Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Archives for April 2016

When friendship is all I have to give

“You are my friend. My first friend.”

We’d known each other for about an hour when she spoke these words in her best English. She told me her name twice, and I repeated what I heard, but even when we parted later, I couldn’t recall it.

But she was right: we were friends. Even though we had a difficult time understanding each other. Even though our skin color is different. Even though I am twice her age.

Officially, I was there as a volunteer. It was my first time serving in that capacity with a local organization that helps resettle refugees, and I had not a single clue how I could be of help. But I showed up anyway. I have no foreign language skills. No experience with social service. No background in social work. How on earth would I be able to help?

I sat with this family, newly arrived to the U.S., and listened to the presentation on nutrition and hygiene. I answered questions from the family, and “translated” English to simpler English. It was clumsy and imperfect. We watched each other’s lips form words and waited in silence for understanding to dawn. We smiled a lot. And laughed.

Maybe the first thing I learned was that language is no barrier for love. I could have decided not to volunteer because I don’t have any skills I think are valuable. I could have let my feelings about being unqualified limit my involvement.

And I would have missed out.

When our classroom portion of the orientation was finished, we walked to the market downtown. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and along the way, I got to see the world anew. I forget what it’s like to be new in a place, to be seeing everything for the first time and to be so curious and unafraid of asking questions. As a born-and-raised American, I sometimes think I should just know the answer automatically, without ever having to ask anyone for help.

I tried to put myself in that place again. As my new friend read the words on the sides of buildings, I explained to her what each place was. We passed two banks on our walk, and I wonder what they think of that. Do they think we must have so much money that we need huge buildings to contain it all? And two within blocks of each other?

Maybe the second thing I learned, or re-learned, is that our way of life in this country is somewhat unique in the world. We can take some measure of pride in that, but I think we also need to understand that not everyone lives this way. During the class, I tried to explain snacks to the family. “It’s the food we eat between meals,” I said, and that did not translate no matter how many different ways I said it. Snacks aren’t bad, mind you, but if you come from a situation where meals might be scarce or culturally infrequent, eating extra food between meals is not an easy concept to explain. Ditto for trying to describe what a giant plastic tub of party pretzel mix is. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed by our culture.

Show and Tell

So, we arrived at market. All morning long I was searching my brain for different and simpler words to describe common (to us) objects. Like a sweet potato or yam. At market, I finally got to show my new friends what I meant when I said “beans” or “peas.”

Sonja Langford via Unsplash

Sonja Langford via Unsplash

We stopped first at a stand that sells turkey products.

“Like a chicken?” they asked.

“Yes. Like a big chicken,” I said. And the stand owner showed us an over-sized stuffed toy turkey. From there, it was a focused frenzy of listening for the questions from my new friends. They would point at vegetables, wanting to know what they were.

“Cabbage.” “Lettuce.” “Strawberries.” I felt like I was teaching my children again what fruits and vegetables are. Maybe parenting has given me more experience than I give myself credit for.

They pressed in close to me as we moved through the crowds, and tapped my arm to get my attention. I said so many words as we wandered the market aisles, both aware and unaware of the spectacle we must be. I barely noticed my husband until he was standing right next to me. I introduced him to my friends and he shook every hand. Later he told me: “This is what Kenya was for.” He knew from that experience that he would be expected to greet everyone in the group, so he was ready.

This is what Kenya was for.

I can’t get those words out of my head. Sometimes I still wonder if going to Africa made any difference. After the initial few weeks of reverse culture shock, life returned to relative normal. And though I took steps to start helping refugees back in the fall, illness and other things kept me from following through. (Spoiler alert: I’m terrible at follow through on most things.) But everything came together this spring, and finally–finally–this week, I got my start.

And I almost missed it.

The day before my official start, my back was giving me problems again, even after a chiropractor appointment. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle the sitting and the walking my volunteer work required, but my husband encouraged me to try. He would be nearby and able to help me if I got in a jam. So, I did it and I don’t regret it for a minute. Because my first time in the class was this family’s first time in the class, and they are African, and if I had waited another week or two to start, I might have missed this new relationship.

