Me and Patty Hearst

For my older readers, no explanation of this title is probably necessary. For those of you who are younger, you might need a quick pop history lesson.

In 1974, Patty Hearst—the 19 year old millionaire daughter of publishing’s legendary Hearst family—was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army in Berkeley, CA. Two months later, bank video cameras caught her brandishing a machine gun during a bank robbery with the SLA. When she was finally arrested along with her kidnappers, she called herself an “urban guerilla” and was committed to the causes of the SLA. Her family’s ritzy attorneys couldn’t convince a jury that she wasn’t a willing participant in the crimes; she got 35 years in prison (later shortened by Jimmy Carter).

Today, Hearst symbolizes the desire to break away from normal society and live anarchically. She also stands as a prototypical case of the “Stockholm Syndrome,” a phenomenon where captives begin to care for and empathize with their captors. Rather than hating and distancing themselves from their jailors, prisoners will begin to love their familiar surroundings.

As my time in Africa winds down, I find myself thinking about this crazy story from 1974.

For much of my four years here, I adamantly preferred my old way of life in America. The easy life. Friends and family close by. Abundant free time. Familiar cultural surroundings. Fast food—tasty, cheap, and easy to come by. I gladly settled in here, knowing that my work for God’s kingdom was far more important than a lifestyle preference, but nevertheless, if I had to choose…

But I’m starting to feel like Patty Hearst. I actually think I’m going to miss the bumpy roads and the daily electricity outages. I can see myself longing for all of my wife’s yummy meals from scratch when pre-made frozen meals and fast food become regular again. The spiders, the dust, the monkeys wailing, the roosters crowing, the freezing concrete floors, the drafty windows, the neighbors dressed in rags, the arid brown valley.

I’ve grown to love my captors.

And I’m also wondering if my love for my captors has turned me crazy when it comes to “going home.” Will I go around wielding my philosophical machine guns in normal folks’ faces? Will I storm the bank of normalcy and demand Western society to pay up for the good of Africa? In other words, will reverse culture shock zap me?
There’s also the other side of this coin. Will my allegiance to Africa make others look at me like I’m the freak? Will the presence of this stranger from Africa cause everyone to feel uncomfortable? Will the mere sight of me be like Patty Hearst wielding a machine gun over head?

The answers will come soon enough. Eight days, actually. There is one fact that offers me some consolation. Patty Hearst is still alive today. She’s out of the SLA, she’s out of jail, and she has some semblance of normalcy in her life.

Even if I’m feeling like Patty Hearst today, it’s good to know that there is life after Patty Hearst, for her and for me.

Staring at a lion

The highlight of Kenya’s tourism is the wildlife. Going on an African safari doesn’t get much better than it is in Kenya. And the highlight of African animals is none other than the king of the jungle—the lion.

We’ve found ourselves on a few safaris—sometimes in tour vans and sometimes in our own vehicle—and searching for lions is certainly a highlight. Leopards and cheetahs are rarer to find, but nothing is more majestic than a lion.

One time, we were driving through a wooded area, and we found another vehicle was just pulling away from looking at something. We stopped. About 40 feet away was a half-eaten zebra being gnawed on by a lion. We pulled our truck as close to the kill site as we could and went crazy with our cameras. Then, the lion disappeared. We backed the truck up, trying for a different angle in the dense forest. We could still see the red, black, and white zebra, but the lion was out of view. For a while.

Suddenly, we spotted the lion walking parallel to the road about 20 feet away from us. I now was less concerned about pictures and became more concerned with getting my 3 year old (at the time) son away from the window and getting the car into drive in case I needed to bolt.

The feeling changed from “hunter” to “hunted” in a few seconds. The elation we felt over seeing a lion in the wild—and seeing a lion in the middle of a meal, no less—morphed into terror as this lion appeared within striking distance.

I tell this story as an analogy.

We’ve been looking forward to going back to the U.S. for months now, if not years. The family, the friends, the food, the familiarity—all have been calling to us from this unusual land of our mission sojourn. The years became months, the months became weeks, and now the weeks are just days. Sixteen to be exact.

The excitement and the suspense of “going home” are turning—like our emotions on safari when the beast appeared just yards from us—into something much more complicated.

We’re packing up our house in Africa. We’ll be living out of suitcases for 12 months in America. We’re leaving our full-time ministry and careers in Africa. We’ll be doing a lot of different things—very little teaching—for the next year in America. We’ll be leaving our relationships (hundreds of students and dozens of missionary staff and Kenyan nationals) in Africa. We’ll be renewing hundreds of old relationships and starting dozens of new ones in America. Suddenly, Africa has become more familiar to us than America, and going “home” feels different.

