More starts

I have been wanting to write about this for a long time now, but I have been hesitating. There is just too much to say, too much to convey, and these words won't really do.

I mentioned before that mental illness is a serious but largely ignored issue in Sierra Leone. I saw obvious, severe cases every day, and there are many more cases that sit just below the surface. There was a man who wandered our neighborhood, some days alert and asking for food, and other days slumped over on the side of the road and unresponsive. I would buy him bread or hand him a few plantains, ask him his name, attempt conversation. I asked people in the neighborhood if they knew him, but no one did.

In order for him to get long-term care, we would have to find his family. I asked him if he had family nearby and where they lived, and he pointed down the road. I flagged down a taxi and David and I went with him to find them. After driving all around Freetown, it became clear we weren't going to find anyone. The taxi driver told us that the man's directions didn't make sense and what we thought was Krio was actually nonsense. Perhaps his family was in a different town. Perhaps he didn't have any family left.

City of Rest, in the middle of Freetown, is the country's only mental rehabilitation facility. It is run by locals and receives no government funding. I spent a couple of hours there one afternoon, taking photos for an article and meeting the residents. City of Rest is building a new facility outside of town that will allow for more residents and more room for rest and rehabilitation. But until they raise more funds, it is filled to capacity and unable to accept more people.

The only other option is the government mental hospital. When you mention this place, everyone has a rumor to share. People chained to beds. One small meal a day. Abuse by guards. Bribes and cruelty. But, is it better than being on the street?

City of Rest is not perfect. There is no running water and there is not enough medicine. But there is love there, and diagnosis and therapy and a desire to see people healed. The staff is fighting to get the right medicines and to learn how to better treat the residents. And then there are the residents themselves, the woman who was once unable to care for herself and is now healthy and smiling. The former soldiers who have found a community and a sense of home.

No, it is not perfect, but it is a start. I think we need more starts.

Kailahun field visit

They said, "Send your family greetings from the field agents out in the far east of Sierra Leone!"

We spent a week in Kailahun District, way out on the eastern border of the country, attending malaria trainings for mothers. This is where the war began in the early nineties and where the rebels made their base. It has been called the "forgotten district," and burnt out houses remind you that the war wasn't so long ago. Fewer than 10 years have passed.

Getting there and away was quite the adventure- one 77 mile section took 5 hours by car. There was a spot where a couple of men were building a small bridge over a creek, and the interim bridge was a few palm trees in a row. Not exactly 4x4 worthy. As might be expected, we got stuck for two hours and nearly missed a training.

While we waited, a women walked by with a child strapped to her back. When one of the men asked how she was, she said the baby was having convulsions. She was walking to town to try to get treatment and still had miles to go. Luckily, a man with a motorcycle was helping with our car, and my coworker convinced him to take her. I watched as she unstrapped the small child and climbed onto the bike. The girl was maybe 3 years old, her hair in braids and her body limp. It was probably malaria, and she would die if she didn't get treatment soon. What do you do when your child is sick and treatment is miles away? When you don't even have money to pay for the medicine when you finally get there?

To us in the States, mosquitoes are an annoyance. They give us red marks and they make us itch, but they don't kill us. The New York Times says that mosquitoes kill more people worldwide than any other creature (though it is actually the parasite the mosquito carries, not the mosquito itself). How, with all of our knowledge and technological capacity, are people in our world still dying from mosquito bites?

Osman

I was handed a letter the other day. It's from a teenage boy who lives down the street from my house. Every morning I walk past the stall where he sells cigarettes, soap, candy, etc. He sets up his stand, placing each item in the display as children pass on their way to school.

Dear Madam,

How are you? Hope everything is fine. I'm really happy and I appreciate the way you are talking to me. You make me remember some white people in my village. They were missionaries, they opened schools and churches in my village. They used to love me so much but due to the rebel war they returned back to their country. So that's why when I see you I remember them, because they promised to help but the war spoiled everything. I'm praying that Almighty God will make you succeed in anything that you are doing so that you will not forget me.