João Silas via Unsplash

João Silas via Unsplash

I hadn’t planned to go back the next day, but I also knew from our time in Kenya that consistent presence builds trust. Connections we made in Kenya are difficult–but not impossible–to maintain, and our missionary friends encouraged us to work at keeping in contact, even returning to Kenya if possible so that  the people we met knew we cared beyond a one-time visit.

So, I went back a second day because I wanted to get to know my new friends better. I didn’t even know their names, really, because I hadn’t seen them written down. And I wanted to know them better. To be on hand to assist however I could. So I sat in class again, this time filling out paperwork and trying to explain what a social security card is and why everyone in the family needed it.

I was the only Caucasian in the room, a fact I didn’t realize until much later. Many corners of the world were present that day in multiple languages, skin colors, and cultural practices. Everyone there to have a fresh start at life and needing to learn how to navigate this new country. Of everything I’ve done this week, these two brief stretches of time have been the most fulfilling. On Tuesday, I couldn’t stop smiling or talking about what had happened. I called a friend after it was over and ambushed her afternoon so I could download everything I’d seen, heard and experienced.

How I got here

As the training on Wednesday wrapped up, I told my friends that I would not see them again this week but would be back on Monday.

“I will miss you,” I said. I meant it.

“I will miss you,” one of my new friends said back to me. She hugged me and smiled. Her smile is my favorite thing these days.

I do miss them. Even though I needed to get back to my work–the writing and the housework–today, I feel like I’m missing something by not being there with them.

Each day I volunteered, I was asked by a staff member how I got involved with their organization. I don’t know how to answer that question without starting at Kenya, so I did. It mostly started when we looked in the faces and visited the homes of people who had been forced to leave their villages and towns and resettle elsewhere. It sprouted when we shared an airplane with distressed families leaving their homeland for an unknown land.

It began to grow when public figures began to speak unspeakable sentiments about refugees. I cannot bear to listen to the fear and the hate, so I took action instead. The whole political season is making me ill and I’ll never convince someone with words that I think their point of view is wrong. Sitting in a room with refugees, laughing and smiling and answering questions, feels the tiniest bit like rebellion. A love revolution. It is an act of survival in a world that seems full of hate. 

On the same day I cast my vote in the primary here, I walked alongside refugees. I made new friends. Both actions were a demonstration of freedom.

I think a lot of us are wondering how to get through life these days, when hope is scarce and fear is king. I say start by making a new friend, whether it’s a refugee recently resettled in our country or your next-door neighbor. Perhaps it might even be someone you disagree with. Friendship might not solve all the problems, but it will make a change in our hearts.

Everyday Heroes

I tell you these things because I want you to know what it’s like to make a new friend from a different culture. I want you to understand the work that goes into resettling refugees. I don’t want you to think that I’m any kind of hero, and I’m not out to paint myself as a savior. I cannot fix anything for these families nor is that my role. I’m there to be a friend. To answer questions.

No, the real heroes are the caseworkers and the employees of the organization. Their days are full of paperwork and making appointments and serving as a go-between for the refugee families and government agencies. They are managing multiple cases and solving problems, like when the gas company fails to turn the gas on at one of the houses and the family can’t cook, the caseworker brings by a hot plate so they can cook warm food. They are in it for the long haul, and their time is limited. I feel like I get to do the fun stuff to support them.

Maybe it’s too early to be this excited. I’m sure I will have moments of frustration and discouragement. I’m only human, and these are human situations. The short term is easy. The long haul is hard.

Hang in there through the long haul with me?

Because sometimes I forget

“Tell me all the things you’ve succeeded at in life.”

My therapist often asks me to do ridiculous helpful things like this, and even though I sometimes want to laugh, she is serious about her requests.

I started in childhood, listing things like learning to walk and talk and read. Even navigating school on a daily basis for years is a success for an introverted, highly sensitive person. The more I talked, the more things I remembered that I had done “successfully.” Then she asked me to stand up as I spoke and continue listing things. I talked about going to college and spending a semester in England and traveling a couple of times by myself because I was highly motivated.

