With the Foxes and the Birds

     People told me it would happen.  I had been warned and lectured and reminded on the matter; however, I still thought that I was above it all— the cliché emotional/relational burnout missionaries are supposed to feel.  In my pride, I thought I could be the exception and not feel it, not feel the sadness, the bitterness, the fatique from experiencing the relational revolving door that is missionary life. (Besides, with all of my Ingmar Bergman watching, Mary Gaitskill reading, and Trent Reznor listening I have built up something of a stony and unsentimental heart, right? . . .  I must have some superhuman reserves of apathy saved from late adolescence that can be used towards this stage in life?. . . )  These short-term solutions can only work through so many changes.   

     Other missionaries on my team have been telling me that (despite my stubborn refusal to feel) I would eventually reach I point in which I’d have nothing left to give—that I’d become exhausted from trying to adapt myself to a constantly changing family here in Mundri.  They were right.  I’ve found myself falling into the trap of determining my amount of investment in people based on how long I know they are going to be around.  The other day, the girls and I spotted another kawaja (white person) sitting outside at the Bishop’s house.  We stared over at her, debating whether or not we wanted to muster up the energy to be friendly and greet her.  Once we learned that she would leave in a day’s time we chuckled to ourselves and stayed indoors.  The thought of spending my small reserve of emotional energy on someone who would be gone the next day seemed ridiculous.  

     Maybe I sound antisocial, selfish, or even unkind.  However, I must say that relationships here in S. Sudan are not like those in the states.  One must recklessly hand over ones emotional, physical, and psychological well being to be a part of a trusting, functioning team in a foreign culture.  Whether someone is joining the ranks for one week or one year, all must give of themselves, trusting that God will replenish their emptied selves after that person goes off to another part of the globe.

     This transience exists in my relationships with my African friends, as well.  Friends move to a different city for work; they relocate to a family member’s village; they go to Uganda for school.  The reasons for mobility are endless.  You could spend all weekend visiting a Moru family, sleeping on their best bed, listening to the wild stories of their lives during the war, eating linya and greens until you think you’ll burst.  The next week you get a call that a distant aunt has died and this family is in transit yet again, praying to God for provision in the journey.    

     It is part of the cost of living this lifestyle.  Jesus moved all over Judea and Samaria, leaving friends and watching friends leave him.  He called his disciples to daily pick up their “crosses” and follow him, regardless of the painful consequences.  He reminds them, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of God has no place to lay his head.” (Matt.8.20)  If I think I have a shifting life, I must take a look again at Jesus, whose closest friends fell asleep on him as he was sweating blood.  He was betrayed, captured, sacrificed, and even rejected by the God of the universe.  I am blessed.  Just as God remembers the little foxes and birds, He has more than remembered me.  God has given me warm (albeit, temporary) homes, both in Africa and in America.  He has showered me with a large family and various friends from all stages in my life.  And in those moments when I feel the heart-tug of goodbyes, He is there to comfort me. 

     God has been teaching me that it is okay to want to seek out a home in this wild world, to want people around who make me feel like me, who make me feel like a necessary part of the greater whole.  The key is in accepting that nothing in this world lasts.  I can finally admit my need for people—admit that I do grow attached and sentimental in my relationships.  Now, as I watch the small MAF plane disappear in the distance, I willingly search out the arm of a teammate to help stop the tears from coming.  I am learning to give up control of these places and people and seasons and days. . . as if I had any control to begin with.

“Therefore, everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.” - Matthew 7:24