Only a Day Away

So I’ve completed my orientation and am much less disoriented than before – promise.  I now know that there is a set of Great Lakes in Africa!  (I thought I was applying to work in a trendy suburb in Toronto, but this is fine too.) 

Some of my teammates headed north at dawn a while ago, and while I envy them the boat ride, I definitely am not able to re-pack and shuttle my luggage across another square inch of space on God’s green earth.

I’ll miss my teammates.  I’ll miss conversations like this:

Canadian:  Guess Canada’s national animal!
American:  A bear.

Canadian:  No.

American:  A moose!

Congolese:  Une souris!

Canadian:  Why is this even an option. 

(Because a moose is just a letter away from being a mouse.)

“I have dry hair.”

“I know.”

“Okay, first of all - ow.”

“You have dry hair.”

“I regret this conversation, but yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“My instinctive reaction is no.”

(She thought I had a hair dryer and we’re still staying together, but the house is too quiet now nevertheless.)

We were just getting to know each other!  Just starting to squabble like any other siblings!  I finally made a meal that my teammates could all eat without pain!  I have discovered leeks!  My life will never be the same!  However, I also won’t mind shopping on my own, buying piment, and not having to calculate how many potatoes will fill anywhere from 6-10 half-full to very full bellies. 

Before I came, my knowledge of Swahili was limited to screaming random gibberish at the beginning of Lion King.  And Rafiki singing ‘Asante sana, squash banana!’ to Simba (I think only the beginning of that song is valid Swahili).  In Upendi and Hakuna Matata are also pieces of my childhood (okay, adulthood).  Now I know various verbs (like, five).  Ku-maliza is a gooder – I say it all the time in tones of despair (but usually when the bananas are finished). 

I used to think I would never spend hundreds of dollars on purifying mud masks.  I was right.  I would rather have free mud on my feet.  Rocks are an added (free) massage. 

I’ve always had a vague disdain of imperialism and colonialism, but it’s never been presented to me through various media and in different voices.  I read books.  They are my thing.  They make me laugh, but they can’t laugh at me when I say something stupid in French.  I can cry over them, but they’re not real people speaking to me about displacement, fear, armed governments, and death.  I knew some things about this country, but I did not know this country until I met my teammates, learned about the families, and prayed for their futures.  It was hard work, and hopefully within two years, I will earn the right to walk with people in their sorrows and to join in their laughter.

Outside Africa, I can see articles on DTrump, terrorism on a massive scale, and and JTrudeau’s peacock pose.  Here, I see a generation that needs healing, greater control over their economy and politics, and an election.  Not all of those things seem possible, but hope springs eternal.  My favourite part about my international organization (other than their care for their workers) is that they believe in support of ongoing mission, not the implementation of random ideas concocted in an office in Winnipeg.  My favourite part of the Seed program is that we will be here for years rather than weeks.  I want to see people day after day, I want to be in a community that is growing and working to do good things with people who have so much good to offer.

This may seem silly, but I can trace my vision of service to an incident during my second experience of short-term mission in Saskatchewan (oh, the ignominy).  One of the leaders of the trip was a man I had long admired – the reverend of my church, an older man who speaks the Bible with truth and vibrancy.  The first morning, he woke us up with gentle offers of coffee.

Let me repeat that: he was up and ready, and he offered to make us - a group of teens and young adults - coffee.

This was different from my entire experience of all men in general in life, especially older men.  In India, they wait to be served - darn well anywhere, but especially when there are women around to do the serving.  Priests, especially, are a hair closer to heaven than anyone else and need to be fed simply so plebeians can bask in their glow for a few minutes.  I come from a culture of power inherent in gender, age, and career – I think this culture is similar – and I struggle with it. 

Power should be given – not taken.

Wisdom should be learned – not assumed. 

Respect is developed – not gender- or age-based. 

My culture tells me that to be someone, I need to be served, I need to be recognized for the gift that I am, and the skills that I bring.   

And yet here was our reverend, offering to make me coffee.  Here is a teacher, washing the feet of his disciples.  Here is the truth that serving is far, far more powerful than being served.

I can’t wait to start.