beauty in pain

I’m realizing you can’t escape it. You simply cannot. People suffer so much! Yesterday I laid on the hard tile floor and listened to a friend describe her pain. She is a happy person, a really good person too. She shares and encourages. She loves and laughs. But then, she cried, a lot. She cried because she didn’t feel she was lovable. She cried because she didn’t know who she loved, if she loved God, if there was a God to love, or what love even was, much less how she could do this thing, love. She cried because the world is full of so much pain that she wants to fix, to see disappear, but she can’t. She cried because a long-term family friend of hers recently got in a bicycle accident and died leaving a family of seven brothers and sisters and loving parents behind. She wasn’t able to go to the funeral. She has to go back home soon and face the family, at church much less. She cried because she couldn’t ease their pain and so feared seeing their pain.

My parents are divorced. I constantly hear different stories and different sides from my mom and my dad. I fear I don’t know reality anymore or how to trust or care for my parents, much less receive care. I’m confused and feel lonely a lot of times. I’m confused about what the world is and why I’m here and how I can do anything in such a messed up place. I hurt a lot.

A bit ago I was riding my bike and I heard this guy going crazy yelling at this girl. I looked over and stopped my bike to see him choking her neck, forcing her to him, yelling in her face, “Kiss me!” She was trying to get a way but couldn’t. I stood by wanting to do something so bad; I didn’t know much I could do. I started to walk closer in hopes my incoming presence would do something. A guy next to me yelled, “Back off,” to the guy hurting the girl. The real angry guy choking the girl started storming towards me and yelling at me, “What the fuck did you just say to me, I’ll fuck you up.” I stood still and didn’t know what to do. I mentioned to him that I didn’t say anything. He yelled at the top of his lungs challenging whoever said it to speak up. It seemed like he was going to do some real bodily damage if he found out who it was. Nobody talked, he ran over to the girl who had meanwhile retreated. The guy I mentioned that was next to me and I followed him. He broke something over the table he saw her at. A guy at the next table over asked me if we could leave, his kid was crying and witnessing this bull-shit. Eventually the situation wandered away. So much suffering, how do I ease it? I want to.

I’m reading this book. It’s a memoir of a child soldier. He keeps talking about the people he saw burned to death, he talks about those who were mutilated. He talks about the pleasure that the killers showed as they cut peoples genitals or fingers off, as they branded children into their rebellion. I think those soldiers were suffering bad under those smiles. The hurt was so deep they didn’t know joy vs. suffering. They didn’t know joy, only pain. So the pain seemed like joy sometimes.

I listened to a song today by Sufjan Stevens. It was about the guy who raped and killed thirty-three children in Illinois. At the end of the song after describing how the guy hid the victims under his floor board Sufjan confesses that, “In my best behavior I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid.” He points out the secrets and hurts and pains received and caused that we always are hiding. In another song he mentions a lover who has cancer that he prays for but is never healed. Unmet hopes and expectations seem to be everywhere. Sometimes I just try to hope for hope if that makes sense.

I can’t stop thinking about eating disorders. About how my mom’s self-esteem and self-worth have been demeaned so very badly over the years even though she is such an incredible and beautiful beautiful woman. I think about how I get so stuck living for so-called pleasure when it is never actually pleasurable for long and it mainly just hurts. The streets are lined with lonely people, especially on Friday and Saturday nights downtown.

All I want is to love all these people. All I want is for them to see how beautiful they are, for them to be hugged, for them to be known, for them to feel comfort, for them to feel satisfaction, for them to feel hope, for them to feel again. These are really the things I crave too, I want to give and I want to receive these things so badly. Please give these things out when you can. Everyone is suffering. Shoot, the people that annoy you so much or that anger you or that hate you and that hurt you are suffering. I wish I could push past my habits and tendencies and just love all the people in front of me. I wish I knew how to love people the right way each time. I wish I could say something to people and all the sudden they would know that I want no harm for them. I just want good. That I just want them to know they are precious. That I just want them to know that I would love so much to work with them, to be together, and together do good stuff and love more people and keep saying those same words to more people.

I wish I could say these words to everyone too. The problem is these words don’t quite exist. And for anyone to know I really love them it most often takes so much time and consistency. But there are so many people that need love. I’m scared that if I give that time and consistency to some the others I’ve met that are suffering won’t get the love. What do I do about that? I wish I felt comfortable trusting that there were people all around really and truly pouring into other people all around. I wish I was better at being a person pouring love into the people around me. Then maybe I could feel better about even talking to other people about them pouring into others without thinking myself a hypocrite. I just want to remind you, whoever you are with, has suffered, probably a lot. No matter how rich or how poor. It’s a fact of life. So consider your pains and your worst hurts, and remember that whoever is next to you at any given moment has those and maybe more, maybe less, maybe just different. But they are there. So please, please, keep teaching me and others what love is by loving me and anyone next to you, and I want to try the same.

I was also thinking about the good in life though. The joy in life. That it’s not all suffering. I was realizing that the beautiful things, the things that are so sweet, the fact that we smile and laugh; I was thinking how nothing could be truly good like it is without that stuff that just sucks. Without the stuff that I can’t stand, without the stuff that I cry about, the other stuff couldn’t be as good as it is. Would joy be more than merely a numb feeling if it wasn’t in contrast to pain? The potential all this suffering has given us is so great. I was thinking that the more I realize the pain of life the more potential I have in life to bring someone love and comfort and something, anything, good.

I am thinking about the fact that the guy who wrote that child soldier memoir I am reading became an author. I’m realizing that even after the most disgusting sorrows healing is possible at some level, no matter how small. That even the people that have mostly only known pain can smile here and there. That they can become authors, and with families too, no matter how long they were alone in the jungle starving and getting shot at by other men and women who were in pain.

