More Than Tears

I haven’t really cried in Kenya. Ok, there was one night where there was a little sniffling involved. But not the real, shaking, disgustingly snotty crying.

The kind that really matters.

At the same time, I’ve been having a hard time reacting to what I’m seeing and experiencing here. For some reason, I can process a little, but not to the full extent that I actually feel better.

I’m not really a person that cries a lot, (at least not on a regular basis), so I didn’t really think there was a connection.

We had a team day today where we all processed our experiences thus far with each other and shared how we were doing emotionally. I was incredibly excited to see everyone after only a week, but I felt unsettled as we talked. I could tell them about my God moments and express excitement about what my ministry was doing with complete honesty. I have seen God at work and it’s been wonderful, but emotionally, I haven’t taken it in. I have tons of notes, but I didn’t pause to think about what they meant.

In comparison to my fellow interns, what I see on a daily basis is tame and comfortable. The house I live in is lovely. There’s hot water, electricity, and wifi whenever I want them, not to mention wonderful food. My workplace is gorgeous, where everyone speaks English and I can visit kindergartners and student artisans anytime I want. My brothers drive me to and from work (about a 10 block distance or less) and won’t let me out of their sight if I’m with them.

So I really didn’t think I had anything to cry about.

On our way to Prestige Plaza today (a mall), a man across the road from us had an epileptic seizure. One minute he was walking eating a bag of bananas and the next he was on the ground, greenish foam coming from his mouth and limbs rigidly twitching. As the rest of my friends rushed toward him, I was frozen and disconnected at the same time. We stayed until we were sure he was all right, and then continued walking. It turned out that he had run out of money for his epilepsy medicine and was attempting to go without it. Some of the others gave him money for more meds and were deeply affected by what happened. I just felt more unsettled.

The rest of our day was great. We had gelato and attempted to negotiate a Kenyan supermarket/Wal-Mart equivalent (where I found nothing that I needed and bought a phrasebook instead). But I still felt off.

During one of our conversations, some of the others had talked about their struggles to feel things and engage with what was going around them. I ignored the fact that I could relate. I was fine, I told myself.

Previously in the week, I’d submitted my first article for WND (woot). I didn’t love it, but it was ok. My problem is always word count (as you’re probably noticing, I’m a bit long winded), but that was my only worry.

After coming home for the day today, I checked my email for my internship account. Reviews had arrived! I was nervous, as usual when it comes to stuff like that, but excited. The reviews were fair. The more that I read my piece, the more that I agreed with what they said.

The writing was stiff. Informative. Very, very news story like. In just under 1,000 words I had said a lot about what my organization did without including any emotion, whatsoever. Which, when you’re writing about intense social justice issues, is a problem. Why wasn’t I feeling?

I shook off the frustration I had with myself and ate dinner, watched Spanish soaps (yeah, they’re awful but hilarious) and went back to my room. Now I was really, really unsettled.

I sat on my bed with my Bible and just stared for a bit. Shut my eyes. Got up. Sat at my desk. Got on facebook.

And then I read a message from a friend that was entirely perfect. She encouraged me, told me she was praying for me and said that God was doing incredible things in my life, not just in the lives of the people I’d met. “Wait,” I thought. “Is He?”

And then I completely lost it.

All the feelings and thoughts, the anxiousness of going, the confusion at adjusting, the stress of the unknown, the weight of poverty and desperation, the worry about life at home, the anticipation of plans for the future, all came out in 15 minutes of straight crying. My poor host family! They probably thought someone dear to me had died.

When I finished, I went to my computer and began to write. I stayed up until 2 am entirely re-writing my piece. I kept three sentences from the first draft, but that’s it.

I still think my article is just ok. But at least, now I’m connecting. I’m wrestling and feeling instead of just recording.

I’m no longer just a journalist; I’m in the process of becoming a wrecked human being who has fallen in love with the idea of justice and mercy and the faces of those in need.

In the process, I’m discovering that God’s plan for my life this summer is to blow my plans and perceptions out of the water. While I might think I’m safe, He’s still going to change my world. And I have a feeling that means he’s going to take the feelings I have (no matter how reluctantly I give them to Him) and use them for bigger things than tears.

Regardless, I’m still buying Kleenex.