It's Night in Bujumbura

It is night in Bujumbura. The normal night sounds of the capital city of Burundi are muffled, yes, almost non-existent tonight, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I write from a small, humid room on the top floor of a residence building, listening to the drips of the rain outside the lone window. I sit on a thin mattress on the floor, the same mattress where I will soon lay my head. Next to me sleeps a young man from Congo, here visiting his sister-in-law. Three feet away, another young man tosses fitfully at the sound of thunder… a university student at the University of Burundi. He is studying law and desires peace for this country torn by ten long years of civil war caused by the same tribal disputes that sparked the Rwandan genocide of 1994.

Sometimes I feel as if I am in a dream. Three feet of space separate me from this young man who has lost both his mother and father to this war and yet it feels like I am oceans away from that pain that I sometimes see in his eyes. O the contrast that I feel sometimes…Here I sit with Death Cab for Cutie in my ear and my two-thousand dollar laptop and my petty worries about the scratch on my keyboard, the smudge on my screen, my skinny arms, my pounding headache, the girl in my mind, and the humid air; but, four walls separate me from one of the poorest capital cities on earth, where the majority of people live on less than one dollar a day. It is hard to reconcile the thoughts and feelings that my own blatant humanity produces in light of all that surrounds me. Oftentimes, I worry about going home, back to tv, cinemas, four cars for a family of five, Texas steaks, and apathy, materialism, and “democracy.”

I suppose that tonight I write because these thoughts and emotions need release in some way. I suppose that I am asking for prayer for our little community, our little threesome, as we count down the remaining thirty-four days that we have left together in Africa before Jill and Bethany go home. I doubt that I will find a resolution or understanding in my writing tonight, but maybe the process will bring a sort of catharsis.

Today, as we pondered our remaining five weeks together, our money situation, and the situation in Kenya that affects our return flights out of Nairobi, I felt the oppressive weight of discouragement settle upon my shoulders. Lately, I have struggled so much with expectations…for myself, for the three of us, and for our world. I struggle with the brokenness and disconnectedness I feel between Jill, Bethany, and I…brokenness made all the more evident by the thought of such short time left, by the overwhelming nature of what we must process and deal with daily, and by our broken humanity that falls so short sometimes. I struggle with who I have been and wonder sometimes at who I am becoming. I struggle with the feelings of control and security I must give to God in regards to finances. I struggle with my response to what I see; sometimes I find myself turning the switch to “off” so as not to have to deal with the poverty and unrest around me. And I become so disgusted with my petty wants, desires, and expectations in light of the brutal reality beyond these four walls.

Today, in downtown Bujumbura, I stepped over a young baby on the side of the road with no arms and legs. Whether her condition was the result of the war or a birth defect, I will never know. Insulated by the safety of a taxi, I drove past a group of children with distended bellies made grotesque from malnutrition. I drove past an open, reeking landfill, on the top of which young children rummaged around looking for even a morsel of something with caloric value. Outside my window, I can gaze upon a disgusting slum, reeking of sweat, grime, and waste where people try to catch a few hours of sleep before another day begins. People not unlike me…systems and organs wrapped up in flesh and bound by the laws of gravity, space, and time. People just like me…feeling pain, despair, and hopelessness.

It is maddening sometimes to be here at the gaping mouth of all this need with so little to offer. Though I have the entire world in the eyes of these people, I have no money to give, no skill set to offer, and no time to effect lasting change. And that, today, made me discouraged. As the girls and I were talking today, the unspoken was finally spoken; that is, “We don’t have much time left. We are at the point when we will really not be helping or loving these people. We have no money, no skills, and little time.” To that, I asked, “Ok, then why are we here?”

Bethany responded, “To be changed.” And I sat and thought about that the rest of the day. “Africa, I came to change you, but instead you’re changing me.” I came here with so much idealism, so much pride that I was doing something to “change the world.” Doing something to help people and offer hope to the hopeless and love to the loveless as I so often like to think. But, in reality, these hopeless and these loveless are offering so much to this young, hopeless and loveless, young boy.
I know God is using this time to change me and break me of my pride. In the gospels I see Christ using people that were passed over by everyone else around them. Sometimes I think that the lesser we become, the more God can and will use us. I used to say that in my comfortable and prideful bubble back home but never lived it. In an email from Jill’s friend Alex, he wrote,

“And it really made me realize that you don’t have to be great to change the world for Christ. Jesus picked the C plus average fishermen from Bethsaida over the well-schooled Hellenistic Jews from Jerusalem. So like, even though, I'm just Alex Manion, a B minus student from wimpy Grand Rapids, Michigan, I can make big change. And that pumps me up like none other man.”

