Tonight my heart is full and I'm having trouble finding words to express how I feel. Please indulge me for a little while here... 

In just a few hours, halfway around the world, my parents will board a plane and wing their way north and then west. Leaving behind them 40 years of ministry in a place that God called them to go and serve faithfully, leaving behind loved ones, predictability, comfort... 

I didn't get a choice in the matter; they met and married there, and then after further education in the U.S., they returned with me and my sister.

I'm so very glad they were obedient  and dragged us along with them! I've had an amazing childhood and youth. I came to know and love the Bushveld and witness God's creativity firsthand - everything from being chased by elephants to crouching down to watch the tiniest insects. I've eaten sun-ripened fruit from trees, witnessed thousands of golden sunsets, drifted to sleep to the liquid sounds of Fiery-necked Nightjars, but I've also witnessed death, hardship, and fear. A childhood in Africa is a lesson in life and death, and life is all the more precious for it.  I may sound like I'm boasted and to be perfectly honest, I guess I am in a way... I'm proud of where I was raised and would not trade it for a thousand childhoods in suburban America. 

Every few years we would return to America and I cannot tell you how out of place I felt... I look and sound American, but my thoughts and ideas probably couldn't be farther from those of a typical American girl if I tried. To this day I feel like a fish out of water - a zebra among horses, if you will. I don't fit in, but to be honest, I've never wanted to fit in. Growing up, our times in the US were temporary. We knew we'd be returning to Africa before long and so I didn't need to put roots down too deep. 

That changed with college however. I've had the privilege--no, the BLESSING-- of returning to Africa a total of seven times since I left for college. I'm so grateful to God for making that possible - because He did! But things had changed, I always came back to the US... I'll admit that it was a sad day when I discovered I had lived more of my life now in the US than I had in Africa.

God has wanted me here in the U.S. and so here I am... I had to learn to sacrifice my plans and dreams to His perfect will. He has led and blessed me - I have no regrets. But even so, life for me here in the US still often feels surreal... it's like an extended furlough and I keep waiting for it to end so I can return to Africa Those visits back felt like going to returning to real life - life as I know and understand it.

So now that my parents are leaving Africa, I am grappling with the knowledge that home as I've always known it, has ended. Am I looking forward to seeing my parents? Having them around, an easy phone call or drive away? Yes, of course! But what people don't seem to understand is that as much as I missed them half a world away, knowing I could always return home, was such a relief to me.

Africa will always be home and I will go back, but it just won't be the same now. I feel uprooted, like a part of my identity is missing. A book of my family's life is closing (there is too much there for it to be a chapter).

I am realizing that this is a perfect opportunity for me to let God know I'm serious about following Him and His will -- I know I need to give up gracefully and not become bitter and angry about losing my home. All I can do right now is cling tightly to God and trust Him as the next book is written - after all, He holds the future in His hands.  

I recently noticed an ad for a church on the subway, they used one of C.S. Lewis's quotes (the first one here). It got me thinking of some others that have struck me over the years and made me think. Here are a few. C.S. Lewis certainly had a way with words...

 "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else". 

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."

“What draws people to be friends is that they see the same truth. They share it.”

“In friendship…we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another…the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting–any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly say to every group of Christian friends, “Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.” The friendship is not a reward for our discriminating and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.”

"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival". 
  
 "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."

Every now and then we have an encounter with a stranger that makes our day. I had one this evening.

 I went for a walk along Wolly beach tonight, camera in tow so that I could try to capture the rising moon over Quincy Bay. 

I was about halfway home and had snapped a few pictures when I noticed two figures out in the water ahead of me. I positioned myself so that they were in the path of the moonlight and felt inspired to capture the scene with my camera. 

A lady walking past stopped to see what I was doing. She introduced herself and as we talked, she settled herself on the wall beside me. She began to share a little of her life. Now in her mid-70's, she had been a graphic artist and teacher. She'd had a rough time keeping a job over the years (art was always the first subject to be cut). She had taught at 9 colleges during her career. She admitted that many times over the years she had asked God what He was up to. With a twinkle in her eyes and a smile on her face, she told me that now she knew why- she found love!

 At the last school she taught at, both she and a colleague were laid off at the same time. They had been friendly with each other and though this experience brought them closer together, they never maintained contact. Many years passed and one afternoon at the local public library, she noticed a sign for a film showing the following day. It sounded interesting so she decided to make a point of going. She arrived early and who should walk in, but her old colleague!! They hit it off instantly and later on, he confided that he'd been trying to find her for the last couple years.

Her face was radiant in the moonlight as she spoke and she seemed so much more younger and vital than her 70 years. We talked a little longer and parted ways, each headed for home.

I fear I've lost the sentiment of the moment in the writing of it, but on one of those nights when the sidewalk is filled with couples strolling arm in arm in the moonlight (and yes, I'll admit that it's VERY easy for a single gal to feel lonely) I walked the whole way home with a smile on my face, thanking God for a simple, but beautiful little love story, for how He works, and for little encounters like this that make my life so much richer.  