The friend I mentioned does a lot of good. I was talking about that earlier. Sheesh, it is such a beautiful thing to realize the pain from which the good is coming. It makes the good so much sweeter. When one can feel like a no good person and still remind someone else of their goodness by passing on a kind word, prompted by their own pain, beauty emerges.

I want to love people. I struggle swallowing the fact that the amount of people I can love is so few, that it seems insignificant. But when I think about how bad the suffering of the people around me is, and how beautiful it makes any sort of love I can give or good I can do. I have to realize, even if not easily, that that good is significant. Your good is so significant. Love of neighbor, is not merely a command to obey, like a chore to do, a dull action out of obligation. Any small attempt at love of neighbor is beyond words. I tried to think: I thought explosion, I thought tornado, it’s a powerful shake that reverberates and soars? When love is sought past our pain even the most powerful analogies or earthly events are so frail, are not enough, are nothing in trying to describe it. I have realized the prominence of suffering in the world much more lately. However, in that realization, I am noticing the serious richness of any attempts at love. A richness that cannot be exaggerated. We are all hurt so bad and yet in that, perhaps because of that, we can love so much. God help us.

7/19/2010
Austin Crowder

The power of significance…

Both incredible and terrifying.

I fear for the persuasive power that the promise of significance holds.

Post Africa, Letter from Home: Change of Plans

Don’t worry, as many of you already know, I didn’t decide to just stay in Tanzania; that is not the change of plans. Of course I’d miss you all too much to have done that. Doesn’t mean it didn’t cross my mind…

Well, London was great, it’s not quite as much my style destination, but it is a cool place. I was there for just a few days. And, now I’ve been home for a few days. That is weird, huh?

It’s been weird to be home, but life is weird no matter where you’re at, so I guess that makes sense. So, it seems right now life is superfluously weird? (new word attempt) As days go on, Tanzania feels more and more like a distant dream. Again, I hope I get the chance to bring it back to life with some of you more personally. It has been an overwhelming task to try to catch up with the people I want to catch up with while trying to take care of the assignments and various other tasks that have awaited my arrival home. If I haven’t been able to talk to you, email you personally, text you, hug you, or something, know I have wanted to do so for pretty much every one of you, it’s just not as possible as I’d hope. Slowly but surely… (Ahh the sweet embraces to come)

Well, I must update you:
As many of you know, I had been planning to head to Indonesia very soon. I had made plans and arrangements to leave just a few weeks after returning from Tanzania. I was going to be taking off the next semester from school. I had already met several times with financial aid, the registrar’s office, professors, friends, and many others and made arrangements for the journey. I was to be spending between six to eight months there. I was going to be working with a fantastic family who has taken many into their home. Many of those living within their home are recovering from drugs and/or are HIV positive. They live their lives loving amongst the high numbers of prostitutes, people hurting from HIV, and many other communities in great need of companionship and Jesus-like love, as we all are in need really. So, their home had been opened to me and I was thoroughly excited and logistically prepared to be invited in.

Tanzania was a trying and transformative time. I’m sure you could have guessed this. I’d assume those words are likely part of a slogan on some hand out for this program, and probably for most other programs as well. Nonetheless, it is true. Much changed during this time. However, throughout the near entirety of the program I stayed steadfast in my intention to continue onto Indonesia very soon. I often struggled as to understanding if it was what I ought to do, but I stayed true to the plans I had made. However, as time accumulated, the struggle for understanding began to grow. Near the end of the program I felt a shift in what I felt was right for the time being.
I wanted to go to Indonesia to break out of study and talk of loving others as Jesus did (overwhelming my practice of loving others more directly) and go commit myself one-hundred percent to more wholly living that love, right now, in a seemingly more tangible way. Let me re-phrase; I felt incapacitated, by my responsibilities as a student, to go and love people as I felt I ought to. It is not that I ever thought school was wrong or inherently an unloving action, or that it isn’t appropriate to prepare for broader capacities of loving others by learning. I didn’t want to get stuck in a rut. I didn’t want to get so used to discussing Jesus and how he loved that I forgot to go out and do it as He exemplified. I feared, no, fear hypocrisy. The fact of the matter is, I was and am (though in many different ways) confused as to my identity in Christ. I was confused about a lot and not content to live amongst the confusion. I have grown more comfortable amongst the paradoxes now. I was honestly no where near confident in the way of “Christianity,” and I sought to go and dive deeper into loving as Christ did than I ever have, for the sake of discovering if it was the true path it has been built up to be. This is not to be misunderstood as me not having a true desire to go love people out in Indonesia, as if I wanted only to use it as a means to an end. No, the desires for truth and to love others were inseparable for me.

I could go on much longer as to why I desired to go. As to why it seemed so right for the place I was then. As to how I was and am consistently confused throughout this journey of life and love. However, It turns out despite what I may have thought before hand, I was in a different place after three months of being in Tanzania than I was the fall before going to Tanzania. I had witnessed, in Tanzania, much work amongst the visibly hurting. I had come to experience the commitment that it took to loving a community that speaks a different language than you, is part of a different culture, has different needs, and different struggles. I am not one to deny the unity of human kind and the similarities we share, all seeming to be made in the image of one God. We have so much commonality lending itself to relationship and friendship across all sorts of borders. However, to most effectively communicate within these circumstances the love I sought to go to Indonesia to communicate I realized it is not as simple as I had hoped. I realized that I wouldn’t so easily show up in an utterly new context and let my love for someone shine in the way I had hoped it would. It changed my outlook on the time to come in Indonesia. That time definitely wouldn’t be a bad thing, but I understood that time differently after being thrown into a more similar situation.
I also had a conversation with someone who I deeply respect as a mentor that I think shed new perspective on the situation of working through whether I still ought to go or not. This person reminded me that in life sometimes we start things, we take steps in one direction; we put time, energy, heart, and a lot of ourselves into something. However, at times we arrive at a place and realize that though the direction we had began was the right direction for us to head at a given time, it is not wrong to realize it is better we head a different direction that is right for the place we are at now. The first part of the journey is not wasted just because a change in direction seems best now.

