I’m Just Sayin’

Yeah, those were the days. I have 12 drafts in my draft folder. Each one looking at me with its beady little eyes. Yes, my posts have eyes. And yes they’re beady.

But y’all. I’ve got nothing. Nothing funny. Nothing profound. Just nothing.

So I thought I would just give you a list. A bulleted list at that. What a cop-out. But it is a list of the stupid things I’ve done over the past few weeks. That’s entertaining, right?

Come on, humor me.

• Since we last met, I have done some fix-it projects around the house. And I’m really not sure how I’m still alive. Because in one project I shoved a screwdriver into a mass of wires that once was my ceiling fan.  And I didn’t turn off the circuit-breaker. Is that even what it’s called? Anywho, I learned that this is a way to get your friends to come fix your ceiling fan. Because they don’t want to be the ones to find my corpse. And I appreciate that.
• Speaking of my corpse (you gotta love a sentence that starts that way), this morning I fell in my bathroom and narrowly missed hitting my head on the sink. I’m thinking it may be helpful if I got one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” things to wear when I’m home alone.
• Oh, and then, last week, I had to replace a smoke detector battery. It was in a really high part of the ceiling. Aside–why would you put it there. So it will take longer for the smoke to reach it. And I can die. Anyway. I replaced the battery. But then I tested it. OH MY WORD. That thing was loud. I almost fell off the ladder trying to get away from it. Then I yanked the battery out to make it stop. Yeah, the battery I just put in it. My life is a comedy of errors.
• My friend Mandy came to visit a few weeks ago. I should have blogged about that. Because I love that girl. We are kindred souls. And she doesn’t get frustrated when everything goes wrong and I do something dumb. Like taking her to an outdoor festival minutes before a huge thunderstorm struck. Causing us to flee for safety in a bus stop. Where we ate Navajo tacos. Because there’s nothing like fry bread and refried beans in a bus stop. I am all class, all the time.
• I feel like I need one more bullet. Isn’t the rule you have to have five things in a bulleted list? I guess I could tell you that while I was in Togo, I discovered just how bad my French skills are. I went there knowing only one phrase, and it was a highly inappropriate one from a Labelle song. And while I was there, I kept getting confused when people would ask me how I was doing. I thought they were asking my name. And vice versa. So now there is a whole town in Togo that thinks my name is “Good” and I am doing very “Brandy.”

I can’t make this stuff up.

Just wanted to share this incredible video that we made for our One Millionth Child Celebration at Compassion. It was such an honor to be a part of, not only this project, but of the work of Compassion on behalf of children in poverty. Hope you like it!

Well my friends. There is trouble in paradise.

This morning, I discovered Lucy had christened the carpet. You know the proverb “don’t eat the  yellow snow?” It is closely followed by “don’t step on the yellow carpet.” If you know what I mean.

She peed on the carpet. In case you missed my subtle clues.

After much scrubbing and grumbling under my breath, I finally got the mess cleaned up. And I explained to Lucy firmly that peeing on the carpet was unacceptable.

But y’all. I don’t think Lucy likes being told what to do. Because when I came downstairs after my shower, there was little bits of white fluff everywhere. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was. But then, by the door, I saw the crumpled body of Lucy’s elephant, whom I have named Elliott.

Poor Elliott. You didn’t deserve this. She was mad at me, not you. Yet it was you that had your innards spilled all over the carpet.

I hardly knew ye, Elliott.

So now I’m sleeping with one eye open.

She may look innocent. But I’ve seen what she can do.

Hello all. Sorry for the lag in posting. It’s been hard to transition from my time in Togo to everyday life. But leave it to me to follow the profound with the inane.

So, I’m dogsitting this week. For a sweet puppy named Lucy. Seriously, one of the sweetest, most gentle puppies I’ve ever seen. But y’all. This dog is like velcro. And those are her owner’s words, not mine. So don’t go all PETA on me. But little Lucy hates to be alone. She does not like to let you out of her sight. When she sees me heading for the stairs she runs past me so she can meet me at the top. Or back at the bottom if she trips me.

But last night, Lucy and I had a moment. I was sitting next to her on the sidewalk, and she walked around behind me and put her two paws on my shoulder. And then she started licking my neck. I had to explain to Lucy that in some cultures, we were now betrothed.

It was an awkward conversation. But I think we’re on the same page now.

Just the other day, I had a friend ask me what it was that I missed about Togo. Which made me stop and think. What exactly did I miss. Because I’ll be honest, there are things I don’t miss. I don’t miss the heat. I don’t miss the constant feelings of confusion I felt. I don’t miss distended bellies. I don’t miss the complete physical and emotional exhaustion.

But last Sunday, as I stood at my home church for the first time in nearly a month, I realized what I missed.

The week before, I had worshiped in Togo. The missing walls of the church there allowed a soft breeze to ruffle the thin pages of my Bible. And for the entire three hours I was there, my hands were full.

A child slipped her hand into mine.

My fingers rested on the curly hair of a child standing at my side.

My palms cupped little chins.

I stroked cheeks.

I rubbed away smudges of dirt.

I traced noses.

And now, in my church, in my city, in my home, my hands were empty. My arms hung loose by my side. They felt weighted, heavy.

And oh so very empty.

That’s what I miss. Not just the touch. But the freedom. The freedom to wear my heart on my sleeve. And to have that heart plucked from my sleeve, to be passed from one hand to another, and returned to me, dusty and weary and full.

I miss that.

I’ve been home from Togo for a week. But home feels different now.