From,
Osman

The day he gave me the letter I went home and cried. I cried for all of the hopes and plans ruined by the war. I cried for the families forced to leave their homes, businesses, memories. I cried for Osman, a boy who lost everything and has now put his hope in me. Me who has nothing. Me who doesn't know how to handle the situation. I am not worthy of this.

A soccer ball and school books

It is hard to think of someone in a worse situation than the people in this country with mental disorders. They wander the streets, yelling at passersby or walking slowly and silently while others stare, laugh or pretend they don't exist.

After the war ended in 2002, there was funding for PTSD and a few organizations were offering services, but no one was committed to long term recovery. There is only one psychiatrist in the entire country and there is one mental health rehabilitation facility. One for a country of more than 5 million.

I spoke with a woman from the rehab facility last night, and she told me about one of her patients. He thinks the war is still happening and he talks about it constantly.

Someone told me that after the war, many NGOs focused on reuniting the former child soldiers with their families. They brought them all to big open fields, and handing each a soccer ball and school books, sent them back to their families and communities to get on with life. That was the extent of rehabilitation for most of them, these children who were stolen from their homes and made to see and do things I can't even comprehend.

Just yesterday I saw a young adult male walking slowly, aimlessly down the middle of the road. His body was bare except for a ragged pair of pants hanging loosely on his hips and dirt caking his skin. Where was he 10 years ago? Was he forced to fight? What did he see and do? What does he still see in his mind, and why will no one help?

Boy with a skinned knee

We stopped by a community to talk with the elders about a water project to help with their high rates of diarrhea and malnutrition. They pulled up wooden benches and I sat and listened while they discussed in Krio. A group of kids gathered around, giggling at me and tentatively touching my hair.

Just across from me, a little boy of about 2 years fell and scraped his knee. His hair was patchy and discolored and his stomach distended. He started crying, but the adults were talking and no one paid him attention. He sat down on a tree root, holding his knee with moist eyes and his face in a frown. Minutes later he was still upset and I watched as he rubbed his knee and wiped it with his shirt.

I know it is strange, but I was glad he was upset. I was glad because his crying and his frowning showed me that the pain in his life wasn't so bad that he didn't feel it anymore. His sadness showed me that at 2 years old, he hadn't given up.

One life

He sat on the side of the road at the roundabout, listless and still. His shirt hung off his impossibly thin shoulders and his legs stuck out straight in front of him. He had dirt dusting his shorts and face, but the first thing I noticed were his feet. Almost everyone in my neighborhood wears shoes, even the children, but his feet were worn and bare.

I stood across the roundabout waiting for my ride. I felt a pull to go to him, to ask if everything was okay and how I could help. But those seemed ridiculous questions- how could he be okay?

I walked over to where he sat, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t move at all. I felt others watch, wondering what the white girl would do. I wanted to invite him to my house, give him a shower and a change of clothes, take him to the clinic down the street and give him meals and medicine until he was better. I wanted to show him love and give him hope.

He looked to be about my age, but it was hard to tell because years of sickness and hunger had distorted his body. His bony arms, marked by avenues of protruding veins, sat lifeless at his side. I did not know what to do and I was scared. What will other people think? Will he understand me when I speak? What if he is dangerous? What if his problems are too complex for me to help?

“Here is some money,” I said under my breath as I held out a bill. He snatched it from my hand and put it in his shorts, never looking up. I continued walking and waited for the car about a block down the road. A few minutes later he stood up and walked away. Everyone he passed turned and stared. He was out of place even here, exceptionally thin in a country filled with malnutrition. I saw a mother reprimanding her son, and they stopped what they were doing to watch him walk by, slowly, jauntily.

I felt a sudden and violent pain in my stomach. I had allowed my fears to prevent me from helping this man, this human. He deserved dignity, and all I could do was hand him enough money for a meal. Am I not here to serve? Am I not here to love? Am I not here, in this world, to care for the orphans and the widows and the “least of these”? It is easy when the widow is a kind grandma who needs someone to talk to, or the orphan is a girl with braids who wants to play. What if the “least of these” is a sick, desperate man with difficult problems sitting on the side of the road?

In public health, we design programs to improve the health of populations. The malaria program I am here to work on has the potential to save, literally, thousands of lives in Sierra Leone. But, how can I ignore the one life right in front of me?