This is not to say that Indonesia seemed a wrong direction. However, I spent days and countless hours seeking what direction seemed most right, most good, for right now. I felt that I was at a place where if I went to Indonesia now I wouldn’t be able to have my full heart in it as I believe I would have had I been able to go when I first decided to. I had struggled with being away from a place and people that I love dearly, and I was feeling the effects of that like I had not before. I better realized how exhaustion and confusion from moving from one culture to another, to yet another so quickly could effect my time there. Anyway, during such a serious time of introspection, and with many other factors and reasons, I decided to move towards returning in the fall to Westmont. It was not because I saw Indonesia as not doable. I do not think it was out of fear or apathy. I definitely do not think it was because Indonesia would have been a bad decision. For the place I found myself the decision to return just seemed most right. I don’t know that it was matter of factly most right, but I feel it was.

I then began the process of moving towards returning. When I emailed the person I was to be living and loving with, and the person who I had been arranging things through etc. they were both completely supportive, understanding, and agreeing. They understood how things had changed.

Soon after an opportunity presented itself that I pursued, and it has worked out with ease ever since. When I first realized this shift in plans, I was really concerned about what I would do with my summer. However, I was put in contact by a friend on the program with an organization that is part of Americorps (the domestic version of Peacecorps). It is in Buffalo, NY. It is a ten-week program in which I will be living in the inner city of Buffalo, NY. The first five weeks I will be volunteering with various organizations of my choosing and receiving training. The subsequent five weeks I will be teaching a class of refugees. It is extremely difficult for refugees to adjust to living in the United States. Within six months refugees are left alone to be fully independent. However, many still are not near proficient in English and other needed skills. The summer program offers refugee students, who are struggling to transition into the schooling system and lacking the education to do so, an extra chance to learn and become nearer to being caught up. The grade assignments are yet to be made, so I could be teaching a classroom full of students from any grade. The options are from kindergarten to high school. As many of you may know, thus far my plans after college are to pursue teaching in the inner city, so this program is all the more an incredible opportunity. I also will likely be able to give my Swahili a go, which I would imagine could be an awesome reception to a recent refugee. And, I think my newfound experience in adjusting to a different culture will allow me to experience a better-informed compassion and friendship with those I work with.

I’m sorry this email may not have been quite as enjoyable of a read. That statement may be wrong in assuming that there was any form of enjoyment in my other emails. But, I did think you deserve to know. As a friend, family member, or an odd-mix of both (where blood relation is or isn’t involved) I want you to know what’s going on. All that I do is so often supported, upheld, or possible through the strength of this mystical body that we somehow form together. So thank you. Truly, thank you for your part in my life. I love you. I say that solemnly yet joyfully. I love you. Thank you for being on this journey with me, whether in prayer, or even just subtle interest. I hope that these emails have been informative, transparent, and fun. I have a blog at austincrowder.wordpress.com if you want to continue to journey with me. And honestly I may send another email like this to you here and there, and invite you to do the same. Any thoughts or questions that you have in regards to my decision or any of my experiences or whatever really, always feel totally free. Always feel totally free.

Thanks and Love,
Austin

Also to all you Westmonters, CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU IN THE FALL! Please let me know if you will be gone in the fall so I can especially try to connect with you before then. ANY GRADS: CONGRATS! THAT IS A BIG DEAL, YOU GRADUATED! SERIOUSLY, CONGRATS!!!!!

May 29, 2010

Letters from Africa: “Baba Andrea just washed my feet again and we’re not even in Church” (In conclusion to Letter #5)

Baba Andrea just washed my feet again and we’re not even in Church

So many times during these home-stay days I contemplated, “Is this way of life somehow more intrinsically ‘Christ like’ than that which I have lived before?” I’m not writing here to settle any scores in regards to that question but maybe invite you into my ponder a little bit. I couldn’t help but acknowledge the simplicity of life and priorities that seemed apparent in the actions that I witnessed during my home-stay. Surely the same human temptations and pitfalls were apparent also, even if manifested quite differently. And, perhaps there are reasons why the people that were born into the context of Mbeya were born there and I into my context, one no more or less available to God’s will.

I would imagine things as simple as the cooking or washing up etc, if nothing else, certainly more neared the process carried out in the time in which Christ chose to be a human on earth. Who knows if there is something to be said about things as simple as that? I do know however, that there is something to be said about the hospitality, service, friendship, and simply one’s time that was given out freely within the village. I definitely am not trying to say that within my culture these things are absent. I think even the friends housing me currently are modeling these things. However, has it become too much of an exception to see these things lived amongst a people that it ought to be a pervading habit of?

