heart right now.

Akouvi, you are missed. Keep smiling sweet girl.

And I will try to smile with you.

I have a confession to make.

Sometimes, I worry that I’m not a very good writer.

Don’t get me wrong. I like to write. I’ve often been told I’m a good writer. But I’ve only worked in one very narrow realm. I’ve only worked at ministries. I’ve always had a very specific audience that I was writing for.

Recently, I began working on my application for a master’s program. And all sorts of doubts and fears have cropped up. For the program, I’m supposed to turn in 25 pages of creative non-fiction as part of the application progress. And the more I look through my writing, the more I edit my pieces, the more I worry that it’s just not good enough.

I’m scared that I will send my writing in, and they will look at it, and wonder why I’ve even bothered to apply. Afraid that I’ll be like one of those singers on American Idol whom everyone has told they’re a great singer…and then, not so much.

And it’s terrifying to think that the one thing you’ve always believed you’re good at…is something you’re not really good at at all.

But surely, it’s not so bad as all that.

Right?

(Just so this won’t appear to be a post where I’m just BEGGING for people to leave comments about what a great writer I am, I’m just going to turn off the comments )

I am not a morning person.

That’s not some cliche, trite statement. If you know me, you understand the weight and gravity of that statement.

I try. Goodness knows I try. I even get up early and take sunrise pictures.

And look. That picture right there? Beautiful and awe-inspiring, and I love that I got up to take it.

But y’all. It was early! Why can’t that happen at noon?!?

Lately, my early-morning-cranky-pants-syndrome has been a problem. Because, you see, I’m trying to work out more. And I never seem to have evenings free anymore. So, mornings it is.

I thought I had a great plan. My cousin, who lives in Virginia, agreed to call me at 8:15 her time–6:15 my time. My own personal wake-up call/early morning pep talk.

And the first time she did it–I thought I had finally figured out the secret! Tuesday night I took some Benadryl at 8, and by 10, I was fast asleep. When she called I felt refreshed–tired yes, but I could function. Well, at least for me, it was functioning. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Me: *mumble mumble hello mumble*
Cousin: GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE.
Me: Seriously?
Cousin: Are you up?
Me: No.
*pause*
Cousin: ARE YOU UP NOW.
Me: Oh my gosh, yes, just shut up.

See? I was like a ray of happiness shooting out of a unicorn’s rear. It was inspiring.

But then, this morning happened. I didn’t take Benadryl last night, so I lay in bed, tossing and turning and watching the time go from 10, to 11, to midnight.

And then, this morning. The call.

*most annoying ringing EVAH!*
Me: I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO.
Cousin: Wow. You are cranky, huh.
Me: Shut up.
Cousin: Are you even going to get up?
Me: You can’t make me.
*pause*
Cousin: Right. If you’re just going to whine and complain, I’m going to hang up.
Me: I don’t even care.
Cousin: *silence*

So, yeah. I didn’t go to the gym this morning. But I’m going to keep trying. But I have a feeling I may go through wake-up callers pretty quickly.

Anybody up for the challenge?

My friend Priya and I crouched behind the couch. We were breathing heavily. Okay, I was breathing heavily. She’s 13!

In front of us was a pile of socks and a Nerf gun with half of the ammo missing.

“What do we do now?” I whispered. She peaked around the corner, looking for her brother–our sworn enemy in the Sock War.

“I think we need to make a run for it,” she whispered back, stuffing her pockets with socks. I followed suit. With a whoop, we both sprinted towards the stairs, followed closely by her brother, who had my favorite trouser socks clutched in his hand.

At the top of the stairs, we all collapsed in laughter. “You should blog about this,” said Priya.

And then she paused.

“Oh. Never mind. You should blog about everything that’s going on in Haiti. Right?”

And there it was. The very reason I havent’ blogged since January 12. The devestation in Haiti has felt all-consuming. Because of the nature of my work with Compassion International, natural disasters are not a fleeting thought. As with all of my co-workers, it is something that we’re consumed with 40 hours a week. And then at night, we lie in bed, thinking about those who are lost, thinking about those who are suffering, thinking about the months and years of rebuilding that will come.

It’s hard to understand why something like this happened. Why it happened in Haiti. They had nothing. And now they have less than nothing. How is that even possible?

I don’t even know what to say in the wake of the earthquake in Haiti. Words feel inadequate. And for a writer, that is a scary, uncertain feeling. I’ve done some journaling, and I may share some of that later. But for now, I need to write. I need to write about Haiti. But I also need to write about the day-to-day things in my life. The silly things. The mundane things.

And I have to remind myself that even when I’m not writing about Haiti, I am writing as a person whose heart is heavy for Haiti.

Traveling during the holidays is an adventure. I find that it’s easier to travel to Africa in the summer than it is to Virginia in the winter. Go figure. And this year was no exception. So here, in no particular order, are the travel lessons I learned this Christmas. May you read them, laugh at them, and pray that your luck will not be like mine!

• Look, I know that 12 inches of snow is a lot. I get that. But how is it that an airplane cannot make it through a snowfall that an SUV can? I mean, it’s tons of metal that can FLY THROUGH THE AIR. But it can’t get through a foot of snow. I just…I don’t understand.
• When you book a hotel room, make sure you write down the address. Or you will take the shuttle to the wrong hotel. And when you find that out, you might cry. And some people are not sympathetic when you cry.
• When you don’t correct your taxi driver about the fact that you don’t have a boyfriend, you will spend a 30-minute cab ride talking about said imaginary boyfriend. And then you will feel like a loser.
• The JFK airport will bring you food and drinks TO YOUR GATE. It is the epitome of laziness. And stinkin’ brilliant!
• It is never a good sign when your altitude is 5 feet after you’ve been on the plane for two hours.
• After you’ve been on a plane for seven hours, you should be in another country. On another continent. Somewhere warm, preferably.
• It is not a good thing when you’re told at your gate that you don’t have a pilot. And then they take the time off of the gate, because they have “no idea” when you will leave.
• You can have tremendous sympathy for the parent of a crying child while, at the same time, wanting to strap a parachute on said child and throw them off of the plane.
• Christmas should not be in a season with snow and ice. I propose moving it to June. Any takers?

Today, I turned 30.

Am I okay with that? Depends on the exact moment that you ask me.

Because part of me is thrilled with 30. I am doing what I love. I have a great job. I am surrounded by incredible friends who make my life better. I have a family that loves and supports me. Lots of fun plans for the future. I feel independent, successful and loved.

But there’s also the reality that, I’m not exactly where I thought I would be at 30. I thought I would be married, and have children. Started writing the Great American Novel. I still have insecurities. I still am afraid of being alone. I still deal with a lot of the same struggles that I thought I would be over by now.

Last night, though, as I sat with some of my dearest friends, who had gathered to celebrate my birthday, I looked at their faces and realized that, no, I’m not where I thought I would be at 30.

I didn’t think that at 30, I would be surrounded by friends who are as close to me as family.

I didn’t think that at 30, I would be single, but nowhere close to alone.

I didn’t think that at 30, I would be rediscovering who I am.

I didn’t think that at 30, I would begin to like that person I was discovering.

At the end of the evening, my friends handed me a bowl, filled with 30 slips of paper. Each one held a thought about me. An inside joke, a funny story, a word of encouragement. And with each one that I read, I was reminded that 30-year-old me is blessed in ways I never could have imagined.

“I love the way I never stop laughing around you.”

“Thank you for being such a great cheerleader in my life.”

“I love hearing you laugh.”

“You are always there for me when I need you.”

“I love you.”

So, I am 30.

And I think I’m going to like it.