I was up EARLY this morning, 3:30AM to be exact. I was taking a good friend to the airport. He was here visiting us from Mozambique and we've had a lovely time together these past few days. I drove him to the airport in good time and saw him off, then drove back home.  


The sun was rising through the clouds, shining golden on Quincy Bay and I felt compelled to take a walk. I strolled along and decided to take a turn down to Pine Island Salt Marsh.

Almost always, walking down the overgrown trail, tall marsh grasses around me, I am reminded of the African bush. I confess I'm feeling particularly nostalgic today too because I have to make another trip to the airport tonight to say goodbye to my Zulu professor -- her friendship has meant SO much to me these past few years. Absorbed in these thoughts and the anticipation of my own upcoming visit back to Africa, I noticed movement ahead of me. I froze.  Sometimes on the weekends people have parties in the marsh, littering it with beer cans and cigarette stubs. I didn't think anyone would really be doing that on Memorial Day morning, but I proceeded a little more slowly just the same.

The trail turns and going over a slight rise, it gives way to a wide clearing containing an old veterans’ cemetery. As I drew nearer, I noticed a man standing in the cemetery.  I didn't want to approach too closely, so I kept left and skirted around the clearing, watching him.

In full uniform, this veteran had carefully placed his officer's hat atop the stone monument with an inscription identifying the cemetery. A ceremonial sword was leaning carefully against a bush to the side of the monument. He stood to attention and then took hold of the ropes on the flagpole, lowering the flag. As I continued to watch, he stood there some moments, holding it at half-mast. He then raised the flag for a brief moment, before lowering it again and pausing once more. He repeated this several more times and I can only imagine that he must have been honoring, in his own private way, friends or brothers lost in battles past, or perhaps it was in honor of those comrades at rest, seemingly forgotten by the rest of the world tucked away in this sleepy, wooded cemetery.

I felt like an intruder as I stood there, watching this touching and very intimate scene. And my attitude began to shift....let me explain.

I confess, I've been rather ambivalent when it comes to American patriotism.
Why, you ask? Well...  it's that whole missionary kid thing. Divided loyalties, I suppose. Not that I'm against America or anything, but I've never ever really felt completely American -- there is a side of me that is fiercely loyal to Africa and yes, I confess in the past I was even a little skeptical about America and what I consider its materialistic tendencies. But, as I stood there, I could not help but feel deeply moved and proud to be an American too, giving thanks for all of those who have so selflessly given their lives so America can enjoy the comfortable life it has -- and it is, BELIEVE ME!!! 

We talk of economic hardships here these days.... but sorry folks, you have NO concept of hardship!! I've seen what a country looks like coming out of civil war, on its knees in complete and utter shambles. The US was that way too, once upon a time long, long ago. But it's because of the sacrifices of those back then -- and those today -- that we enjoy the many blessings and privileges that we have now.  

So if like me, Memorial Day for you has been just a holiday -- a time for cook-outs or sleeping in -- I hope  (if you managed to read all of this) that you will pause for even just a moment to think about those who sacrificed so that we can live here safely and comfortably. 

Have you ever stopped to look east at sunset?  Turning your back on the dazzling golds and magentas of the west, facing instead the softer hues of pink and violet, descending into a smoky blue on the horizon?

I remember these colors from my childhood, as the heat of the African sun dissipated into the cool relief of night. My friends and I would often gather in the evening at an old swing set. It had been there when we first arrived, on the western side of our house at the Arthurseat Mission. Someone had thoughtfully added a second swing. Two of us would swing, while the others hovered around waiting for a turn. We would swing and sing as loudly as we could:

“Thula, thula sizwe, ungabokhala…”  

For some reason we almost always faced east and towards those muted colors. Perhaps it was because it was toward the house and we knew Mom would call us in at any time. I remember watching the great, golden disk of a full moon rise from behind the house. It was unbelievably large and as it cast its dull light in the early evening, the shadows and light distorted the trees and bushes around us. The old cactus on the far side of the yard would transform itself mysteriously into a hunched up, watchful little Tokoloshe, the little goblin of African folklore. We would dare ourselves to stay at the swing. Sometimes we managed, but more often than not, the Tokoloshe would unnerve us so that we would scatter… scampering to home and light and safety.

These memories revisit me time and again. So years later and miles away, I stand on a crowded train leaving Boston, gazing out the window, with my back to the sunset, facing those familiar colors. It occurs to me that my memories are in fact much like those colors – soft and pleasant. They lack the vividness and sometimes unbearable brightness of the colors of sunset, but they are beautiful and familiar.

May they linger long. 

Today is the official start of this blog...  I was (am?) still using blogspot (see here), but my posts tend to be rather sporadic. I've moved some posts from Facebook over here, in an effort to consolidate things... 

I've been admiring the beautiful Fall foliage on my treks in to work and back... the trees here in New England really are beautiful. Call me silly, but despite their beauty, I've never liked them the same way I do the trees in Africa. Am trying to figure out why that is... and yes, I'm weird because I've actually pondered this many times. 