I can’t think of more than three or so meals within the eight days I lived in Mbeya that were eaten by just Mama, Baba, Colin, and I. A guest was almost always present, often two or three. I also can’t think of a day that we were around the village and we didn’t have chai (tea) or a meal with anywhere from three to ten others inside their various homes. Though Baba Andrea and Mama Vayina had no children of their own, they nearly always had anywhere from three to fourteen children around the house. Some that they housed in whatever floor space they could give. Everyone in the community seemed to be greeted and known upon our passing them. Within the Tanzanian protestant church Alcohol has a very strong stigma and it is often considered bad for a Protestant to be seen with alcohol in any way, which I’m not saying is right. But, even the people brewing the pombe (local alcohol) were greeted and seemed known by the Christians of the village. I really can’t go far into it, before I would be taking up another two thousand words of space, but if you want to hear more please ask when you see me. There were so many ways in which generosity, humility, and mutual service to and love for neighbor seemed apparent in incredible ways.

One example I wanted to briefly mention that is only to be a small token to represent a mode of life that seemed built on strands of tokens like this was how our home-stay father would wash our feet. On multiple occasions we arrived home with dirtied feet at which water would be heated over a fire, poured into a basin, and then presented before us. Colin and I would begin to wash our feet and our Baba would quickly join the event scrubbing all the spots we missed or too lackadaisically approached. He would rub with his hands the dirt off our feet until they shined. I’m not trying to pin this as too extraordinary of an act of service or anything, maybe he just wanted his floors to be clean after all. But these sort of acts, such as prayer and thanks for one another at several points throughout the day, of pouring the water over the others’ hands before a meal, of always serving food to the others before oneself even if that means you end up with just the remnants, beckoned a realization of how I have at times complicated love of others. I wonder if when I get my own apartment, or at my house when I return back home, or even the dorms, I could interact with those around me in the same capacity of humility and love? (valid they have lived around each other for a majority of their lives, but even still)

I tried to wash Baba’s feet after he washed mine, and it was hard for him to allow, he wouldn’t really. I’m not saying that is right, but it does show the incredible humility that seemed intrinsic to his being.

I don’t want to paint too elegant of a picture, as there were definitely many dysfunctions of life in Mbeya; probably many dysfunctions I wasn’t there a long enough time to really see. Some I did see. I saw gaps in healthcare, education, general safety, and other things. However, I wanted to invite you into the pondering of how we might wash each other’s feet? How we might really engage with the people around us? Engage in a way that shows Christ’s love as evident in us and our context as it may be in any other context.

Later Baba Andrea mentioned to Colin and I, “Stay as long as you want, if you want to stay many more weeks, or months, or for a year.” Who knows, I may take him up on that one day. And honestly, I think he would take us on gladly. I hope I’d be willing to do the same for others. I’m so glad for the many that are willing to love and welcome like that, those I keep learning and being challenged by in Tanzania and the US.

Love and miss you! See you soon. Hoping you’re gracious with yourselves and others this week. I will definitely need grace when I return. You are all awesome!

Austin
May 8, 2010

Letters from Africa: My first and likely only moment of “soccer superstardom” (Kwa Mama)

As part of our activities for the week, the village had arranged a soccer game:
“The Wazungu (the white people) VS. The Local Village Team”
(I’m sure their team has a slightly more original name that I just don’t know, we didn’t)

It was a day meant for magnificence. The soccer field was right at the base of Mt. Mbeya, which is a fantastic mountain out here. The sky wavered from purples to oranges and reds throughout the game. The rain off and on poured creeks into the many ruts of the field. A crowd of several hundred locals poured in, a wall around the sidelines. I’d say more than half the village showed up. This was the day my destiny of soccer superstardom would come to pass. Until..

The village team went up by six, seven, maybe eight to zero. And I’m decently confident they were even trying to humor us. I think we kick-and-a-missed more balls then we managed to actually make contact with. Wet grass and worn down running shoes caused for just about anything to bring us down into the mud. Fortunately, getting laughed at had already become a fact of life here. So, “hamna shida” (no problem). However, I had one wish….

Our Baba and Mama (hopefully you got the meaning of those words by now) have no children of their own. Considering their age and the cultural norms of rural Tanzania this convincingly leads to the conclusion that as a couple they are unable to bare children. Feeling pretty sure of this, I honestly felt a new purpose in my living with Baba Andrea and Mama Vayina as their home-stay son. As we went to the soccer game she and Andrea ensured we had water to drink. She happily grabbed my hat to hold and even wore it. She stood on the sidelines with a “son” to cheer on. A son only for a week or so maybe, but they took no time to treat us as their own. As I was on the field, I distinctly remember praying, “God, just one goal, please.” I prayed this solely so I could live my plan to run and yell “Kwa Mama” (for mom) and give her a chance to rejoice in that as a “Mama” would. Who knows if God intervenes for the sake of a goal but all I can say is that the moment came…

After most of the game of not even having the ball on our side, there was a break away, a kick, a near block, and then a soccer ball trickling past the goal line. The village went CRAZY. They had been rooting for us all along. I immediately ran around, hands up, screaming with all I could, “Kwa Mama!” At first, people were confused as I ran around the whole crowd. I was unsure where Mama Vayina was. They all quickly got the idea, and pointed my running hysterics as well as their stares to my home-stay Mother who ran out to the field and hugged me in front of hundreds from the village. This event was the talk of dinner table conversations around the whole village for the rest of our stay and honestly probably still. They couldn’t get enough of it. It was probably one of my, if not my, favorite single moments of the trip. I can’t at whole explain it, but I’m convinced that Mama Vayina’s heart smiled in a way unique to how it may have ever before.

Maybe it’s too sappy, maybe you had to be there, maybe it was just a soccer goal in a random little game. But, this was my moment of soccer superstardom, and it won’t fade fast from my memory.

