…
I just want to say,
that I see you…
even though I am cushioned
by things you lack.
My self aches.
It’s an unmovable ache.
It’s the ache of living next door
to YOU.
The ache of MY “haves” and YOUR “have nots.”
…
I want so badly to escape your story..
The truth is, it makes me UNCOMFORTABLE.
Poor uncomfortable me, while you, on the other hand…
actually struggle to survive.
…
I hate that you are right.
I DO “have everything” I need.
Poverty is like a hole
and it sucks anyone around
into it’s blackness.
…
There is hope, to be sure…
but sometimes I just can’t see it through the ache.
The ache of deformed-legs-man “walking” on hands.
The ache of swollen bellies on young littles.
The ache of baby dead in mother’s arms.
The ache of knowing that the pen you so badly want
WON’T fill your belly
or keep you safe tonight.
…
I see you,
even though sometimes I just want
to pretend you don’t exsist.
To look right past you banging on my window.
Seeing your pain saps me. Again, “poor me.”
I always SEE YOU…
and I wish I saw a different picture.
I wish I was seeing
a healthy-happy-roof-over-head-belly-full-of-food YOU.
I stumbled onto your blog when I first arrived in Burundi a few months ago and have been quietly following it ever since.
Reading this post is like hearing my heart being spoken out loud and articulates perfectly the struggle I have been having lately. It is heartbreaking knowing the depth of the need here, but I think I often err on the side of not doing enough. The outstretched hands, the knocking on car windows and shouts of “Muzungu” are never ending and frustrating so that it is easier to say ‘sorry’ or look past them while rushing away. I am trying to strike a balance and am praying for a softened heart and for opportunities to help in real ways.
I have been following your blog for several months now – just stumbled across it, too.
I LOVE how you write, how you live, how you raise your little boys. (I have raised 4 of my own.) But mostly I love it because it reminds me so much of my years growing up in Africa – Nigeria. Much of my heart is still there. I remember so well the feelings of frustration and futility – that I have since learned have a solution. Anyway – this post made me want to share a poem I wrote about a little girl I grew up with – who died when I was 5.
Mimurnaa
[A little girl I met in Africa]
I want to offer more than a cup of cold water from a village well
or a piece of brown bread to fill you up
I want to provide more than clothes for your body
and a bow for your hair
I want to place more than salve on your open sores
And coins in your outstretched hands . . .
I want to give you Jesus!
When the pump wears out and the muddy water returns
and hunger creeps back to reclaim its space
When the clothes are too small
and the bow comes unstrung
When the flies discover your sores once again
and the pennies are scavenged from your clenched little hands . . .
He will be there!
And when a mound of dirt and a little wooden cross
are all that mark the last place you rested your precious head
(your hair still decked with that tattered bow)
I will know . . .
That He is with you and you are with Him!!!
Yes, I will give you whatever I have . . . But most of all . . . I will give you Jesus!
Again, stunning words. You have a beautiful way of expressing your thoughts.
I just saw the comment from a while back that was said to be a bit whiny about things not working. Not working is relative. When our son lived in Uvira, he noted when crossing to Bujumbura, “Things function in Burundi; you can just feel the sensibility when you traverse the frontiere.” So, there you have it. A trip across the border into RDC may help once in a while, so you can re-enter and feel the order and sensibility of it all.