I'm Just Sayin'

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?

She walked slowly out of her classroom, her face turned towards the ground. Her shoulders hunched up around her ears, the ragged sleeves of her dress nearly reaching her elbows.

“What’s wrong with her,” I asked the group around me. They stopped the girl, and French phrases passed much too quickly for me to keep up. Finally, someone translated for me.

“She can’t pay her school fees, so they’re sending her home.”

That’s when I noticed the headmaster, moving from class to class, a list in his hands. Those were the children who hadn’t paid their fees. He was calling them to the front of their class and asking for the school’s money. And if they didn’t have it, they were sent home.

My stomach literally ached. I wanted to run up and tear the list out of his hands, ripping it up right in front of him. But I’m much too logical for that.

The little girl was still standing in the middle of our little group. She looked up finally, and I saw that her eyes were bright with tears. Every time she would blink, another one would make a muddy track down her face, dripping off of her chin and making a dark mark on her plain brown dress.

“How much?” I asked quietly. After a brief conference with the headmaster, we discovered that she owed 1,200 CFE.

Two dollars and forty cents.

One of the women in our group yanked the money out of her wallet, disgusted that this child was being sent home for less than the cost of a liter of water. Another in our group gently explained to the little girl that she could go back to class. She walked over, bowed her head, and whispered so quietly that I could barely hear it over the arithmetic lesson going on behind me.

“Merci.”

Funny how much that sounds like mercy.

“How many children are at the project we’re going to,” I asked the Compassion worker as we finished up lunch.

“One hundred ninety-nine,” she answered. What an odd number. She must have noticed my confused look.

“They lost a child last month.”

I wished with everything that “lost a child” literally meant lost a child. As in just misplaced for a few days. She would be back soon. But I knew that wasn’t the case.

“What happened to her,” someone else at the table asked. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I couldn’t acknowledge what “lost” really meant.

The worker explained that the little girl was sick, that she had suffered from anemia. Anemia? I didn’t even know that was life-threatening. I guess in my world, where iron pills and iron-rich foods can be picked up on every corner, it’s not. But here, in Togo, the reality was quite different. I knew that from the misshapen and distended belly buttons I had seen all morning. From the hair that had turned a dusty brown from lack of nutrients.

I hate that for so many children, we’re too late to save their lives. But I find peace in knowing that for the time that little girl was with Compassion, she knew love. I know that someone there told her that Jesus loved her. I know that someone there prayed for her—prayed for her healing, then prayed for her family’s comfort. I know that a sponsor loved her, and mourned her loss.

And I also know that are 199 children in that little girl’s community who are alive.

199 children who are cared for.

199 children who are prayed for.

199 children who were found.

But tonight, I will mourn the one who was lost.

(The next few blogs will be from Togo. They were written several days ago, so they will all open with the date)

May 7, 2009

How odd to think that two weeks ago I had no idea I would be sitting here on this blue carpet in humid Dallas, my books scattered around me, my electronic devices sucking up their last bit of US electricity, waiting for my flight to Paris to board.

I feel like I haven’t had a chance to process the fact that I will soon be in Togo, a country few of my friends and family had even heard of a few days ago. Today, right now, it finally feels real. Real enough to leave my stomach in knots. Real enough for me to send a flurry of text messages to loved ones, just in case.

What will Togo hold? Who will I meet there? What will I learn? What will I bring back with me? What will I leave behind?

Today, on my flight from Colorado to Texas, I felt prayers bubble up, and I felt such guilt. Why hadn’t I prayed earlier? They were frightened prayers—for safety, health and energy. They were jumbled, a little frantic.

But now, in this crowded airport, with the voices of competing gate agents rattling around me, I feel somewhat calmer. I am reminded that perfect love is, right now, battling my fears.

So I will close this with different prayers. Ones for a fearless heart and a quiet spirit.

And I’m throwing in a few for safety and health, for good measure!