Prayers

For those who pray, please pray with me for:

Kampala and all of the terrible, terrible things that happened on Sunday. I can't believe that something like this could happen in peaceful, safe Kampala. Please pray for comfort for those who were there and for the families of those involved.

One of our guards who lost a family member last night. His family is out in the provinces and he is going to be with them for the next few days. He could not look me in the eyes when he told me this morning. Pray that David and I would be able to be there for him and connect with him despite our cultural and language differences.

Patience in dealing with taxis and drivers. They are always late, if they show at all, and I'm having trouble having to depend on them so much. It's the rainy season so I can't really walk unless I want to trek through water overflowing from the sewage drains(which I did this morning when my taxi didn't show up).

Thank you!

Yet time continued to pass

Today was rough. Something happened that I haven't been able to get out of my head, and just writing about it makes my heart race.

I was running by the harbor and ahead of me I saw a family walking down the sidewalk. They looked liked tourists with their hats and cameras. The teenage son said something to the mom and she laughed in response. Then, just as I was about to pass, something happened. The mom answered her phone, and within seconds she began to sob hysterically and collapsed to the grass. The dad told the boys to sit down and the mom held the phone to her ear while she let out high pitched, painful sobs. It was the kind of noise you never want to hear. It was the kind that is inside of all of us, just waiting for a time to come out. I wondered what the bad news was. I wondered if the family would be okay. What would they do next? Where would they go?

And then I kept running. I looked back at the family sitting on the grass, knowing they were beginning a time of devastation and grief. But, within minutes they were out of sight. For me, nothing had changed. The sun did not stop shining. Time continued to pass. My legs kept going.

Prayers for Haiti

(Tents act as makeshift shelters. Photo by the United Nations Development Program.)

The grandmother with a face covered in dust and a voice strained from crying. The girl with braids and a dress who lies covered in rubble. The stunned people running through the streets, looking for help but finding no one. The father who, in one moment, lost all 4 of his kids and his wife. The parents still searching and praying for their lost children.

It's been hard to stop thinking about Haiti. The heartache and suffering are so immense that it seems as though it can't be true. Each loss is a tragedy, and combined they form a situation that is incomprehensible. If any good can come of this, perhaps it is that people in America and other developed countries might recognize the need to strengthen places like Haiti before disaster strikes. Once the emergency teams are gone and the situation stabilizes, the need will still remain.

I am reminded of the lines from Hotel Rwanda, when some men film the genocide in hopes that those on the outside will be moved to act:

"How could they not intervene when they witness such atrocities?"

"I think if people see this footage they'll say, 'Oh my God, that's horrible,' and then go on eating their dinners."

Please, let us allow ourselves to be affected by Haiti and the DR Congo, Burma and Afghanistan. These are our people, our brothers and sisters, who are in pain. Their hearts beat like ours and their pain feels like ours. They need our attention and prayers, even after the camera crews are gone.

Mourn with those who mourn

"Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it.... And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer. Those who can sit in silence with their fellowman, not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life in a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears in grief and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken."

Henri Nouwen

A dear friend of mine is going through a heartbreaking time. Everything in me wants to make things better, but I feel powerless and I don't know what to do. It is terrible to feel powerless. 

We are to mourn with those who mourn. We are to pray. These things I can do. Please pray with me for my friend and her family. Pray for healing, strength, and hope.

Grace

It is one of those times when my spirit feels heavy and discouraged. So much of life is sad. There are layers upon layers of pain and grief that every person carries, whether visible or protected inside, and my burden is that I tend to take others' sadness as my own. My sweet friend Vanessa gave me these verses yesterday, and they remind me that I don't need to be strong. It's okay to cry and breathe in the pain of this world. His grace is enough. Thank goodness.

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:7-10

Leaving San Luis Obispo

I feel things deeply. I try to embrace the emotion of life because without it- the emotion- events pass without being fully experienced. So, though I am good at change, and my soul needs change, I am unable to let it happen without nostalgia and tears.

