#2

August 4?, 2010
So I am here, on this horn-tipped continent, in the South Eastern section of it, quiet alone, and not a little bit afraid. I have twice walked into town, and both times experienced different, overwhelming sensations. The first was blind fear. The second was a mix of sickly sluggishness and headstrong indifference. My whole day is compiled of doing little things to get me through until 3:30, when I can go to the hospital to use the internet. All day, I have wasted time, filling up the slow seconds with even slower activity, aching for the evening to finally arrive. These days are slow, very slow. All I want is evening, so that I can do my business and talk with my mother via the phone. Her voice is medicine to my quivering soul-it is all I need to get me through this time of sadness. I pray that Cassie comes soon. My depression is evolving into sheer boredom. What can I do? With no appetite, no entertainment save my own mind and this computer, and no schedule to adhere to, what else is left? Today I walked into town, watched Ethel and Shadrac clean my floor, get my phone and number from Elisha, made lunch, read my book, and prayed for evening to be here. My sickness was more intriguing than these slow days. And it’s only Tuesday! It’s only been two days since I arrived here! How can that be? It’s felt like two months. I stopped caring about my appearance this morning, and I stopped being interested in fitting into African society. I’m American, nearly 20 years old, and am hired as the teacher for the missionary children this year. Blantyre is my home for the next 10 months, and, no offense, but I cannot help but wish it along. I crave my mother’s embrace, my home and my things, my school and my friends, my comforts and my familiar foods and places. The warmth is even lacking here. But I suppose this is what every missionary goes through, and it would be unnatural if I didn’t feel homesick and lonely in these first few weeks. I know that as time passes, especially these first three weeks, that I will begin to be accustomed to everything. I know that by the end of this journey, I will be a bigger person.
I think it is less scary to think of coming here as something to just put on my resume. But when you’re coming here because you truly believe God told you to come here, and you’re relying on that say-so, things get murky, and scary. All of a sudden, you aren’t in control, and you’re relying on something so much bigger than yourself. Things are up in the air. You know that by the end of the road, you will be transformed. But it is easier to think that you will just be a better person for it all. So what will it be? Will I be transformed, or will I merely be a well-rounded, well-traveled, well-cultured, and confident person? or is that what being transformed means? How low do I have to go in order to be changed? Can I still be me, with my things and my comforts, or do I need to give up all of those things and find repose in other more puritanical measures? Can I still have my music, my paints, my books, my clothes and still be changed? Or do my personal comforts hinder any changes possible? I think they do not. Regardless of whether I have my things here with me or not, I will still be teaching this year. I will still have to grade papers, teach English, manage bratty kids, buy my own food, arrange travel plans, etc, whether I am given my own comforts or not. In fact, I could be doing the exact same job in Connecticut, and still be changed by the end of it. However, I happen to have been placed in the middle of Africa, with no friends, and a whole lot of fear on my side. I wish I wasn’t so afraid. I think I will be less afraid when Cass gets here. Then I will have a friend and confidant. Happiness is completely circumstantial, I’m afraid.