What if I Am Never Home?

As I begin my last month here, the word “home” has run across my mind more and more. And the question usually accompanying that word is, “Am I ready to go home to the States?” It’s not necessarily a question of, “Am I ready to return to my family or my job or my life?” I ask that question more because I am wondering if I have sufficiently and fully completed what I was meant to do here.

But here’s the thing. It’s been two months. The first month I spent juggling multiple doubts, but they were hopeful doubts. Those doubts were the initial but understandable fears of whether any close relationships would be made, whether I would be useful in having some kind of impact here, whether my work would be satisfying, whether I would forsake my longings and learn to live fully and richly in the present, whether I would grow to be deeply attached to this place and the people here, and whether I would call Nsoko, Swaziland, “home.” By the time the second month rolled around I expected those doubts to dissipate and be replaced by positive changes. This is where I become brutally honest. The problem wasn’t that the doubts didn’t go away, the problem was that relationships were not established or built the way I wanted them to be, ministry was not what I expected, and God became an abstract Being that I thought of only from time to time. “Home” was the last thing I wanted to think of Swaziland as. I didn’t know how to call a place “home” where people constantly demanded and asked for things. Normally walking down any road, a simple, “Hello” to a child would guarantee a friendly response. But often when walking down a dirt road here, the school children stare at my water bottle. Their beady eyes fix themselves immediately on the water bottle and promise of clean water and all common courtesy is forgotten. And the first words they say is, “Give me” or, ” Borrow me your water.” Another day my friend and I were walking to a gas station. Because of the heat, we agreed to buy and share a tub of ice cream. As we were checking out, our cashier forwardly told us, “When you are done with your ice cream, can you tell me so that I can have some?” Yes, this demanding tendency is cultural, but I didn’t know how to accept it. Should I accept it? I didn’t know how to justify it all, to allow or excuse such blatancy. How do you discern an appropriate acceptance of habits that seem part of the essence and inherent make up of a culture without forsaking “rules” of social etiquette?Unless, of course, I am being a close-minded American and should just accept the culture with no questions. But those awkward social situations make me less keen toward calling Swaziland “home.”

What puzzled me even more was the severe lack of physical touch and affection among the people. In Swazi culture, children are rarely hugged or coddled. I went to a care point where I witnessed a pant-less baby, his little belly bulging and tight red shirt stained with sweat, dirt, and misplaced food, uncontrollably wailing because of the heat and lack of food. The older sister slapped his cheeks to quiet him down and scold him. His mouth crusted with leftover food and saliva would temporarily still its cry. His sister would shove kernels of smoked corn into his mouth. Other times I would see a baby strapped to its mother’s back in a makeshift sling, crying. The mother would continue her work. There was no comforting, no petting, no acknowledgment of her own child on her back, just the same rote motions and drudgery of work. Where is affection? Where is the mother’s sweet kiss and the baby’s endearing smile? Where is love? The feelings generated by affection or sweet emotions I normally associate with “home.” Thus if someone asked me why I didn’t call this place home, it was because the cultural norm, the way of life here, was so unfamiliar and emotionally withdrawn to me in almost a disturbing way. I have never been to a country where the people are guarded and closed off, both emotionally and physically. I didn’t know how to call a place like that home.

Because I didn’t see myself calling Swaziland home, I faulted myself by thinking that I wasn’t trying hard enough to relate to the local Swazis, that I wasn’t plunging myself into ministry with the right attitude every day. But at the end of the day, I still felt as dissatisfied and disappointed as ever. That’s one of the worst feelings: to hold a child starving for a deep kind of affection yet feeling no kind of stirring love that would connect you to that child. In that moment I felt useless and pointless. All the while I would think, “This is an experience that I dream about at home. At home I dreamed and wondered about what it meant to live. And living always looked like going somewhere else and doing what I am doing and seeing what I am seeing now. So why do I not feel satisfied with the living I have done here? Why do I still feel like I am not completing what I was meant to do here? Why do I not feel connected to this place and these people and feel at home?” That is the brutal honest truth of my emotions; and I hate to admit it. That’s partially why I haven’t written for some time; I didn’t want to give a dishonest portrayal of my time here.

I’ve come to the conclusion though that “home” is an abstract concept and feeling at home is a rare experience. And ironically this realization hit me while I was sitting mindlessly with a child in my lap. I never will feel completely at home in any place. I never should seek to make a place “home” in a permanent sense. In fact the longing that is awakened by that word should direct my mind heaven-ward, home-ward. As these realizations continued processing, contentment flooded over. I found myself graciously accepting the details of my life here and feeling a kind of sentimental emotion towards everything. I can’t explain that feeling of contentment other than say that I simultaneously felt deeply sad and deeply glad. I felt a sense of richness mentally sifting through memories of harvesting sunflowers, holding the pee-stained bottoms of children half asleep on my lap, standing under an African sunset, holding the dirty hand of a girl wearing a torn and soiled shirt, experiencing a true sense of camaraderie with my teammates as we pick-axed and uprooted trees, and striving to love people despite the underlying struggle and doubt. Deep seated love. That’s what I felt. In no way did it endear me to Swaziland making my soul feel deeply tied to the hearts of the people. But I did feel a somber peace, acceptance, and trust in the ways God will utilize the words I speak, the actions I do, and the love that I show. I felt a serious kind of understanding and even appreciation for all the wrestling thoughts I had towards ministry and the people here. My emotions may sound joyless and dull. But I think I am learning that there is a kind of appreciation not marked by joy and happiness. I can’t exactly define that appreciation, but it does leave me humble. It does leave me wondering and trusting and growing. And perhaps that is what I was meant to do here: to wonder, to trust, and inevitably grow.