Despite the wars that rage sporadically in my mind and chest, I have seen and felt things in the world that taught me that I have a soul - that place buried deep enough inside me that shuns the ugliness of experience but absorbs the wonders of God's creations and the smallest of bits of human kindness. I have seen very beautiful things.
Last week, I walked out late into the cold evening and looked up to see a large, singular orange star. There was nothing else in the heavens at that moment, just the constant unflickering light from this object shaped like a simple snowflake. I stood there beside my truck just looking at it. I didn't know what it meant, didn't care, just stood there admiring the stark contrast between this orange beacon in the black/gray sky and my impulse to rush off to nowhere. I don't know how long I lingered there, but I was grateful for the chance to think I alone was privy to this sight, it was my star, my God putting His hand on my shoulder slowing me down, cracking open the night to smile at me.
A dozen or so years ago, I was literally in the middle of nowhere in southern Tanzania doing a site visit at a girls school, checking in on Mona a young Peace Corps volunteer teaching there. I didn't know Mona very well, and I had just completed a very difficult visit to another volunteer a hundred miles down the road (road used liberally here) and the residual unpleasantness had not faded during the three hour trek. The volunteer, Jim, had been fine - it was an issue I had with one of the Tanzanian teachers that had upset me. Jim had shared with me that he was very concerned that this teacher was known to extort sexual favors from his female students, and had even beaten one recently. Jim reported all of this to his headmaster who seemed to dismiss it. As an middle-class American liberal, Jim was outraged and had a difficult time dealing with the actions and the subsequent disregard of the the administration. He could not understand why the girls' parents hadn't taken action, and he was very frustrated. I talked to him for a bit, then went and spoke to the headmaster. Things were a bit more complex as I suspected - the teacher had strong connections in the Ministry of Education that the entire community was aware of. The families of the young girls knew that any protest could jeopardize the slim chances these young women had at a meaningful education. I did my best to explain this to Jim, to let him know I empathized with his suffering and that he should respect the pain of the girls and their families. It wasn't my best ever attempt at support, but he respected my effort. I resolved to leave things as they were and leave, perhaps to check back in a few months. I didn't make it out of the school compound though, as other more primal, ugly instincts prevailed.
Although I had visited with most of the teachers that day, I hadn't seen the teacher Jim was so upset with. As we drove through the school to the main road, I saw a thin, haggard man sitting on a chair outside of one of the teachers' houses. We were driving slowly as students were all about, and I noticed a young girl emerge from the house with a glass of water, shyly offering it to the man on the chair. We were just passing them as she turned to look at the Landrover when I noticed a large bruise under her eye. I barked at the driver (a lovely young man named Morris who I spent a lot of time with) to stop and startled him. He did, then looked over at me, saw my rage, and grabbed my arm as I was about to climb out. That simple gesture gave me a bit of perspective and composure, but I was still getting out and I was going to at least have a discussion. Morris followed me over to the man, a few feet behind me. I walked up to the molester, looked at him, smiled, then reached over and grabbed another small chair near him and pulled it up beside him. I sat down and greeted him in Swahili. He grunted and Morris grimaced. I realized the teacher was drunk and that only fueled my anger. I worked hard to smile so that the students and teachers that surrounded us did not suspect a problem. He looked at Morris though and knew nothing good was about to happen.
I leaned in towards him, said a few things in English to ascertain if he could understand my language and that he wasn't too drunk to appreciate my next few words. I paused, thinking carefully about the next minute and even thought of abandoning my plan when I glanced past him and saw the girl. She was several yards away and looked terrified. A million thoughts raced through my mind about him retaliating, her suffering, other girls being molested, and I wasn't aware that I had begun my short speech to him. I remember I was still smiling, perhaps channeling John Wayne, and I said "I have heard you have put your hands on some of Jim's students. If you do again, I will leave him (Morris) in Dar es Salaam and I will come down here by myself and I will kill you." I could tell I had surprised him, and I could see a deep malevolence in his eyes, but also a portion of caution despite the alcohol. I asked him if he understand, and he made the most subtlest of nods. I stood up, turned back to him and said "part of me hopes I get to come back to see you." Morris, the only witness who overheard the conversation was horrified. He knew this could cost me my job, he knew I was taking a terrible risk and that other innocent people could pay for my selfish indulgence. We got in the vehicle and started our long journey to see Mona later in the day.
Morris and I never discussed it, and a familiar feeling began to wash over me - a dirty, filthy sense of my ugliness that could not be abated by any amount of rationalization about chivalry or justice. Honestly, I often wondered (and still do) why God put those feelings of protection in my heart as well as the subsequent realization of guilt and remorse. I have had many conflicts over the years, often in defense of others, and no matter how blatant I felt the actions of their aggressors had been, I always, always felt bad afterwards. I was feeling particularly worthless when we pulled into Mona's school later that day, not really up to the pleasantries and protocol of the visit. That all changed the instant I saw Mona trotting over to the Landrover.
