Bright with a Chance of Faith

I don't want to see a war.

I prefer to think that sharp bangs outside are firecrackers at a celebration.

I like believing that normal people wouldn't hurt neighours for their skin colour or accent or the shape of their noses.

I don't want to be scared.

And I'm not.

Yet. 


But I'm easily swayed, especially by emotions – other people's fear triggers my own.  Not for myself, but for them.  I worry that they're worried.  I even worry that I would be a burden in the scenario they are worried about.

This is meta-worry.

I want to stay in a friend's house, with all the amenities of a hotel plus chocolate (aside from the minor factor of dishes I don't want to do), for a month without wondering if we'll have to head to the border and leave my friends on the wrong side of it.  I want to stay here until this place accepts that I am a part of it – that my life can't be ripped up and pushed away like so many others.

But that's silly. Because it can. It's happened over and over again in this part of the world and it's silly to think that it shouldn't happen to me.

I can leave.  Anytime I want.  And I hate that too.

I don't walk through town as I used to (though even the good old days saw multiple attempts to break into my backpack) - partly because I'm on vacation and partly because I don't want Grandpa (a veteran of the riots in Kenya in 2008) to worry or, worse, think I'm an idiot.  The streets of our city looked totally normal when I was happily shopping on Wednesday, but I feel like it's the calm before the storm of bullets every time I'm back in my isolated compound - mostly because of the news from Kinshasa.  I can't access Facebook because I may use it to create an Event like 'Set Fire to an Office' and invite all my friends (BYOM - bring your own machete).  My parents are on a midlife crisis (they're calling it a Caribbean cruise).  My adoptive mother is finding herself in Asia (she calls it celebrating Christmas with her real children and grandchildren).  The shower curtain in my new bathroom has nearly caused a few nighttime accidents as I'm not used to a giant zebra glowering at me on the way to relieve my bladder.  The Phoenix had to teach me to use a lighter which I now routinely use to light the stove and my thumb. 

On the plus side, the ophthalmologists here are just as funny as they are in South Korea.

Ophthalmologist:  Use these drops and come back and see me in three days.

Three Days Later

Me:  I have a problem.
Ophthalmologist:  Oh?
Me:  I hate to worry you, but I'm fairly sure my blood pressure has been at least double what the nurse recorded last time – when the machine started screaming and flashing.  I, uh, didn't use the atropine drops you gave me.  My pupil has been dilated since you first used it in my eye – I know atropine does this, but it was three days ago.  Everything is blurry; crossing the street has been an even bigger roll of the dice than usual.  I think I'm going to die and I hope death comes quickly so I don't have to tell my mom.
Ophthalmologist:  That's fine.
Me:  For whom?
Ophthalmologist:  It's normal.
Me:  For a detached retina?  Blindness?  The bubonic plague?
Ophthalmologist:  I forgot to tell you that those drops should keep your eyes dilated for four days.
Me:  ...I may still die, my good man, but I will most assuredly take you down with me.

I've moved back near my old apartment, close to Grandpa (the only other worker from my international organization here), who juggles missing his wife with worrying about my mental and physical health.  I must look one mad giggle away from calling myself Napoleon Bonaparte and trying to launch a fleet of ships with my underwear hooked around my ears; he has offered full use of his home if I am afraid or lonely.  As I rarely feel either of these things - much to my mother's dismay - I usually go over when I'm hungry.

What.

Don't look at me like that; hunger is distressing.  And he makes cookies and ice cream.  All the time.  I think it's a medical condition.

The fact that he is a pastor who has helped raise four girls also goes a long way in helping us get along, but he asks funny questions like “Have you eaten?”

With me it's more a matter of What have you not eaten?  Or maybe Why are you eating plain mustard?

I can ignore this minor flaw because he's another one of those people who talks and acts like God is really there, you know?  Someone who reminds me that I am created for this - to be a witness to the glory I have seen.  Many sermons talk about life after death, and it is jarring.  I was not born again out of fear of hell or the unknown.  Nor was I born again in order to gain eternal life.

I was given a new life when I knew how much my Saviour had done for me.  And how much I had to learn to bear the weight of the cross, the press of the thorns, the shame of scorn.

This season, I have done no Advent readings.  I didn't meet with anyone to pray.  I have not studied my Bible and prayed for the country or the lives and souls of my friends as I should have.  And in grace, God has shown me Himself in their lives.  Even when I choose not to worship, I am driven to it, do you see?

No, fear for the political situation has not made me maudlin or fearful of my own shadow.  This Christmas has been special.  Just like every other Christmas, every other Easter, every other Advent, every other Lent.  Because the Saviour of the world was born, grew without sin, washed my feet, and died for me.  All while I wandered, looking for a place to take off my shoes, in the light of a pillar of fire.

Now I see; now I worship.

Merry Christmas 2016.