And then I talked about writing.

This is where the conversation actually began.

See, there’s this writing conference in August that I want to go to. I’ve been wanting to go to it for years and this year finally feels like the year that it’s possible. But I’m scared. And also the price tag feels like too much for a dream. Too much investment in me. The thing that I’m afraid of is not what you might think. I’m not really afraid that I will go to this conference and be told I don’t have it or that my writing doesn’t cut it or that my ideas are trash. (For the record, I don’t think anyone would actually say it that way; those are my words only.) I’m not afraid of that because some days, a lot of them actually, I think rejection is what I deserve. I think failure is my destiny, that I don’t have what it takes to be a successful writer. So, someone else saying that would just confirm what I think I know.

No, what I really fear is success, however I might define it. I’m more afraid that going to this conference could lead to something bigger than I can imagine. This is not my expectation for the event, but it’s a possible outcome.

Patrick Hendry via Unsplash

Patrick Hendry via Unsplash

Fear of success. That’s why I found myself standing in my therapist’s office talking about all of my achievements. That’s an uncomfortable position for someone who avoids tooting her own horn. But I’m constantly being reminded that insecurity is false humility. It is okay to talk about the things we are good at, to celebrate a job well done.

***

So, I have homework. I never liked homework in school, but I always did it because that’s the kind of person I am. I don’t like it much better when it comes from someone I am paying an hour at a time every couple of weeks, but I will do it because I will have to report back the next time I go.

“Tell three people what you told me.”

That’s the homework. I have to recount my successes to three people because the more times I say it out loud, the more I’ll believe it. The more I’ll remember. I don’t know if this counts as telling anyone, but I’m a writer, so it’s a start. (And if three of you read this post and would leave a comment so I know that you did, that would go far in making me feel like I’d accomplished the homework.)

When it comes to writing, I feel like a fraud. I have stood in front of groups of writers offering expertise, and though I have a degree in communication and 8 years of professional writing experience in a brick-and-mortar workplace, I am most recently a stay-at-home mom who has only a few writing credits to her name. I don’t have a book published, and apparently, that is my standard for authority and credibility.

Hence the listing of successes. (Can you tell that even writing these out is hard for me. I’m more than 600 words into this post and I still haven’t listed them!)

This is where my therapist stops me and says: “You are a professional writer who took a break for a while to raise little people. And now you’re wanting to jump back in full force. This is not abnormal.” She cites others who have done this, and I realize that I have been diminishing my identity as a writer because my role as mother has taken a front seat for so many years.

You can see here all the places where my words have appeared besides in this space. And you can read more about my struggles to take myself seriously and call myself a writer.

And it doesn’t help that most people who know me now in Pennsylvania don’t know that in my hometown I was, for years, “that girl who writes for the paper.” Even when I went to the grocery store, people would stop me to talk because they recognized my face from a picture, or let’s be honest, they knew my parents or grandparents. Hometown love=blessed.

Chances are if you’re reading this, you don’t know some of those writing things about me, either. (Closing in on 850 words and I’m still struggling to tell you my successes.)

Okay, here goes:

I took some creative writing classes in college, possibly the most insecure time in my life to be showing other people my work. I remember the first time a creative writing professor critiqued something I’d written. He could tell I was used to writing newspaper articles because I was a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of story writer, too. I knew, then, that my writing was not great. I was no prodigy. I couldn’t turn a phrase like some of my classmates. But not long after that, something happened. I started following Jesus, and even though it sounds so cliche to say it, but something changed in my writing after that. You can dismiss that, if you want, but I know what I experienced. Writing became a spiritual experience for me.

