I've been asked this question A LOT lately. Which is normal, you know, after being out of the country for eight weeks. And I'm so thankful that family, friends, and peers want to hear about my summer in South Africa. Really, I am. But, to be honest, I don't know how to answer that question. I don't know how to sum up two months worth of pain, joy, adventure, learning, love, and heartbreak in just a few minutes. I don't want to burden them with an overwhelming amount of stories, but I want them to understand.
So what comes out instead is a jumble of words and phrases that I glue together to make a somewhat coherent fragment. The English teacher inside me cringes. I want my answer to be a fluid string of eloquent and polished sentences. But it's not. And what comes out instead does not do this summer justice. Those words aren't enough.
Now, here I sit, trying to take what's in my heart and head, and put it on paper (or on a computer screen rather).
So, to be honest, a lot of times this summer was more hard than good.
It was hard to be woken up in the middle of the night to the cry of the baby who lived next door and shared a wall with our bedroom. Knowing that she was not getting the care she deserved, and was being looked after by her mother and her boyfriend who is a drug dealer.
It was hard to hear a second grader tell me she is abused by her brother and father.
It was hard to see students hit repeatedly by their teacher because they forgot a writing utensil or walked in a couple of minutes late to class.
It was hard to see teachers who did not believe each student has a purpose; that a student's test score "was not even worth reading out loud because it was so low."
It was hard to have everything that has been comfortable and familiar to me for 22 years be taken away so abruptly.
It was hard to see ten toddlers lined up against a cold, cement wall; just staring at me with no emotion. These children who should be giggling and talking and throwing balls and stealing toys from each other.
It was hard to see people roaming the streets because they were unemployed and decisions they had made in the past left them homeless and hungry.
It was hard to see kids frequently hit each other because that's normal there, because that's what they've seen at home.
It's hard to know that there is no safe house for women to go who are abused; that there are women getting abused every day by their husbands, but can't leave because he is the source of income and support for the family.
It's hard to know that the reason this coloured community exists is because of people of my race; that the reason this community faces vicious cycles such as abuse and fetal alcohol syndrome, is because of people of my race.
It was hard seeing the children at the holiday camp stuff their faces with the spaghetti in front of them because that was probably the only meal some of them were getting that day.
It was hard to see a township filled with tin shacks and then see mansions on the side of a mountain five minutes down the road. The contrast was so stark.
It was hard to hear the South African youth tell us their stories; pasts that were filled with fathers who were drug abusers and left their mothers for other women. Pasts that were full of hurt and brokenness, and unresolved emotions that still surfaced from time to time.
It was hard to have my diet consist of mainly coffee, sugar, bread, different kinds of starches, various (and sometimes questionable) types of meat, and peanut butter. My body took a hit.
It was hard to feel restricted about where we could go and how late we could be out without being escorted by someone from the community, for fear of the danger that lurked outside our doorstep.
My heart hurts thinking about these moments. God broke my heart for His people on a level I had never felt before; seeing the wounds of this world in a new and painful way. While I still don't understand all of it, I am reminded that because of the fall of man, we live in a broken world. There are those living on this earth who are hungry, homeless, unclothed, sick, abused, and unloved. And this is not limited to the South African culture. It's here in America too. I get that. But it still hurts. And my heart still aches thinking about it.
The Lord has been so faithful though in reminding me His word never says that living in this world would be easy. Instead, He actually warns us that we will have trouble in this world (John 16:33). But, thankfully, He also comes with a promise. A promise to restore the brokenness, to heal the hurt, and redeem the lost. To walk right beside us on this journey of pain. And that through His power He can bring joy out of pain, light out of darkness, and life out of death.
So while there was heartache, pain, and brokenness, there was also joy.
There was joy in hearing Auntie Alice's laugh, a woman of such pure faith who so obediently and faithfully served the Lord every day.
There was joy in knowing that I am not filled on bread alone, but by the word of God.
There was joy in seeing the depth and width of God's creation; in watching sunsets and sunrises, while climbing mountains, while running to the beach, and in walking through botanical gardens.
There was joy in the worship services on Sunday mornings. With only 20 plastic lawn chairs, three tambourines, and a multitude of voices in unison praising the Lord, I have never felt the Holy Spirit's presence more than during those times.
There was joy knowing that South Africa is where God wanted me this summer, and the peace that came with living in the midst of His will.
There was joy in sharing our sandwiches with a child who was wandering the streets and seeing the look on their face when they realized they were getting extra food that day.
There was joy hearing students share their future dreams with their classmates for the first time and seeing their teacher's eyes opened a bit to the purpose they each have.
There was joy when I would nearly be knocked over from the onslaught of hugs from a group of little ones; their arms too small to reach all the way around my waist.
There was joy living in community with brothers and sisters from the body of Christ.
There was joy living in a ministry-minded household, a home that was always full of noise, life, love, and really good desserts.
There was joy in experiencing the generosity of the people in the Ocean View community. That even though they have just enough to support their family, they still gave away whatever they had to others. They understand that there are others who are suffering worse than they are.
There was joy in being baptized; being born again of the water and stepping into an even deeper intimacy with my Lord and Savior.
There was joy in hearing the song "Flowers" by Bruno Mars played five times a day during Holiday Camp; a song that reminds me of the resilience of the children in the Ocean View community.
There IS joy in the fact that the same God who was with me in South Africa, is here with me in Kansas. That the same God who led me through broken glass this summer, is the same One who is still holding my hand and walking with me on this journey. One day at a time.
So as I seek Him to remember and understand these experiences, I ask for your grace. That when I have moments of culture shock, like breaking down in the watch section at Kohl's because I'm so overwhelmed by the prices and amount of choices, that you would be patient with me. Or when you can tell that I'm not fully emotionally and mentally present, because my heart is still 8,000 miles away, that you would give me grace. Time to heal. And space to process.
I don't know that after writing all of this I understand it anymore than when I started typing. But I think I have somewhat of a more coherent answer to the question you all have been asking. And while it's not a set of polished sentences with perfect syntax and lots of descriptors, it's truth. It's the Gospel.
"South Africa was hard, but the Lord brought joy through it all."