There was the time my family dropped me off at college. We unloaded my things, had lunch and laughed relaxedly, but all the while I felt the gravity of the situation. I was on my own. I was excited, I was scared, I didn't know what to do about all of the cute boys everywhere, and I was irrationally afraid of being unable to make friends and having to eat dinner alone. When it was time for my family to leave I said goodbye and gave long hugs. The minute they walked out of my dorm room I turned, laid down on my new bed, and cried with my head in my pillow. I heard a knock on the door, and hurriedly I wiped the tears away. It was my dad, returning to hand me a stuffed animal I had forgotten. I smiled and pretended I was fine, but it seemed he knew I'd been crying. I remember the look on his face, and my longing to follow him down the stairs and into the car. Though I was beyond excited for college and the new experiences it would bring, a part of me needed to mourn the life that had passed.

I have been here for 6 years, a quarter of my life, and many of my most meaningful experiences are connected to San Luis Obispo. It was here that I made life-long friends, realized my gifts and interests, held my first job, met my husband and was married in the sand. And though I am looking toward the future with big, happy eyes, I cannot leave this place without feeling sad about what I am leaving behind. So when people ask, "How are you feeling? Are you excited or are you sad?" The answer is, "Yes." And I am about due for a good, long cry.

A crown of beauty instead of ashes

I am usually thankful for tears. The welling up of feelings and pain finally overflows into an exhale of relief. Then there are other times when the pain is so big and so terrible that tears don't help. Instead of relief, you feel exhaustion and bitterness and a terrifying lack of control. My sister Kristin died almost 4 years ago, and I still feel those tears. And then sometimes, when the tears are far away, I feel guilty that time has passed and I have moved past too. And I worry, did I grieve properly? Am I grieving properly?

These past few days stories of death and loss have been all around me. One of the volunteers at my work has lost 5 people this year. This week she came into the office, and I overheard her say, "It is good. I know that doesn't make any sense, but it is good. It only makes sense in God's kingdom."

I know it is the experience of pain that makes other moments sweet. And life is rich when we live in all sides of it. When we breathe in the pain. When we do not rush to replace it with fleeting joy. When we can sit, feel, grieve, and accept.

God is weaving our lives' experiences into a tapestry of redemption and reconciliation. One day we will see the pain there with the joy, and we will see God's spirit through it all. What seems so arbitrary now will be shown as a piece of a plan much bigger than ourselves. This is not the end. No, this is a step on the way to a much better end. There is more. We must hope.

"...to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair...." Isaiah 61:3

A message from the Greenes

(The precious Greene family. Photo by Ken Kienow.)

A few days ago I got this sweet message from the Greenes, all the way over in Kenya (en route to Sudan).

Oh how I miss you Egret and Bear

Without you around, just how shall I fare?

I must, but it hurts down deep in my heart

Your sweet smiles and laughs and stinky old farts

I remember with fondness and tears and I think

I would rather have you than a coat made of mink

The farts part is for David. Trust me. I just got another email from them, and I quote, "Jonathan said he doesn't miss our home but he misses Uncy David and Aunt Lindsay." I think I'll go cry now.

A chunk of my heart

Today I am missing my friends. Not the ones I turn to when I'm sad or the ones I like to cuddle and chat with, but the ones who stole a chunk of my heart in Uganda a few summers ago. The ones who escaped war in their own country and are attempting to make a life in an unfamiliar one. The ones who don't even know how important they are to me. The ones I want to hug and just sit with and be still.

The ones who send emails saying, "Thanks for loving us and still be in contact with me. Greeting to Dv and you too." They send other emails too, saying, "Hey my best how are U. Here we are fair. We have our friend Amos sick from TB. Good bye, yours Johnny." These are the emails I fear. I am overwhelmed.

My spirit longs to comfort and empathize and say that it will be okay. Amos will get better and you will be well and you will make beautiful music that will make the world dance and sing.

But all I do is pray. And not often enough.

We clasp the hands of those who go before us
And the hands of those who come after us.

We enter the little circle of each other's arms

And the larger circle of lovers,

Whose hands are joined in a dance,

And the larger circle of all creatures,

Passing in and out of life,

Who move also in a dance,

To a music so subtle and vast that no ear hears it

Except in fragments.

Wendell Berry