Saying goodbye sucks.
Although the English Language is chockablock with descriptive words, “sucks”
is the best in this case. Having to
issue this phrase sucks all of the emotions buried deep inside and brings them
to the surface. Having to receive this
phrase uttered through downcast eyes and desperate hugs sucks the life right
out of you. Goodbyes contain very little
“good”—at least in some circumstances.
Even as I write this (12 hours after the words were spoken), I find my
tears are being sucked out onto this page.
Over the past two weeks I have diligently built
relationships with specific people at InStep (the children’s home): Shirlyn (13
years old), Peris (cook), and Vero (also a cook). But it wasn’t until the last three or four
days that I broke through their defenses and they started to let their guard
down. This is no small feat with the
amount of visitors that come through the children’s home on a regular
basis. It’s easier to stay detached than
to invest in a relationship and then have that relationship disappear, not
likely to return again. Shirlyn opened
up after I spent three hours alone with her at the eye clinic. When we started to walk out of the clinic,
she grabbed my hand and that is how we exited the hospital, hand-in-hand. In the taxi on the ride home, Shirlyn rested
her head on my shoulder. This may not
seem like much, especially since Shirlyn is so friendly and sweet-natured, but
this was a pretty big deal—something just finally clicked after the
eye-clinic. Maybe it was all of the
science knowledge I shared with her about the human eye and making her solve
math problems with her eyes closed while her pupils were dilating… J Whatever the reason, it was pretty
special. Peris and Vero were a bit more
gradual in dropping their guards. They
are around the same age as I am (26/27 years old), so that made us more equal,
but the girls really began to open up little by little with the more time I
spend in the Kitchen. I tried to do the
things they did, and they were very patient in showing me the steps and
laughing at my feeble attempts. I washed
dishes, tried to mop the floor the way they do with a duster (or towel for you
non-Kenyan people), sorted maize and beans several times, tried to cut skuma
and other vegetables the way they do, and just talked to them about life and
God. And it seems like just when I break
through with these amazing girls, I have to say goodbye, furiously trying not
to cry, promising to write, and desperately planning in my head when I can
return again to spend more time with them.
All three of these girls worked their way into my heart, and to have to
leave them is almost unbearable!
Saying goodbye to Teddy broke my heart too. When I walked into the room, I called Teddy’s name, and he came and wrapped his little arms around my legs and wouldn’t let go. I don’t know if he sensed that something was changing, but he just clung to me, forcing me to have to rip him away. I tickled him and placed him on the mat and had to walk away before I started bawling.
I MUST return—if for no other reason than to show these
girls and Teddy that I am invested in
them and that I am not just a typical
visitor. I don’t think I am done with
Kenya—I feel like God is just beginning something with Kenya and I. I have absolutely no idea what it will look
like, but I just have a feeling something more is coming, and the funny part is
that doesn’t scare me at all. I feel a
peace about my future role with Kenya whatever form it takes. And I will scrimp and save wherever I can to
get back there.
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