The Last of the Letters

I suppose it is only fitting that I end these series of letters with one to you, my oldest of friends. I am writing to you now partly because you know me better than anyone else so I can share my heart freely, but also because writing to you seemed like the only way to get past the writer’s block that has been consuming me lately. I am not sure if it is numb apathy or the very opposite – a torrential flood simply held up at the bottleneck of my ability to form words. Either way, hello again. Sorry it has been a while.

The other day I was rummaging through a musty box, one of the many we have scattered in other people’s garages all over the world, and came across an old exercise book from bygone school days, the papery-soft margins of which were scrawled with notes to you. I was filled with nostalgia for those days of my innocence, though I confess I also felt a pang of something close to scorn for my younger self, at a lost naiveté. Now, with the exception of a few good afternoons in quiet places, it seems our conversations are limited to distracted talks over the small but loud children clamoring for my attention, or blurry moments late at night when I can hardly stay awake long enough to hold up my end of the conversation. I am grateful you know me so well, that you understand somehow, even if I suspect you are a bit disappointed.

I have been mulling over that word quite a bit lately, disappointment, rolling it over in the palm of my mind. Sitting here in Nairobi, in this house that hangs on to the cold like an old grudge, I have become better acquainted with its weight and contours.

I am disappointed to not be in North Africa right now and, even with the charter plane scheduled for two weeks from now, I am disappointed to not possess absolute confidence that I will be back next Thursday. I am so thankful that the cell network is still up so I can at least talk to Bryan. He says the rats in the house aren’t as bad as he thought but there are a handful of untrained soldiers stationed underneath the tree outside the front gate that weren’t there before we left. The market still buzzes on like normal but rumors churn in the periphery, always within reach. Everyone sends their greetings. Everyone asks when I will be back.

I am disappointed in David and Lydia’s recent grief. They sit a world away, loving on a beautiful baby girl who was minutes away from perfect. They kiss her sweet face while easing food in through the bag in her tiny belly, bypassing the little mouth and throat that don’t do what they are supposed to. They cherish the treasure they have been given with such faith – I am so amazed at their unswerving confidence in you - while I sit at this desk crying doubtful tears, trying to make sense of the eleven minutes that her heart did not beat. I feel guilty as I try to extract my own selfish fears from sadness for these dear friends.

Speaking of which, I am even a smidge disappointed in my inability to claim my hurts so boldly before you as I sit in the company of Musa and Aisha and Om-Iman and Michael and one billion other people who are talking to you too, all of whom who have disappointments that make mine shrivel to the ground and evaporate into meaningless ash. My hurts are nothing. Nothing. But at the same time they are something too, I think. Aren’t they…?

To be clear, it’s not that I didn’t expect this walk to be hard. I did. We’ve talked about that before. In fact, I expected things to be a little harder than they could otherwise have been. I never expected friendship with you to excuse me from hurt. But when I jumped in head-first it was my head I was shielding from some unknown impending violent blow; but as it turns out it is my arms and legs that are being sliced away, slowly and steadily, an inch at a time. I am finding disappointment in this life to be generally more drawn out than I was expecting. Not a decisive blow, but a vague relentless ache with undefined edges.

I had played through the scenario in my mind of huddling with my kids under a window-sill while bullets flew outside, but that’s not what happened (and I thank you for that by the way. I am not ungrateful.) What happened was not a tsunami but the nauseating swells of constant coming and going, goodbyes upon goodbyes, the heart-wrench of perpetual uncertainty from safe distances and the searing three year old question, “Mama, where is our home?”

Lydia and I had talked about the horror of losing a child to malaria, about what it would be like to give up a baby because we followed you to a place where mosquitoes can kill you. But she doesn’t have that story. Her baby was born in the cocoon of an American hospital near the town she grew up in, and yet may never walk or sing or tell her mama how much she loves her. Do you know how senseless that feels?

So yes, disappointment. Maybe if I were being honest I would realize that perhaps a part of me did expect friendship with you to mean a kind of get-out-of-jail-free card at the end of the day. Yeah, you will get sick, there will be occasional evacuations, the rats will make you feel insane sometime but at the end of the day, when it really comes down to it, everything will be ok. Your kids won’t die, you will have a place to call home, you will get to see meaningful change in the world. But my heart, much slower to catch on than my head, is beginning to understand that this is not always the case. I don't think I am angry about it. Just disappointed. And  maybe a little scared.

At church today the lay preacher spoke on the 23^rd Psalm and I was struck by a passing reference to the words, “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” I hope you don’t mind me saying that I have often found that line a bit unsettling; it suggests pretension or violence directed at some unknown person or people. To me, it’s something a little uncomfortable tucked in between some of the most beautiful words you have written.

But today I saw it differently. I saw myself at my mother’s beat-up wooden dining-room table which was old and familiar and lit with candles and bowls of fruit and absolutely sagging under the weight of her Thai neow-pad-prik and chicken spaghetti, and mounds of kisra, for my North African neighbors who were sitting at the table too because you knew that would make me happy, and turnip greens and cornbread because you invited Bryan, and cheese-sticks and strawberry ice-cream for the two little girls eating with their fingers. The table was heavy with the sweetest gifts you have given me.

But just beyond the warmth of our circle, my enemies watched hungrily. Insecurity and pride bristled their fur. Apathy and anger and selfishness licked their jowls. And fear, nebulous and pervasive but always-present fear gathered its coils in tighter, preparing to spring. And not only them but ebola and cancer, rebel commanders and corrupt politicians, car wrecks, plane wrecks, motorcycle wrecks and all manner of violence and abuse hovered there too. We ate in their presence.

We always eat in their presence.

I am astonished sometimes that you didn’t just set the table somewhere else, somewhere more appetizing. Somewhere more peaceful. Somewhere more safe.

And I am astounded that you decide to spread such a lavish feast for us at all, especially in the midst of this ugliness. The gore and mess of it all doesn’t scare you away. You are drawn to it. To us.

On these days, when I am bold enough to confess my disappointment – in myself, in North Africa, in sickness and brokenness, in you even – for what you have chosen to do and to not do - in those moments I feel you gently closing your hands around mine as I cradle the sharp edges of hope and let this beautiful thing cut me to the bone.

I am clinging to the beautiful people living in a complete disaster of a country. David and Lydia are clinging to a perfect soul in a broken body. And you cling to us. To all of us. Together, in our disappointment and our hope we just hang on in the hurt.

Quite frankly, I don’t know what else to do.

It is late by now. Forgive my ramblings, among many other things. Thank you for listening. Thank you for always listening.

In hope and deep disappointment, I am yours always.

Elizabeth