Mona was a beautiful, energetic young woman originally from Pakistan who was teaching science at the small rural school in Tanzania. She was bright, probably destined for a productive and respected career in science after she returned from her simple and wonderful gift to the girls at the school. She was excited to see us, and immediately began to chatter about all the things she wanted to show me, all the wonderful things her students were doing. I walked with her to the headmistresses quarters where we sat for an hour or so talking about Mona, issues at the school, and the possibility of sending her more volunteers. I was so excited - there was a perfect synergy between these two women, what we always pray for when we send a volunteer into a village. I was so jealous! Mona and I then went to her classroom where I watched for another hour as she floated through her lesson, demonstrating chemical reactions, smiling, responding to her students who were beaming and excited. It was the single best hour I spent in the country, watching her grace, her passion, her unyielding expectations for her students. When she finished, I became a school girl! We sat there excitedly discussing the lesson, the kids, her plans for new lessons, her gratitude for having the opportunity to be there in that place and time, living a blessing. Finally, we got up to go visit other parts of the school. When we walked outside, Morris must have seen the change in my face, for he gently put his hand on my arm and smiled as Mona and I passed by.
Later in the evening (the school ran two shifts) Mona and I were talking about other challenges and she mentioned that she was concerned that some of the other teachers were practicing corporal punishment, particularly with belts. Almost on cue, we both turned when we heard a girl yelp as a teacher was slapping her extended arm with a belt. I had a sickening feeling of deja vu as I was already moving towards the scene across the courtyard. As I calmly walked over, I thought of Mona and my earlier mistakes. The teacher saw me coming and stopped hitting the girl, but did not release the opposite hand she was grasping. I walked up to the woman, put my hand on her shoulder and asked her as gently as I could to stop. I then asked her to please not hit the child when I was there. She was shocked at first, but then let the little girl's arm go. She turned to me and I intimated with a small head nod that she should walk with me. We walked over towards a building and I apologized for interrupting her. I then told her that hitting students upset Mona, and asked again that she not do that when Mona was around. The woman was silent, but kept walking with me. I asked her name, introduced myself, and we talked about her subject (math) for a bit. After a few minutes, I smiled, shook her hand and excused myself.
I walked back to Mona, who thanked me visibly upset. I talked to her for a long time explaining that the teacher was doing what she knew, what she had been exposed to. Mona knew this, but had such a beautiful heart that she still couldn't deal with no matter what the explanation. I took Mona and Morris to a local restaurant (once again, the word used extremely liberally) and we chatted late into the evening. Morris and and I then drove a few hours to our next school, spending the night in a Catholic monastery. Fittingly, I felt like praying - I prayed for forgiveness and thanked God for Mona's grace. I slept very peacefully that night.
Sometimes beauty emerges from and vanquishes ugliness, a dance that has choreographed itself hundreds of times in my heart, usually in places tucked away in forgotten corners of the world. A few months later, when I read Mona's quarterly report, how that visit had been the highlight of her first year at the school, I remembered my gratitude to God that day and I thanked Him again.
I have seen so many other beautiful things - a woman bent over toiling, rubbing oil into the planks of her dilapidated stairs outside a shack in Jamaica, lovingly taking care of her home, taking time only to turn to smile welcomingly at a big white stranger walking by; a young Muslim woman dressed in modest and austere black, working silently in a plain and drab kitchen delicately creating gorgeous flowers and designs on elegant cakes; a security guard in a London school walking down the hall with a young man, gently admonishing him for some transgression, maintaining a degree of dignity the boy could feel and respond to; my daughters playing together then as babies, now as grown women learning to appreciate each other; African children running down a narrow, winding road to school, laughing and jostling each other, in order (as Morris told me) to stay warm; every lonely tree I saw in the plains of the Serengeti, stoically and silently opening upwards like umbrellas to cloudless skies; UN teachers from Palestinian camps playfully practicing learning techniques in a swank hotel in downtown Amman, refusing to relinquish their dignity and hope to the sins of an indifferent world; the smile that spreads proudly across a student's face as he factors a difficult trinomial while I chide him telling him it was mere luck; the boardwalk of a little dive village on the eastern side of the Sinai at night, paper lanterns, gaudy signs, persistent Egyptian pitchmen, wild cats, a Red Sea breeze; Mohammed and Karima sweetly nurturing Ryan despite his protests and slightly sour disposition; watching my newborn daughters grasp my pinkies in their impossibly small hands minutes after their birth; a million other miracles I have witnessed, whether I appreciated them at the moment or not. They are all still here, treasures from my God, perhaps in deference to all the mistakes and errors I have made with a misguided but ever hopeful heart.