Letters from Africa: “No Mama Vayina, I don’t do drugs and I swear I love Jesus (or at least I’m workin on that)”

No Mama Vayina, my Tanzanian mother, I don’t do drugs and I swear I love Jesus (or at least I’m workin on that)

One of the last church services of our visit Pastor Jophet asks me to come up in the middle of his speaking. Pastor Jophet is the head pastor of the whole region in which we were living. A region containing many churches. He is sorta the “big man” and his boisterous presence attests to it. Well, at this point I am thoroughly confused. Once I get on stage he pulls me in tight around my shoulder and waves for the photographer of the village to get a picture of him and I (the photographer is a teenage kid who has an old 35mm camera and will take a picture, get it developed, and sell you a print. It’s really a lucrative business for him). This didn’t help my confusion at all. He begins to speak and a friend on our program who is fluent in Swahili translates.

He announces to the crammed church, “You know everyone, on the first day when all the students arrived, Austin’s mother (Mama Vayina) sat in the back and prayed that of all the students she wouldn’t get chosen as Austin’s mother.” Yep, I at first didn’t even have a clue what he was saying, just heard the whole church roaring with laughter, then it was followed by the translation and all my fellow students joining the laughter. Lucky for me, double the laughter! I kept smiling awkwardly and waiting to see where this was going. I can’t deny I was having some fun with it. He continues, “She was incredibly scared of him and convinced he was a drug addict and a trouble maker with his dreaded hair and big red beard (<- a product of Africa you’re yet to witness, I can’t deny it is scary).” Well this is a good reason to be pulled up in front of everyone, right…? I surely hadn’t helped this perception of my persona either. On the first day as my “parents” stood up front in the church and my name was called to go greet them. I ran up, fully extended arms, and hugged my new “parents,” hugely embracing them for a good five or ten seconds past the awkward mark. Everyone was laughing, had I only known what Mama Vayina was thinking. I was just genuinely stoked to meet them, and I’m a “if we’re gonna be family, let’s do it from the get-go” kinda guy I guess.

Well the pastor expanded on the worried thoughts of Mama Vayina a little more and then said, “but now look at them, she loves him, and he has been a great son to her.” It was true. We had seriously bonded over time and grown fond of each other for certain. He explained, “We can’t judge people based on appearance” (I guess this was the tie into the message). He said, “Austin really loves Jesus, this is obvious because of how you can always see him bouncing around and dancing during service” (I think he even acted this out). Well, it seems I am notorious for my rambunctious habits across the world now, and I’d think it isn’t too difficult for you to imagine me dancing to upbeat African music, severely out of step, but even more severely into it. Pastor Jophet continued joyfully, “The reason he looks like this [I wonder what exactly "this" is, hopefully you have to wonder what he meant too] is to reach out to those who may not accept someone like me or any other pastor type.” I suppose this is grounded in truth. I mean in the sense that when I got dreads many of my friends were people without homes and what not. I dunno if it was me reaching out to them though, or them just influencing me like friends do. But I think he was sort of onto something.

Pastor Jophet ended with some Kiswahili, of which I strained to understand what I could. It was about why I look like this, and why Mama Vayina and I have been able to get along well, and why I dance so funny etc. kind of wrapping things up. I thought I had captured the moment that he was about to explain why these things were. I saw a cue for greatness so I stretched my head over to the microphone he was holding and said very declaratively, “Kwasababu nina penda Yesu!!” (Because I love Jesus!!!). It seems I was dead on. The crowd roared wildly with clapping, hoots, and hollers, “amens” and all. I learned from my Swahili speaking friend that I was indeed right on cue; it was as if I was finishing the pastor’s sentence. And that was my great moment of evangelical preaching in Kiswahili, “I love Jesus.” It never fails you. Now Mama Vayina knows I am not a drug addict, I’m slightly less scary then she originally thought, and I even love Jesus/am working on what it means to love Jesus. We ended up as great friends despite an uhh, “unique…” start.

Letters from Africa: Letter #5 – Introduction and Rural African Village Living

Friends!! Family!!

You know the drill, slowly but surely, reading a little of it here and there. Just add it to your summer reading list.

It’s been a while folks. Sorry about that. Though some time has passed now since I lived with a Tanzanian family in a rural village, I thought I’d be decent enough to wait until after finals passed (for you Westmont students) to send out the email (that is the story I’m sticking to). This way you have a little more time and brain power available to be able to follow such convoluted stories.

Well, the school program is officially over. Onwards from the program I spent about a week where the shark meat skewers flow for less than a dollar and soccer on the beach is a nightly habit, Zanzibar. Zanzibar is the main island to be a part of Tanzania. The joy of exploration abounded. From there I arrived in Arusha, TZ where I am with two Westmont Alumni: Tom Shank and Steve Denler. I just climbed Mt. Meru (15,000 and some odd feet) and have been observing and helping where I can with them. Contact with the orphanages out here has been mostly unsuccessful, though it seems it may work to help out a little at one for the next week or so. Then back to the states….

Well, before I get ahead of myself, talking about coming back to the states and all, I should fill you in on a little of recent history.

Home-stay was a heck of an adventure. If you ever wanna live in a little village in Tanzania let me know, I could point you to some wonderful people who are now practically family of mine. A man named Andrea (Awn-dray-a); age: 45, build and facial features: most resembling that of a stout boxer, smile: as wide, full, and often as a child’s. Mama Vayina is a young 37 whose quiet sense of humor, at first hidden, slowly comes out through what could almost be considered as practical jokes. Colin and I were most often the recipients of these. Misunderstandings were always plentiful, only to be matched with deep understandings of a sense of friendship and even family by the end. The time’s greatly rewarding nature was only matched by it’s greatly challenging nature. Life is hard there in that village, yet it has a sense of ease to it as well. The experience is quite hard to pin really.