On my last day in Togo, I sat in the lobby of our hotel, waiting for the van to arrive. Our luggage was piled waist-deep around us, and a live band played in the restaurant just next to me. They played a repoirtoire of jazz and American music, and I couldn’t help but laugh as the immortal words of John Denver floated through the humid air.

Take me home, country roads, to the place, I belong…

And here I am, a week later, home. But every night I wake up, thinking I’m still in Africa. I panic and leap out of my bed, feeling in the dark for the lights, the windows, anything. Nothing is where it should be.

And when I finally find the switch, I stand in the middle of my room, squinting at the bright light, my heart pounding. Part of me is relieved–I am in my safe, comfortable house, in my safe, comfortable neighborhood where everyone speaks English and I don’t have to worry about drinking the water.

But the other part of me feels–I don’ tknow. Sad? Disappointed? Empty?

Soon my heart slows, my breathing evens out. But there is still that ache, in the center of my chest. It stays there as I turn off the lights. As I crawl back into bed.

I know I am home.

But home will never be the same.

As most of you know, I recently got back from a trip to Togo. I’m still sorting through thoughts, and still posting blogs related to the trip. To read all of my Togo entries, click here.

Leaving Togo was hard.

As we shouldered our way through the crowds at the airport, I felt dizzy with emotions. I hated saying goodbye to my new Togolese friends–especially as one whispered to me “I already miss you” just before I was herded through security.

Sitting on the plane, my head ached with the things I already missed. I missed the smell of the mothballs that rolled around in the cupholders of our van. I missed the fine coating of red dust that covered everything. I missed the smiles and the handshakes and the hugs and the waves and the small hands slipped into mine.

Six hours later, when our plane landed in Paris, I stumbled through customs, crumpled and dazed. The bus we took to the hotel felt too big, the roads too smooth. I shivered in the artificial cold of my hotel room, collapsed into the too soft bed.

I woke to the sound of too loud voices in the hallway. I staggered to the bathroom, and stood under the steaming water. My mind, my body, my spirit, everything rebeled. I cried as I watched the last physical remnants of Togo wash down the drain.

Later, I dressed and set out to wander the streets of Paris. I found comfort in the worn flip flops I slipped onto my feet. They were still coated in the soft, red dust I had walked through for a week. But a wrong step off of a curb, and I gasped as cold water sloshed over my feet. Not at the shock of the temperature. But at the shock of how quickly those shoes went from a memory to a simple pair of shoes, purchased in a rush from Old Navy.

I felt raw. Everything had been cleansed. My skin. My clothes.

Who knew cleansing could hurt so bad?

As most of you know, I recently got back from a trip to Togo. I’m still sorting through thoughts, and still posting blogs related to the trip. To read all of my Togo entries, click here.

How do you describe something for which there are no words? I’m frustrated because I can’t make you understand what the Grande Marche is like.

Madam, madam.
Over and over, I hear their shouts.
Do you need a dress? A belt?
Just a few dollars, and this mango is yours.
Why do you shake your head at us, madam?

Madam, madam.
Hands, hands, all around me.
Gentle hands help me across a ditch.
Rough hands pull me out of the street.
Be careful, madam.

Madam, madam.
The smells, so many smells.
Dead chickens swarming with flies.
Sweat and rot and dirt and fear.
Why are you so pale, madam?

Madam, madam.
Why do you close your eyes?
Why do you cover your face?
Why do you leave us so quickly?
Where are you going, madam?

It was hard to breathe. We had turned off the fan in the corner so the rattling wouldn’t be on the video. The moment we switched it off, the air grew heavy and thick. Flies buzzed around our heads. The men all clutched handkerchiefs, wiping the sheen of sweat off of their faces every few minutes. Sweat formed at my temples, dripping into my eyes.

The father who sat before me quietly answered our questions. He told us about leaving their home at 5:30 in the morning to go to his job as a driver. How he spent half of his salary each month on the rent of this 10×10 concrete room. How he could only pay for food one week a month, charging the rest.

And then he told us about his wife. Visibly, he shrank before my eyes. He told us about her death five years ago. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the ground. His voice was so quiet, I had to lean forward. More flies flew in through the open door.

His heartbreak was a presence in the room. It was heavier than the heat. It settled over us. A knot the size of the limes growing on the trees in the front yard formed in my throat.

My eyes darted around the room. I so badly wanted a distraction. It was too much. So I counted the flies that crawled on our arms as he choked out memories of his wife.

1, 2, 3…

She had been walking home with their 8-year-old daughter.

4, 5, 6, 7…

Screeching tires, a spray of dust and gravel.

8, 9, 10, 11, 12…

So quickly, as only a mother can react, she shoved her child aside, a tumble of bright fabric and red dirt.

13, 14, 15, 16…

And then, she was gone. Instantly, her husband became a single father, raising four children, including a month-old son.

17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22…

He had never remarried. The grief was too much. The responsibility too great. The loss too profound.

23, 24, 25, 26, 27.

“She left me,” he whispered.

I looked up at those words. Stared into a face that had seen too much. I wanted to touch his arm. Tell him that it would be okay. But we were all frozen in place. So I simply reached out and swept my arm through the humid air, scattering the 27 flies.

They buzzed in the air, joining the heat and the grief. I waved my arm again, shooing them towards the door. A few flew out. I waved harder, trying to clear the air, but knowing the cloud that hung there was not composed of flies.

And no amount of arm waving I could do today would bring relief to the broken man sitting before me.

Wacky internet tonight, so I will just leave you with a picture.

This is Petro, my new boyfriend.

He’s studious AND cute. What more could a girl want?