Five weeks ago, I was sitting in the back of a truck heading north along the Haitian coast. We were driving out to the region where the first outbreak of cholera broke out, but for the moment, we were in awe of the raw beauty that can only come from an island that is really just a mountain jutting out of the water. Short beaches lead to sharply steep tree-lined mountains while the sun sparkled off crystal blue water. It was a terrible juxtaposition with the crumbling buildings, extreme hunger and complete hopelessness that so many of the Haitian people face on a daily basis.
Skip ahead a few days, and I’m back at work. One of the first things I heard my first day back was that someone was complaining about the taste of their water. I nearly quit my job, dreaming of walking out in a bizarre Steven Slater fashion (flinging half-eaten entrees back at the patrons who were too overstuffed to finish while calling out everyone who dared to purchase their water).
Needless to say, it has been a long, weird adjustment period.
It is hard to claim to be concerned about the plight of the hungry when cleaning spoiled, expired food from my refrigerator is a monthly–if not weekly–chore. It’s hard to claim to be concerned about the poor when it is the season of the Christmas demands list. It’s hard to claim to be concerned about the oppressed when said list includes so many things constructed out of precious metals mined by African slave labor or assembled under terrible working conditions in Asian factories.
All of this sounds so reactionary at best. At worst, it is poorly-worded hipster groanings. I’m well aware. And yet, I still can’t shake this completely unsettled feeling that all of this doesn’t matter. I hate that I’m not ready to say “don’t buy me presents”. I hate that I’m in debt to my car loan and my mortgage and my credit cards and my appliances. I hate that I am starting to forget what it was like to hold a child that hasn’t been held in days, to see babies crawl into the arms of everyone on our team and just fall asleep.
And yet, I’m so thankful that my church is raising money to build a well. I’m so thankful that my wife and my son and my unborn baby have food, clothes, beds, and a house that doesn’t leak when it rains (well, mostly). I’m so thankful that I have family and friends that like me enough to buy me presents and that I like so much that I want to buy them presents too.
At the end of the day, I hope I can find the beauty of the challenge of having what we need and being excited for the extra and the excess, for it is because of this excess that we can give and sacrifice for others.
Hopefully.
days after i got back from africa, i went to a training for teachers in san antonio. i remember walking into the hotel room thinking, “wow. this is nice.” [ironic since last time i stayed, i complained about how "dirty" it was and how i would never stay there again.]
the next morning, teacher after teacher complained about the accommodations. i fought back tears the entire day and certainly didn’t focus on training. i couldn’t stop thinking about the slum where i spent most of my summer so far. i couldn’t stop thinking about the faces of those who captured my heart. i couldn’t stop wondering what they would say about my toilet seat and plumbing and hot shower and cool room.
there are still moments where i’m hit with this rigid dichotomy of culture, but for the most part i can do a day without thinking about kibera. i hate this. i don’t want to forget. i don’t want to forget the beauty and i don’t want to forget the pain.
thanks for this post. it brought me back to the tension.