Everything takes a lot of time: growing food to prepare, getting the food to prepare, preparing the food to be eaten, cleaning, heating the water for a shower, showering for that matter, boiling a drink of water, and so on. But, time is relative, if ever even acknowledged. These things take a long time; but I think the other students and I would be the only ones in the village to notice. Life wasn’t centered on schedules there, but on people and events. (Not to say schedules are bad, or that in the states it doesn’t sometimes take schedules to center our lives on people and particular events)

Let me explain a little more: Church may be starting in five minutes and so Mama Vayina would be mentioning our need to hurry because we were going to be late. However, on the walk to church, Mama Vayina would hardly pass a single person without extensive greeting. She would see a friend and stop for a five minute chat about family or crops or anything and then after the conversation remind us to hurry as we walk. Well, hurry until we saw the next person to greet and briefly catch up with. The pastor didn’t seem to be excluded from this practice by any means. We were really to be thankful for her discipline though. On the way to church she wouldn’t likely accept the always often invitations into one’s home for tea and a chat. These were almost always offered and accepted no matter where else we were going.

Once at church, you partied away until the service was over. Who knew when it was going to end? If there was a time planned for it to end, it was an exceptionally loose approximation. The church may sing and dance some songs together, then watch a family tell the pastor they wanted to sing a song to the rest of us. We would then watch that. “Well, that was cool,” so another family or two or three decides to sing a song also. “Let’s see if the children want to perform a special song too.” It really was more of a party than church, or wait, does there need to be a separation. You don’t particularly set a time for a party to end, or if you do and the party is still picking up momentum it makes no sense not to let it proceed. If someone need’s to leave, “hamna shida” (no problem). They can leave out the front, or back, or side door, whatever, they won’t disturb anyone.

I really enjoyed the focus on events and relationships. And a morning of church like the one I described ended up being not too bad of a morning. Which is good because in eight days we went to church/party six or seven times (It was Easter week to be fair). Well, I could go on describing church and really so much more general stuff in regards to my time in the village but that is another event more fit for coffee or tea, the dining commons, or something. I’ll just tell you a few stories now to help you hopefully get a little bit more of a picture of my home-stay. I think you’ll enjoy them, if you’re brave enough to give em the time to read.

Letters from Africa – Charged by an Elephant (Followed by Conclusion to Letter #4)

Charged by an Elephant

It was one of the most beautiful African nights I have experienced yet. We were given the gift of staying in a luxury lodge for a night at a Wild Game Park (Ruaha National Park). We headed out in a modified open-air Land Cruiser. In an effort to keep this story more brief, I’ll simply put it flat out. We were riding along when we came across a matriarchal herd of elephants. When, the presumably matriarch (dominant female) of the heard turned to stare straight at us. At this point about fifty or so feet away, the gigantanormous elephant let out a shrieking trumpet and began to parade, stomping and then “CHARGE.”

I had been climbing around on the role-cage bar of the vehicle to get a more “adventurous” view. Well, at this point I leaped inside to the bench seat I formerly was in at a pace fast enough that I hurt my toe some in the rush of re-entry. Eventually, maybe ten yards away or so the matriarch elephant halted. Our guides laughed, having known from their experience that this was only a semi-common “mock charge.” Common behavior for an elephant maybe, but not so common of a thing to be faced with. It was pretty amazing.

A minute or two later I thought I was clever, doing my cheesy version of an elephant trumpet, blowing air hard through semi-pressed lips (please try it right now in front of your computer). As soon as I knew the charge was only a threat display it seemed worth trying to provoke another. The elephant I thought had scurried off ended up being in a bush some fifteen feet away. Immediately the elephant poked its head out and let out a loud and threatening trumpet that sent us all into fits of laughter as we had just been scared half to death by the noise of it. Doesn’t happen every day, I wanted to share. Let’s try it again someday together (yes this implies you and I in Africa or something, consider it, keep me posted on your travels, wherever they may be, especially if in the proximity of elephants)

In Conclusion

So, as it turns out this seems like more than enough for you to read for now. I just got back from ten of the most incredibly educational, challenging, enjoyable (in a totally different sort of way than usual), adventurous, and flat out exciting (though at the same time monotonous) days of my life. Living with Baba(Father) Andrea and Mama Vayina in a small village of the Embea region proved to be such an incredible thing. I decided I will leave you all with this email for now and work on the one about my time in Embea for the next chance I have to send out an email. So expect that to come. I think it will likely have the most interesting tales of my time thus far, it was that sort of experience for me at least. Love love love and miss you all! You all getting this email are INCREDIBLE. Really! I’m thankful for you guys. And look forward to getting back to continue to learn from you all!

Austin
April 12th 2010

Letters from Africa: Islam’s Really Good Attempt at Converting Colin and I

Islam’s good attempt at converting Colin and I

I will try to keep this more brief as I recognize I couldn’t resist embellishing (wow, I don’t know if that word fits, but what a good word) my last portion with likely far too much detail.

It was nearing dusk when Collin and I wandered across one of the many mosques in Iringa. The calls of prayer can be heard throughout the day blasting through the loud speaker strategically placed throughout town. We wondered by observing the beauty of the architecture and I said to Collin, “let’s go in bro.” Collin, by now understanding his need to balance such choices of mine with his slightly more keen sense, offered the cultural/social precautions of doing such a thing, not wanting to disrespect anyone. Eventually, with some deliberation now behind us, we wandered in. We were at first struck with cheery smiles inquiring, “Ohh, are you guys Muslim too?” Of course this was communicated in noticeably broken Swanglish (“Swahili/English:” for the less clever of you, an “in-crowd” of which I am a part of).