Am thinking "out loud" here... I guess I've come to the conclusion that it's a combination of reasons. I grew up climbing trees and can remember almost all the trees on the old Arthurseat mission where we lived in South Africa. The trees there don't grow so tall and their branches spread wider...perfect for climbing or building tree houses. Or they provided fruit of some kind--marulas, avocados, mangos, guavas... Here the trees grow soo tall that it's as though they are totally apart-- aloof from the ground below. 

New England natural habitat is largely forest, so of course the trees all grow very densely together... I've found I sometimes feel something almost akin to claustrophobia not being able to see the wide open sky. Where I grew up, looking out over the dry bushveld in winter, you could see a green ribbon winding through the brown, dusty landscape -- lush mahoganies and sycamore figs stood proud, signalling a permanent water source. 

A big tree in Africa really stands out...and it's more than just a habitat for birds and animals. It becomes a landmark, it provides shade for a bustling market or a Sunday church service. It provides shelter from rain and starving cattle stretch their necks to feed on its leaves, possibly their only real source of nourishment in a drought. 

Trees in Africa have character, there are the towering baobabs, looking so odd and out of place with their thick trunks and stumpy branches, looking as if they really were thrown upside down out of heaven like the legend states. There are the ghostly leadwood trees, ancient and knarled, their dead trunks bleached white. There are the umbrella thorns with their flat tops, so stereotypically African, but each one unique. There are the coral trees with their bright red blossoms in the dead of winter, the fever trees, their bright green trunks a contrast against the tawny bushveld. The list could go on and on... 

I do miss the trees over there. I had my favorites that I would look out for on our travels... several glossy Natal Mahoganies on the Sabi River, a Sycamore Fig on the roadside of the road between Lomahasha and Simunye in Swaziland, the Fig in our backyard in South Africa. 

I am happy to report however that with time, I'm finding I now have favorites here in the US too... and I thoroughly enjoy marking their progress as the seasons come and go. 

Today a man visited our library. When he walked in, I thought he looked like a real character... ill-fitting clothes, two book-bags dragging along behind him and a rather wild look in his eyes. I thought to myself, "Oh dear, what do we have here?".  I remained in the back of the library working and since I was the only one there, I kept my eye on him. 

He finally made his way back to my desk and started to grunt at me very loudly and unintelligibly... I was confused for a moment and then he managed to say very loudly "deaf!" and point to his ears. He gestured for a pen and I quickly obliged. He introduced himself by name and went on to say he was from Congo (former Zaire) and proceeded to list the languages he spoke: English, French, American Sign Language... I quickly wrote back, introduced myself and apologized that I did not know sign language. He grinned and shook his head. 

I asked him if he needed help finding anything in particular and he shook his head no. I left him to explore the library at leisure. It soon became evident though that he was looking in the wrong places --in our book donations, unprocessed books, etc. so I went over and showed him a section in our pamphlets on Congo/Zaire as well as some documents. He was so thrilled, he could hardly contain himself! Later on he returned to me to ask about photocopying some of the old newspapers he'd found. 

I had to wait for someone to come back from lunch and then I escorted him downstairs myself. The guy in charge of the photocopy room came out to help us and was able to print the front pages of the newspaper on large sheets of paper. The Congolese guy was SO excited... Steve and I couldn't help but grin.

I wasn't able to find out if he had money to pay for the copies and had warned Steve prior, and he replied, if it was just a couple copies, he could have them for free. It turns out the man had understood me and reached out with a dollar bill to pay for the copies. Steve shook his head no and the guy stared at him in disbelief and then broke out into the largest smile. His entire face absolutely shone! Though he couldn't speak, we could tell how grateful he was. As he and I turned to go back upstairs, he looked back at Steve and they exchanged a thumbs up and Steve put his hand on his heart. Just a little moment, but all the same, very moving. 

Not sure why I felt compelled to write about this, but this job of mine is SO much more than just a job... As an African Studies Library, we own things that many countries in Africa today no longer have (due to natural disasters, civil wars, etc.) or that are virtually inaccessible - government documents, speeches, constitutions, and many other things. To many they are rather faded, sometimes torn old pieces of paper or dusty books, but to some of the people who enter our doors they are so much more! It's a real privilege to be able to assist these people and be on hand to witness their excitement as they hold their history in their hands. 

ADDENDUM: March 2010

Months after I posted this, Albert has become a regular fixture at the library... he shows up every Friday and his face glows with the biggest smile in greeting! 

He wanders around our collection, reading up on all the French-speaking countries and then he watches African news videos online. He's become my 'informal informant', tapping me on the shoulder to get my attention and then solemnly handing me papers, one at a time, often badly creased. He makes sure to point out what they are--events having to do with African going on in the Boston area. Some of them are so obscure, I've no idea how he finds out about them---African student organizations meeting at MIT, a church concert with African singers to raise funds for an orphanage in Kenya and the list goes on and on. If they're public, I stick them up on our bulletin board --much to his obvious pleasure. 

The rest of the staff have come to know him too and we miss him on the odd Friday he doesn't show. He's taught me a little sign language, but I often forget, I fear. I really do wish I knew more about his past and how he left Congo to be all the way here in the United States....