God offered me encouragement in my craft in the unlikeliest of places. One time, I had written a short story about a purse-snatching or some kind of robbery, and how the woman who was the victim forgave the boy who committed the crime and it changed his life. It was not a great story, and when my professor started talking about it in front of the class, he began by saying he could not believe this scenario would ever occur. But after he had read my story, he had read a newspaper article in which that exact thing happened. He even brought the article in to show us, I think. Maybe that’s my memory adding drama to the event. I had no way of knowing that scenario would occur in real life and that my professor would read about it. It felt like a nudge from God, a holy affirmation of, “See, I’ve got this.”

Another time, I was taking a class from the most-feared writing professor in the department. He was harsh and hard to please and everyone pretty much knew that their writing would get ripped to shreds. But I needed the credit and he was the only one to teach the class. I wrote another story about redemption and first love, and when I think about it now, it was an awful story as well. Most of my classmates hated it because of its religious elements, and though my professor was a religious man, his reputation was to not like creative writing with that slant. My turn for class critique came up, and I was as anxious as I’d ever been, probably, about writing. To my shock, he publicly praised the story. I still can’t believe it when I think about all these years later.

I don’t feel like I had much to do with those “successes” but they are part of my writing heritage. They are the kinds of stories I need to tell and retell so I remember that I’m not just playing at a fun hobby here but following my God-given calling. I was a writer before I was a wife, before I was a mother, and I will be a writer until I die, whether I’m ever contracted with a traditional publisher to write a book or not. I am a published writer already.

Bear with me for one more “success” story?

Guys, I am an award-winning journalist. I have the plaques on my wall to prove it. (Oh. My. Goodness. I hate how arrogant I sound.)

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Honestly, those plaques hang on the wall, not to brag, but to serve as a reminder of what I’m capable of. I told this to my therapist and she was like, “Get out. What?!” (Not her exact words, but you know, the gist.)

It’s true. I’ve won awards for my writing. Sure, they were statewide awards for papers of similar size and not, you know, Pulitzer prizes or anything, but I got to go to a fancy banquet in the state capital and receive the honors in front of all kinds of newspaper people, including ones who worked for THE TRIB. (That’s journalist shorthand for the Chicago Tribune. Kind of a big deal.)

Most days, when I think of my journalism career, I think of how awful I felt about it. I was not good at approaching strangers for comment, and I had major anxiety about causing conflict. I think more about the times I wrote something that ticked people off and how they called and left nasty messages on my voicemail. I imagine what it would have been like to be a journalist with today’s ever-present social media and anonymous comments. I would have crumbled under the meanness, or developed a hardened heart. It was bad enough to have to go out in public and face people’s disappointments when I had to write about an uncomfortable truth.

But that’s not the whole story of my writing career. I wrote some damn good pieces that got noticed at the state level. I took a big risk writing a story about a woman’s allegations against a college athletic director that eventually resulted in his firing. I’m sorry he lost his job, but I’m not sorry the woman finally had a voice in the whole thing. One very terrible day, I wrote about a family of four who drowned in the river after a middle-of-the-night car crash. These aren’t the kinds of things you want to write about, but they are things I will never forget. Like the Friday night when the city’s main industry, the steel mill, closed for good. Or the Saturday that President Ronald Reagan, whose hometown was the same as mine, died. I participated in local history. That’s no small thing, even if it doesn’t feel like a big thing.

Maybe I will keep going with listing my successes, but I don’t want to bore you further. Maybe I will tell some people, out loud with words, if I actually see any people to tell. Most days, I only see my immediate family and they are not impressed by my former life.

Sometimes I forget that I am a writer. That I always have been, ever since I filled notebooks with stories and handed them to my parents’ friends to read. I filled journal after journal with thoughts and dreams and fears.

I have always been a writer and I always will be. And attending this conference won’t change that.

Stay tuned because this next step of the journey is both significant and insignificant. It doesn’t change anything, but it could change everything.

And if you don’t want to miss a single step of the journey, submit your e-mail address at the top right-hand side of the page. You’ll get an e-mail when I post something new. (That’s as self-promotion-y as I get. It’s uncomfortable but necessary.)

Do you ever think about your successes in life? Tell me about them in the comments. I’d love to celebrate them with you!