Last week, I walked out late into the cold evening and looked up to see a large, singular orange star. There was nothing else in the heavens at that moment, just the constant unflickering light from this object shaped like a simple snowflake. I stood there beside my truck just looking at it. I didn't know what it meant, didn't care, just stood there admiring the stark contrast between this orange beacon in the black/gray sky and my impulse to rush off to nowhere. I don't know how long I lingered there, but I was grateful for the chance to think I alone was privy to this sight, it was my star, my God putting His hand on my shoulder slowing me down, cracking open the night to smile at me.
A dozen or so years ago, I was literally in the middle of nowhere in southern Tanzania doing a site visit at a girls school, checking in on Mona a young Peace Corps volunteer teaching there. I didn't know Mona very well, and I had just completed a very difficult visit to another volunteer a hundred miles down the road (road used liberally here) and the residual unpleasantness had not faded during the three hour trek. The volunteer, Jim, had been fine - it was an issue I had with one of the Tanzanian teachers that had upset me. Jim had shared with me that he was very concerned that this teacher was known to extort sexual favors from his female students, and had even beaten one recently. Jim reported all of this to his headmaster who seemed to dismiss it. As an middle-class American liberal, Jim was outraged and had a difficult time dealing with the actions and the subsequent disregard of the the administration. He could not understand why the girls' parents hadn't taken action, and he was very frustrated. I talked to him for a bit, then went and spoke to the headmaster. Things were a bit more complex as I suspected - the teacher had strong connections in the Ministry of Education that the entire community was aware of. The families of the young girls knew that any protest could jeopardize the slim chances these young women had at a meaningful education. I did my best to explain this to Jim, to let him know I empathized with his suffering and that he should respect the pain of the girls and their families. It wasn't my best ever attempt at support, but he respected my effort. I resolved to leave things as they were and leave, perhaps to check back in a few months. I didn't make it out of the school compound though, as other more primal, ugly instincts prevailed.
Although I had visited with most of the teachers that day, I hadn't seen the teacher Jim was so upset with. As we drove through the school to the main road, I saw a thin, haggard man sitting on a chair outside of one of the teachers' houses. We were driving slowly as students were all about, and I noticed a young girl emerge from the house with a glass of water, shyly offering it to the man on the chair. We were just passing them as she turned to look at the Landrover when I noticed a large bruise under her eye. I barked at the driver (a lovely young man named Morris who I spent a lot of time with) to stop and startled him. He did, then looked over at me, saw my rage, and grabbed my arm as I was about to climb out. That simple gesture gave me a bit of perspective and composure, but I was still getting out and I was going to at least have a discussion. Morris followed me over to the man, a few feet behind me. I walked up to the molester, looked at him, smiled, then reached over and grabbed another small chair near him and pulled it up beside him. I sat down and greeted him in Swahili. He grunted and Morris grimaced. I realized the teacher was drunk and that only fueled my anger. I worked hard to smile so that the students and teachers that surrounded us did not suspect a problem. He looked at Morris though and knew nothing good was about to happen.
I leaned in towards him, said a few things in English to ascertain if he could understand my language and that he wasn't too drunk to appreciate my next few words. I paused, thinking carefully about the next minute and even thought of abandoning my plan when I glanced past him and saw the girl. She was several yards away and looked terrified. A million thoughts raced through my mind about him retaliating, her suffering, other girls being molested, and I wasn't aware that I had begun my short speech to him. I remember I was still smiling, perhaps channeling John Wayne, and I said "I have heard you have put your hands on some of Jim's students. If you do again, I will leave him (Morris) in Dar es Salaam and I will come down here by myself and I will kill you." I could tell I had surprised him, and I could see a deep malevolence in his eyes, but also a portion of caution despite the alcohol. I asked him if he understand, and he made the most subtlest of nods. I stood up, turned back to him and said "part of me hopes I get to come back to see you." Morris, the only witness who overheard the conversation was horrified. He knew this could cost me my job, he knew I was taking a terrible risk and that other innocent people could pay for my selfish indulgence. We got in the vehicle and started our long journey to see Mona later in the day.
Morris and I never discussed it, and a familiar feeling began to wash over me - a dirty, filthy sense of my ugliness that could not be abated by any amount of rationalization about chivalry or justice. Honestly, I often wondered (and still do) why God put those feelings of protection in my heart as well as the subsequent realization of guilt and remorse. I have had many conflicts over the years, often in defense of others, and no matter how blatant I felt the actions of their aggressors had been, I always, always felt bad afterwards. I was feeling particularly worthless when we pulled into Mona's school later that day, not really up to the pleasantries and protocol of the visit. That all changed the instant I saw Mona trotting over to the Landrover.
