Normal

I have lived
a normal life. I have two parents, two brothers, and a dog. I lived in a house.
I went to school K-12. I went to movies on the weekends with my friends. I
checked “white”, unfortunately, on every standardized test I’ve taken. I like
Coldplay. My life has been pretty stereotypical and predictable. Nothing
special. Then God told me to go to Africa and I was enthralled. Finally, I
would not be normal. Life would be exciting and not the usual, American
mundane. In Africa I’ll find adventure. The air will taste new and exciting.
Every day will bring something different. In Swaziland, in the most AIDS ridden
nation on the planet, I’ll see the worst of the worst and be entirely broken
and transformed into this selfless, perfect version of my self.

If only
that’s how it worked. Instead of being struck with how different and out of the
ordinary, out of my ordinary, Africa
is, I am struck with the normality that I’m beginning to believe pervades all
life. There’s a rhythm to life, and though it may be faster or slower, or
accompanied by different instruments, it’s the same throughout the whole
planet. As humans, we adapt and acclimate and normalize. It’s just what we do.
I don’t feel different here. I don’t act different here. I am the same person
here that I am at home. I find myself in the most absurdly un-normal situations
behaving as if these things happen to me everyday, as if I grew up like this.

 Yesterday I was sitting on a grass mat outside
of the round hut made of sticks with a straw roof of an African woman who has
AIDS and a daughter and grandson to support eating this strange little fruit
called a marula and had to give myself a reality check. This was in no way
normal. I do not do this everyday. But somehow, my body and my brain were
pretending like I did. Last week Kate and I were driving down the highway in
our beat up kombi, windows down, music turned up loud, on the left side of the
road, looking out on fields and fields of sugar cane backed by huge blueish
green mountains, and I felt just like I do when driving down old 98 looking out
over the ocean. It is certainly not the same though. I wake up in the mornings,
brush my teeth, get a bowl of cereal. So normal. Except for the miniscule
detail that I’m in Swaziland, Africa.

In a way,
this normalization is comforting. You begin to feel like you belong here and
you no longer feel like such a foreigner. Because of this, Nsoko has started to
feel like home. In other ways though, it’s uncomfortably disconcerting.
Everything begins to become normal. The 10 year old who carries her 1 year old
nephew around on her back all the time because both of his parents are dead and
he has no one left to take care of him becomes okay. The kids with massive,
Santa like bellies and stick skinny arms from malnutrition become simply cute,
and not heartbreaking. You hear a story about a mother and child hit and killed
on the side of the road by a drunk driver, creating the world’s next two
orphans, and calmly and unaffectedly place it in the overflowing box labeled
“Tragedies” in your head. You see kids playing with dead birds and tampon
applicators they dug out of your trash because they have nothing else to play
with and continue to think about what exactly you want to do tomorrow.

I’m not okay
with this It’s not fine that everything here is normal to me, because it’s not
normal. Normal isn’t destitute poverty. Normal isn’t lacking the money it takes
to feed your family. Normal is not a 40% rate of HIV/AIDS. Normal is not a
country full of orphans. How have I become so hardened and calloused to the
heartbreaking lives of the people I have come to love here? How can I look at
them and not be overcome with compassion? Why do I have to normalize? It would
be worth it to be uncomfortable here for the entire six months if I could only
live in the knowledge of the pain that these people feel their whole lives.

Pray for
brokenness.