I know there is no reason to fear. God has promised to never leave us or forsake us. He sustained us when we moved to Kenya in 2005, carrying us through those tough transitions. He’ll sustain us this month as we move and adjust back to our “old life” in America.

But that truth doesn’t minimize the fact that right now I’m staring into the eyes of the lion and feeling like I want to put my foot on the gas.

(The picture above is taken without any zoom. 20 feet away. I'm not exaggerating.)

Home

I’m going to tell you my favorite three songs right now, and you can try to find the common theme: “Home Life” by John Mayer, “Where the green grass grows” by Tim McGraw, and “Where the trees stand still” by Bebo Norman

Found it yet? Let me give you some lyrics.

“Yesterday it seems I traveled in a younger man’s clothes/Moving on forever, watching the distance fade away/But now I just want to land…where the trees stand still.”

“I’m going to live where the green grass grows…point our rocking chairs towards the west and plant our dreams where the peaceful river cools.”

“I think I’m gonna stay home/Have myself a home life/Sitting in the slow-mo/And listening to the daylight/I am not a nomad/I am not a rocket man/I think I’m gonna stay home.”

Yes, the ever elusive concept of “home” has me obsessed right now. As we approach our final month in Africa, the longing for normal is hitting at full force. I know it’s just an illusion, that as soon as I get “home” to Pennsylvania or San Diego I’ll be looking for the proverbial greener grass somewhere else. Perhaps I’ll miss Africa within days of going home to America.

But right now, I’m looking forward to watching the grass grow, watching the trees stand still, and watching the world move in slow motion in a place that feels like home.

Threadbare

Threadbare adj. 1. worn down so that the threads show 2. wearing old, worn clothes; shabby 3. that has lost its freshness or novelty

This quality vocabulary word has long been one of my favorites. It’s such a visual word that I’ve commonly used it to describe my patience with someone, or perhaps the supply of food in our cabinets, or maybe my enjoyment or interest in something.

The irony is that lately I’ve found myself thinking about this word every morning while dressing. It turns out that this word’s literal meaning actually still applies in certain situations.

Like with my socks. And my pants. And my shirts. And my shoes. And my, um, undergarments.

Nearly four years ago, we were in the U.S. stocking up on clothing to last us for four years, and now that the four years are almost up, guess what? The clothing have lasted, but they are now threadbare.

My thick black socks still have areas of thickness, but for the most part, their threads are bare. While not all of my pants have actual holes, they all have a completely difference feel now, resembling wind breaker material rather than lush cotton. (The cuffs of each pair are beyond threadbare; they are stringy and frayed.) My first set of shoes are long gone, by the way, and my second stringers—found used at local markets in Kenya—are developing holes and losing their soles (a truly perilous thing for a missionary in the profession of saving souls!). Also, I’m pretty sure these t-shirts and underwear weren’t see-through when I bought them, but they sure have evolved into something else altogether!

Coming from a middle class, Western background, it’s uncomfortable for me to get “dressed up” for teaching every morning with less-than-best dress clothes. But at this point—less than two months until we’re back in the U.S.—it’s silly to think of shopping for anything less holey and more thread-ful than what I currently have. And as these final weeks of our first term of service wear on in Kenya, I think my definition of “threadbare” will become even more transparently clear.

What is lacking, part 3

Not all prayers are answered. This is a simple fact of faith. And technically, my prayers from the night before weren’t answered the next misty morning as I went for a walk and listened to a sermon on my iPod. What I got, however, was better than an answer. I got a reason.

God walked beside me down that muddy road, listening to Francis Chan from Simi Valley, CA, preach on Colossians 1:24.

“Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s affliction, for the sake of his body, which is the church.”

First off, this verse does not imply that Christ’s sacrifice on the cross is lacking. His payment for sin is perfect, once and for all, and sufficient to redeem all mankind. So what is “lacking” then?

Francis (pictured above) gave a few interpretations, but the one that made most sense to me was this.

We are Christ’s body in this world. He has no feet and hands in this world or any kind of physical manifestation except through us. We, those who believe in him, are his church, the “body” of Christ. If we are like him, we should resemble him in every way. In the way he lived, loved, healed, gave, and sacrificed. Our words shouldn’t just speak of sacrificial love; our lives should exhibit it.

Jesus Christ was able to persevere through the shame and pain of the cross in Jerusalem in 30 A.D., but he has never had a chance to persevere in the face of suffering at Rift Valley Academy in 2009. My puny little story “fills up what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s affliction” because I can show the world what it means to love God right here, right now. This pain I’m feeling over losing friends—and particularly Wally—is a glorious opportunity for me to “rejoice” for the sake of the church.