Well, Collin and I aren’t Muslim. That was a surprise to them. What brings two young, white, and presumably Christian people into their mosque? (it wasn’t presumable for long, they asked. We answered: “sort uh, um…., yea, we are uhh Christians” admittedly uncertain of our fates from that point). You must understand, Iringa is a hub for Christian missionaries. Did we impose on their worship to come “proselytize pagans?” It was a fair question that I’d assume crossed their minds. Certainly we did not; both Collin and I had come to learn. Just that, learn about Islam. I’m so sick of so many Christians, especially myself, being so ignorant to things we are so dedicated to standing against. I feel I am in good company of unfortunately often condemning where it is solely God’s place to do so. After enough confusion, some fear, and some perceived agitation, I think we got it across we wanted only to learn. And the “neighbors” of ours in Iringa, at the mosque, were more than willing to help us learn however they could. I don’t blame them for their immediate hesitancy, they deserved the right to protect the honor they saw due to the place they perceive as their sanctuary of worship. But now they knew we wanted only to learn, and they were glad to help. They offered, “Come back tomorrow night and there is someone who speaks much better English to help teach you.” So we did, we came back the next night.

Collin and I left the Choir practice we were attending with our host Stella early. We left on a “Dalla Dalla,” a bus-taxi one must enter taking heed to ensure there will be at least a small pocket of air to breathe in, before one jams into the tight squeeze of fellow riders. It’s really pretty fun, and I ought to admit that it is not always so packed. We arrived at the mosque as dusk faded into darkness and walked into the “service” they were having. We took off our shoes, walked in, and sat down on the floor with the attentive Muslim crowd listening to their teacher. We folded our legs, struggling to make sure we didn’t point the bottom of our feet at any other person. This was mostly the full extent of the behavioral etiquette we had knowledge enough of to act on. Then a familiar smiling face from the night before called us to attention and led us to the door. As he did, a pack accumulated behind him, I’d say eight to ten people gathered. They guided us into a little backroom to get out of the rain. I can’t deny that whether it is the continual news reports on the progression of radical Islamic groups or the scenes of 9/11 that stay burned into our memories, some unrest jostled in my stomach at that point. Even still, Collin and I complied and followed them into a small room outside of the main “sanctuary” (I am unsure if that is compatible diction). Turns out we were greeted with kindness in that room.

There was a friendly man who spoke great English there to teach us. He is a doctor who has spent the last several years at school studying the Qu’ran (Spelling?). He and some others had taken several months off work to travel to mosques, currently within the Iringa region, and build up their brothers in the faith. They sought to share their studies and new found knowledge to encourage their Muslim brothers and sisters. The whole group of men seemed down to earth, joyful, and honestly down-right excited to have us there and share with us.

At our request, this man continued to present the “Gospel” of Islam as he saw it. The person mostly sharing with us was backed by smiles and head nods of the others surrounding him. They seemed to be equally intrigued and electrified by the message as the man who was actually presenting it. Our teacher was not insincere and offered a gospel shockingly more similar to what I’ve heard in church than different. I actually loved a ton of what he had to say. He said many good and captivating things. He explained a way of peace with others and the world that he truly saw as truth and truly saw as a gift to him and one he wanted to offer to us and to the others without it. He seemed passionately attached to the “gospel” he offered, and convinced of its truth and benefits to the world. It is important to balance this by acknowledging that I don’t know the way this man actually lives his life, only knowing him for a matter of hours. However, he did present the message in a way that was honestly discomfortably similar to how I’ve seen the Christian “Gospel” presented in churches throughout my life. I attest to this having grown up as a Pastor’s Kid and a bit of a “youth-group poster child.” There were definitely distinct and drastic theological cores of the message presented that strongly differed from that of the Christian message. Most directly that Muhammad is the true, God-sent, prophet of God and that Allah is the one true God with no other parts and no son. Yes, these are huge, but so much of this Muslim’s message truly did captivate the attention of both Collin and I and shocked me as it revealed my complete naivety to Islam and the good that is within it, (not to say that there is no bad within it) and the commonality of the predicaments of these faithful followers of Islam striving for truth and my own failed journey of striving for truth. This as with so much of my journey was another emphasis on the true commonality of human beings even between different cultures and religions. As different as we are, we really are in the same image it seems. And I think we forget to let that transform how we treat each other. About an hour and a half to two hours in, it was the given time of prayer and our new found Muslim friends, after a last attempt to convince us to think about converting now, offered to continue after they practiced their prayer ritual. Collin and I declined knowing we needed to return to our Host’s home.

Collin and I headed back through the glow of random faint lights remaining lit in the town during the night. We actually ended up lost, wandering, completely confused in the dark, unsure of where our host’s home was. We spent the next hour or so within a mile or two of our home but completely lost as to its location. We discussed the unique, yet incredible experience we just had, finding ourselves thankful for it. Discussion was only to be interrupted by the occasional slowly passing car, (driving incredibly slow due to the steep mud puddles and bumps along the dirt road) each car convincing Collin and I that it was stalking us down in the now total darkness to bring us to our demise. Colin and I eventually found home, arriving late enough to have worried our hosts. They received us graciously regardless. Our first home-stay continued as our learning did as well. And an experience like that night has not been quick to leave me. I hope the thoughts it instigates within you, as well, are not too quick to leave you.

