I’ve been home for nearly two months. And those two months exist in my memory as a blur of stress and guilt and busyness. Not that there wasn’t a ton of happiness and fun and thanksgiving, it’s just been overwhelming. I didn’t run into the problems that most people face. Everyone has been eager to hear about Swaziland. Everyone wants to spend time with me it seems. I haven’t felt like an alien, or been angry at the injustice that that oozes out of our American pores. I have been blessed. Simply blessed. The transition wasn’t rough. My friends have been incredibly supportive. My family has been great. But in the two weeks that I was home (I’m in Memphis now for the summer) I felt like I had to try and see everyone that I hadn’t seen in the past eight months in those 14 short days. Inevitably, people’s feelings were hurt because I just didn’t have enough time and inevitably I felt guilty and stressed about it. I wasn’t getting a lot of alone time, but I thought I would just sacrifice that one “indulgence” until I got to Memphis where I could finally rest. But then I got to Memphis. I work Monday through Friday 8-5 (I’m so professional, I know), run every day (well… most days) after work, eat dinner, and then it’s basically time to go to sleep. On the weekends I have to try and fit as many of my family members into my schedule as possible. Then it’s Monday again.
And it’s no one’s fault but mine. I could have slowed down, people would have understood. I just felt so guilty if I didn’t spend my time with the people who love me. I knew this would happen, too. Our leaders at AIM talked to us at debrief about the typical responses to re-entry. I knew that I wasn’t one to be angry at the inequality and lack of understanding. There was also no way I was going to isolate and alienate myself. No, instead I’m the girl who goes, goes, goes without taking a second to breathe and then eventually hits a brick wall. I think that brick wall is about three inches from my nose right now. Things with God have been strange. I hate the routine. It makes me almost sick to my stomach to think about taking 30 minutes of quiet time in the morning to “spend time with God”. It’s too tame. It’s too bland. It’s like plain porridge. I miss the exotic omelet I had in Swaz. I miss the spontaneous nature of our relationship there. Why can’t I find that here? When I have unscheduled time all I want to do is read, and read something mindlessly entertaining. Or just sleep. If I sit still for more than twenty minutes I’ll pass out. And I have all the right words to say to God programmed into my brain from going to church for years. I can tell him that I’m exhausted, that I can’t do this without him, that I need him to refresh and restore me. But there’s not heart behind any of that. It’s too stale, and I’m too tired.
And where does the past year fit into my life now? I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know what to do with it. Part of me hates talking about it. Because it’s turned into some kind of accessory. “Yeah, I took a year off after high school and went on a mission trip to Swaziland for 8 months.” “Wow! How was it?” “It was really good, I loved it.” “So what did you do there exactly?” “Well we partnered with a pastor there and just did whatever he needed us to do.” “Cool.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that exact conversation. But it’s a lie. What I really did in Swaziland was paint dirty little fingernails, wash a ton of dishes, sing SiSwati worship songs every Tuesday, let my hair be painfully braided, played games with half dressed little Africans, watched a little too much soccer, witnessed the deepest pain exhibit itself in the numb exteriors of gogos, watched these exteriors broken in a wave of suppressed tears, been to funerals that lasted all night long, felt overwhelmed by the need that threatens to suffocate you from all sides, wanted to come home, wanted to stay forever, learned exactly how impossible real love is, was changed forever. And all this gets is a few short sentences every now and then. Yet, I don’t know how else to treat it. I miss it every single day. At first I didn’t. On the way home from Houston I cried the entire plane ride from Atlanta to Pensacola. Sobbed would be a better description. It became real to me that everything was over, and I couldn’t hold in the sadness that caused. My heart was flooded with memories and feelings of Swaziland and the tears rolled down my face. After that though, there was almost no looking back. For about three weeks I felt so guilty about how little I thought of the people and places I had just spent a significant part of my life. But then slowly, it caught up with me. I started google-ing Swaziland pictures and reading about it on Wikipedia. I would stare at the little dot labeled “Nsoko” on the map and wonder how so much could be contained in so few pixels on my computer screen. I would stalk the blogs of people who are there right now, hoping just to gain a little bit of information about one of my friends. I can’t wait to go back.