God hasn’t sent us suffering for the sake of suffering. God’s car doesn’t have the bumper sticker “No Pain, No Gain” on the back of it. Suffering is part of life on earth, but to God, it’s our opportunity to offer our measly sacrifice alongside of Christ’s enormous sacrifice and boldly announce—“I’m with him! I want to be like him! Look at me if you want to see a tiny glimpse of him, right here, right now.”

I’ll miss Wally and all the others whom we may never see again, but this is part of the life of faith, part of this community we find ourselves in as believers in our loving God. Philippians 3:10—which has been my life verse for over a decade—must be embraced in its entirety, and not just for the favorable parts. It’s all a part of the life, and the life is good.

“I want to know Christ and the power or his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”

That’s still what I want.

What is lacking, part 2

In light of this, the past month has been a doozy. Already facing the prospect of saying goodbye to the junior and senior class for good (the seniors will be leaving for college when we leave in July and the juniors will graduate during our year of home assignment), we got news that some good friends with four little kids around our kids’ ages wouldn’t be coming back due to lack of financial support. (I mentioned them in my “Cell Phone History Lesson” post.) They had already been here a decade and hoped to be here for life.

Then, last week, the staff received a long, shocking email describing how Wally, the student chaplain, and his nurse wife were being led by the Lord (against their human will) to return to the U.S.

We’ve gotten used to saying hello and goodbye to people here on a frequent basis—but when “career” people are taken out from under us, it’s especially hard to take.

Losing Wally though is one of the hardest losses of all. You may be thinking—hold on, you’re getting ready for home assignment…you yourself are leaving that place…how can you be lamenting other people leaving RVA? That’s a great point, but as we leave, it’s comforting to know what and who will still be here when we come back in August of 2010. These career people are the backbone of our school, and losing a key piece of your vertebrate (like Wally and his wife Donna) can turn your heart into a joyless jellyfish.

Wally has been one of my closest friends in a place where I’ve lacked close friends. He’s been a coaching mentor for basketball (he’s the varsity coach) and a fellow fan of college football (even though he’s allied with the dark force of unholy wickedness, i.e. Ohio State). He’s taught me a lot about student ministry and activities, and he’s a great preacher as well. It’s said that every Christian should have a Timothy and be a Timothy (referring to Paul’s relationship with this young man), and I really felt like I was a Timothy to Wally. He is/was a great mentor for me and knowing that he’s going to be leaving RVA was a hard blow to me.

My tearful prayers the night I found out consisted mainly of questions. How can you take him? Why now? Why is this happening again? Who will fill his void, both in my life and for the school? Why?

What is lacking, part 1

Perhaps the biggest shock of the missions life for me has been in the area of relationships. I had expectations coming in of a “Band of Brothers”-like experience. After all, we’d be working along side of men and women here with similar passions and giftings, working towards the same goals, and we’d be relying on and needing each other for everything. I’d heard from other missionaries that “you’ll make the closest relationships you’ll ever make on the mission field.”

I know, I know. Pretty lofty expectations. And those expectations have made the reality of life here even more difficult.

The reality is there are about a hundred great men and women here who pour themselves into their various ministries. And when they get time off, they enjoy time with their families or with visitors from North America. Finally, when the pie chart of time is divvied out, the one area that seems to be absent or miniscule is that of adult relationships. It also seems like the time spent on peer interactions among missionaries gets shared among so many great people (one week we’ll visit with Family X and the next with Family Y) that it’s hard to form deeper bonds with any particular person/people.

At least, this has been my experience.

The one saving grace, for me, has been the length of my stay in Africa. A lot of people are here for a month or two, or maybe even a year or two, and then are gone. With the limited amount of time to forge relationships in general, trying to create something meaningful and lasting with these people is a frustrating endeavor. However, since my wife and I are “career” missionaries, we’ve had almost four years now to get to know other career missionaries.

The benefits of longer relationships are obvious. But in this context, there is one deeper blessing.

Transitions and loss are a constant way of life here. People are coming and going almost on a daily basis, and when you compound that steady emotional turmoil with the pressures of living in a cross-cultural setting, the burden is huge. One main saving grace is that we have some brothers and sisters here who are committed to this school and its purposes and (tangentially) to us and our friendships. We have others who are planning and hoping on being here for decades, and without those friends—even though we’re not extremely close—I’m not sure how I’d hold up.

Tomorrow, part two.