Shoot, I don’t know that I did too well of a job to keep it as concise as I may have wished I would have and I’m sure you wished as well. Pole (Pronounced: “pull-lay”; meaning: “Sorry” in Swahili)

Letters from Africa: Letter #4 – Learning about Jesus from a “Rasta” (Preceded by intro to Letter #4)

Well Family and Friends,

Here it is, here I am, only a month and six days from home! The dreams of you all are ever increasing and I am stoked for the day, in not too much more time at all, that they can materialize into the real thing for me (is it creepy to say I’ve dreamed about many of you lately, it’s not a lie, so hopefully not). I hope during summer I can see as many of you as possible, if ANYONE has any road-tripping aspirations for this summer, please consider La Verne, CA as a destination. We’ll have a “ball and a biscuit.” Yea, I’m pretty sure I just completely made that saying up, but I kept fishing for some cool saying for “we’ll have a lot of fun” and no one around me could help me out. I could have sworn there was one that sounded like that. Dang, I don’t have much luck with those cool phrases. Well, “a ball and a buscuit,” consider starting that phrase up with me.

Anyway, if you’ve decided to continue on reading this after the travesty at the end of that last paragraph, I applaud you for being such a true friend to me. This is another update that can probably only be enjoyed if it occupies whatever given procrastination time you may be able to conjure up over the next week, don’t make yourself get through it all in one sitting, but please do take a snip bit of it in here and there this next week. I’m really sorry I haven’t been able to update you in so long. I love and miss you all! Here it goes:

Learning about Jesus from a “Rasta”

So, about a month ago our group embarked on our first “home-stay,” a chance to go out in pairs and live with a local family in Iringa Town, Tanzania. This is a developing urban center in Tanzania and so meant to give us a feel for the tension between modernity and tradition in this sort of setting. It is a setting consistently becoming more common in East Africa. We stayed with a graduate Law Student from Uganda who lives with her nephew. The tension and synthesis of modernity and tradition was indeed intriguing and worth asking me about at some other point if you are interested. Our host, Stella, grew up in a land plagued with the wars of Joseph Kony. Two of her sisters were captured by Kony to become child soldiers or prostitutes ect. Her sisters were only trapped with Kony for one night though, rescued by two nuns who negotiated them free. Kony agreed to take only 25 of the most desirable of that batch of children taken from her sisters’ school. Kony returned her sisters as part of the remaining children not selected. Stella had a fascinating story and my time with her was one also, but it’s another to ask me about at some other time.

I wanted to tell you about a friend, a Rasta named Tin, that I had an adventure with during this home-stay. He is a friend I will likely never see again, and one I only knew for one day, but he lent himself to friendship incredibly and is someone I choose to call a friend. Collin (who is a fellow student that has become a good friend and done both the home-stays with me, he is also my tent mate) and I were on a walk exploring town while Stella was busy with school. We decided we wanted to climb the “hill-mountain” (that’s the only fitting word, even if I just made it up) that lies on the outskirts of the portion of Iringa we were in. In hopes of reaching the hill-mountain, we crossed a gate that seemed to be the only way to navigate to the hill from town but we were quickly met with speculating glances of a guard followed by perturbed Swahili that we didn’t understand the slightest bit of. At that, we headed away from there and ran into this Rasta named Tin.

Tin asked where we were headed. We explained, and he said, “I’ll take ya,” introduced us to his uncle that he lived with, and on we went. Entering the same gate from which we had just been denied, the guard seemed not to care now that we had an escort. We later discovered from Tin it was the gates of a Jail that we had encroached on, which explained the misunderstanding with the guard. It turns out Tin was full of helpful insights.
Having gone to Tourism school in the capital of Tanzania, followed by becoming a tour guide, Tin was full of insight about local vegetation and animals, and to our great pleasure spoke some English as well. It was sweet. And pretty amazing when you consider his background growing up. After losing his parents early on in life, Tin was left to help fend for his many brothers and sisters and left often feeling like the unwanted step child of the distant relatives he has been bounced around to and from for a large part of his life. At our condolences, Tin casually explained, “It’s Africa, people die early of disease.” Tin had coped with and accepted this. He was a fascinating man, an incredibly friendly man. He was the child of a Muslim father and a Christian Mother. He explained he didn’t know what religion he had “inherited,” he supposed an eclectic mix. But it seemed he worshipped a God of Love, maybe even the God of Love.

On our climb we talked about life, hope, and the dangerous and deceitful lure of money in the world. And how at times it seems this lure has captivated the whole world. Tin, with Collin and I in strong agreement, wanted no part in this lure’s dangerous grasp. It was on the way down from the climb that Tin stopped when he saw a young girl looking at a tree that had just sprouted aside a ditch full of trash. Without hesitation Tin stopped to dig out the tree. This took some intensity, he dug down for a little bit with his hands, now covered in soil, and eventually yanked this young mango tree out as a gift for the young girl to go and plant. A sapling like this is a good gift. It is a start to a fruitful commodity (enjoy that pun for a sec). Later, Collin and I shared a bit of a carton of Orange juice with Tin, a carton we had bought from a store in town to treat ourselves. He took a sip or two, and then, he handed the rest to some of the many kids hustling about in tattered clothes. Tin didn’t know these people, and he really didn’t do any terribly extraordinary acts of kindness while we were with him. But Tin had an incredible demeanor about him, which fascinated me, and taught me about Jesus. He wanted badly to meet with us again for another climb. We figured it wouldn’t be too likely, but I enjoyed the talk we had with Tin about our common love for a God that is Love, and his confusion yet satisfaction with the spiritual paradox he exists in. It challenged me to consider how God may be meeting people in different ways, and how people may know Jesus, even if they wouldn’t put it that way. I don’t know that I have much resolve to questions like this, but I thought Tin was worth sharing with you guys, simply because it seems like the questions his life fleshed out in my life were worth sharing.