Mona was a beautiful, energetic young woman originally from Pakistan who was teaching science at the small rural school in Tanzania. She was bright, probably destined for a productive and respected career in science after she returned from her simple and wonderful gift to the girls at the school. She was excited to see us, and immediately began to chatter about all the things she wanted to show me, all the wonderful things her students were doing. I walked with her to the headmistresses quarters where we sat for an hour or so talking about Mona, issues at the school, and the possibility of sending her more volunteers. I was so excited - there was a perfect synergy between these two women, what we always pray for when we send a volunteer into a village. I was so jealous! Mona and I then went to her classroom where I watched for another hour as she floated through her lesson, demonstrating chemical reactions, smiling, responding to her students who were beaming and excited. It was the single best hour I spent in the country, watching her grace, her passion, her unyielding expectations for her students. When she finished, I became a school girl! We sat there excitedly discussing the lesson, the kids, her plans for new lessons, her gratitude for having the opportunity to be there in that place and time, living a blessing. Finally, we got up to go visit other parts of the school. When we walked outside, Morris must have seen the change in my face, for he gently put his hand on my arm and smiled as Mona and I passed by.
Later in the evening (the school ran two shifts) Mona and I were talking about other challenges and she mentioned that she was concerned that some of the other teachers were practicing corporal punishment, particularly with belts. Almost on cue, we both turned when we heard a girl yelp as a teacher was slapping her extended arm with a belt. I had a sickening feeling of deja vu as I was already moving towards the scene across the courtyard. As I calmly walked over, I thought of Mona and my earlier mistakes. The teacher saw me coming and stopped hitting the girl, but did not release the opposite hand she was grasping. I walked up to the woman, put my hand on her shoulder and asked her as gently as I could to stop. I then asked her to please not hit the child when I was there. She was shocked at first, but then let the little girl's arm go. She turned to me and I intimated with a small head nod that she should walk with me. We walked over towards a building and I apologized for interrupting her. I then told her that hitting students upset Mona, and asked again that she not do that when Mona was around. The woman was silent, but kept walking with me. I asked her name, introduced myself, and we talked about her subject (math) for a bit. After a few minutes, I smiled, shook her hand and excused myself.
I walked back to Mona, who thanked me visibly upset. I talked to her for a long time explaining that the teacher was doing what she knew, what she had been exposed to. Mona knew this, but had such a beautiful heart that she still couldn't deal with no matter what the explanation. I took Mona and Morris to a local restaurant (once again, the word used extremely liberally) and we chatted late into the evening. Morris and and I then drove a few hours to our next school, spending the night in a Catholic monastery. Fittingly, I felt like praying - I prayed for forgiveness and thanked God for Mona's grace. I slept very peacefully that night.
Sometimes beauty emerges from and vanquishes ugliness, a dance that has choreographed itself hundreds of times in my heart, usually in places tucked away in forgotten corners of the world. A few months later, when I read Mona's quarterly report, how that visit had been the highlight of her first year at the school, I remembered my gratitude to God that day and I thanked Him again.
I have seen so many other beautiful things - a woman bent over toiling, rubbing oil into the planks of her dilapidated stairs outside a shack in Jamaica, lovingly taking care of her home, taking time only to turn to smile welcomingly at a big white stranger walking by; a young Muslim woman dressed in modest and austere black, working silently in a plain and drab kitchen delicately creating gorgeous flowers and designs on elegant cakes; a security guard in a London school walking down the hall with a young man, gently admonishing him for some transgression, maintaining a degree of dignity the boy could feel and respond to; my daughters playing together then as babies, now as grown women learning to appreciate each other; African children running down a narrow, winding road to school, laughing and jostling each other, in order (as Morris told me) to stay warm; every lonely tree I saw in the plains of the Serengeti, stoically and silently opening upwards like umbrellas to cloudless skies; UN teachers from Palestinian camps playfully practicing learning techniques in a swank hotel in downtown Amman, refusing to relinquish their dignity and hope to the sins of an indifferent world; the smile that spreads proudly across a student's face as he factors a difficult trinomial while I chide him telling him it was mere luck; the boardwalk of a little dive village on the eastern side of the Sinai at night, paper lanterns, gaudy signs, persistent Egyptian pitchmen, wild cats, a Red Sea breeze; Mohammed and Karima sweetly nurturing Ryan despite his protests and slightly sour disposition; watching my newborn daughters grasp my pinkies in their impossibly small hands minutes after their birth; a million other miracles I have witnessed, whether I appreciated them at the moment or not. They are all still here, treasures from my God, perhaps in deference to all the mistakes and errors I have made with a misguided but ever hopeful heart.
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