Yes, Alex, you get ten dollars because I quoted you/told a story about you. ;-)

I know God has used the three of us to bring hope to people and I pray that he will use us when go home to lovingly speak honest words like the prophets did against the apathy and comfort of the modern church. I know he is continually working in us and around us daily to do big things in our lives and bring about huge change in us that he might use us as we give up more of ourselves and he makes more room for himself. But man, sometimes the sheer humanity that I see in myself and this Africa overwhelms me.

One of the reasons I decided to write tonight was the fact that I just read a short story that my friend Andrew wrote that is, in reality, about the two of us. The story is about a young, wealthy Englishman who goes to Ireland during the Potato Famine of 1848 and is forever changed. The story hit so close to home that I got a bit nauseous as I was convicted about my attitude and subtle complacency of late. I will quote a telling portion of the story to close that will offer some insight as to how I am being changed, how we need prayer, and the reality of our current situation.

However, before I do, I want to ask for prayer. Please continue to pray for this little group of three teenagers from the West which has such a desire to see the kingdom of heaven here on this earth. Please pray for our hearts, that we will remain open to being changed during this last month we have together. Please pray for our financial situation, that God might provide that we might give to those who have so much less than we do. Please pray for our safety. Please pray that we might have wisdom as we try to decide how to get the girls home in a month…their flights are out of Nairobi and as BBC so willingly relates, Kenya is a hotbed of ethnic violence right now. Please pray for Kenya-that peace would come and that people would be healed. For Burundi- that peace would remain and the economy strengthened. Pray for the girl on the street today with no arms and no legs. For the boy in Kigoma with burn scars on his face and stubs for hands. For the elderly beggar in Mwende with despair in his eyes. For me and my heart. For the three of us and our love—both to one another and to the people around us. That brokenness would be healed from Christ’s love. And finally, that we would see the Kingdom come and that all of us could be witness to God’s beautiful plan to save the world coming to pass. I love you all. Here is the portion from Andrew’s story; there are two portions that I want ya’ll to have, maybe to understand a bit of where I am and a bit of how to pray for us.

John broke the silence. "What I was goin' to say a few minutes ago is, do you think that you could do something about this, back in England? I know it's silly, but you're rich, and surely you could somehow get into the government's processes or somethin', do somethin' about the way they treat us and the way they see us... O'Brien says that to the English, we're just so many animals, grubbin' about in the dirt and prayin' to the Virgin Mary and makin' babies like a lot of half-savages or some kind of thing like that. You know we aren't all that, we're human, aren't we? So do you think you could? I know it's a big thing to ask..."
Thomas looked up at the cloudless blue sky and replied, "It's not too much to ask, not at all. It's all I would ever want to do, I'm thinking. I saw that look in your eyes when we passed that girl, and I can't let myself do that, I can't ever just build up a wall around myself and cut myself off from feeling for my fellow humans. I'm not sure exactly what I'll do yet, but when I get back to England I know that I won't be able to live the same life I have for all my eighteen years up until now."

Back in London, Thomas stood in front of the Palace of Westminster, trying desperately to reconcile all that he had seen and heard and smelled in Ireland with all that he had known in the eighteen years of his life before. His thoughts flew wildly from John's little sister to his older sister to the wealthy captain of the ship he had ridden in to his own father sitting in Parliament to the watery soup John's mother worked on to a big oaken table covered in food at his parents' house. He could not understand why the one seemed like a dream in the face of the other, and the other seemed like a dream in the face of the one. He closed his eyes and remembered Ireland; the slimy black potato that John's little sister squatted down to pull out of the ground and timidly touched to her mouth, the putrid black slime touching her lips as her face screwed up in revulsion, and the sound of her retching behind the hut a few minutes after she had tried to eat it. Then his thoughts drifted to Christmas dinner at his own house; his family bowing their heads as his father intoned the prayer over the food, his sister Mary laughing at a joke as she spooned gravy onto her plate, the Christmas tree behind them festooned with candles and popcorn. He simply could not deal with the contrast, the massive difference that a few hundred miles of geography made in people's conditions. In the last week, the sheer inanity of it all had served to transform all his youthful energy into a fire that burned in his chest, spitting out sparks at every thought he had and scorching the halls of his parents' house as he restlessly paced them.


lovewill

P.S. I just also want to say that I am sorry for the lack of blogging of late. And for the general lack of factual information about life in East Africa. It is so hard sometimes to write it all down and I find myself writing during the rough times rather than the good times when I’m thinking about development, beauty of scenery, the way of life, culture, and etc. I have been hoping to go back through my journal and blog more about those things when I am home. Until, then my prayer is that you might be privy to this journey with us…that you might be changed in your own way along with us…and that all of us might be encouraged and inspired about the hope we do have…(first chapter of 1 Peter.)