The Things We Don't Talk About...

"Alright class," I said to a rowdy bunch of middle schoolers, "Please sit down and get to work."

Some of the kids got to work, others still chatted with their nearest classmates.

"That's enough talking," I said a little firmer this time. "It is time to get working."

After a few seconds only one student continued to stand and goof around.

I took a deep breath and said in a calm but firm voice, "Sit down now."

"WHY ARE YOU ON ME LIKE THAT?!" the student yelled, "IT'S 'CAUSE I'M BLACK ISN'T IT?!? ARE YOU RACIST OR SOMETHING?!?!"

My mind flashed back to another time and place. I saw myself walking in the market in Betroka ducking my head down as men called me, "vazaha (white foreigner)" and grabbed at my hair.  

I saw the reaction on my national friend's faces when they realized people were charging us double for groceries. 

I saw the drunken man swerve toward me and grab me as I walked up the hill with two little girls, making me fight to escape his grasp.

I saw men shoving unmentionable parts of cows in my face, and women shoving bugs in my face just to see me squirm.

I saw women teaching their children to call us "vazaha" and men dropping their children in our laps and laughing at their terrified screams. After all, we white people were going to steal their organs.

I saw the red faces and heard the sobs of my students as they related the fact that some kids threw rocks at them and pulled them off their bikes yelling, "VAZAHA!" on their ride to school that morning. I saw the looks of dread on their faces when I told them it was time to ride their bikes home. 

I saw the smiles and laughter of the Malagasy children as they taught me games, and the faces of our friends welcoming us into their home.

I saw my national friends being ridiculed by their friends for showing us around the town, welcoming us into their lives, though they knew they would be made fun of along with us.

Some treated us as special, others treated us as freaks. But everyday we knew we were different.

"No sir," I said calmly, knowing he had no idea what was going through my mind. "It's not because you are black. It is because you are the only one still standing."

"For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7b

I might be racist. I know I put too much weight on outward appearances. Praise the LORD that He does not. Red and yellow, black and white, we are ALL precious in His sight. 

A Look Back: January 31, 2013

 I found this archived with some old blogs that I never posted. For some reason I decided to record my experiences as I traveled from France to Madagascar last year. I don't know if you will find it as entertaining and I do, but it's kind of fun to look back at my ridiculousness. =) 

Sunday, January 31, 2013 Travel from France to Madagascar

3:15 am, alarm rings... I hit snooze.
3:20 am, I realize that today is actually happening, and I get out of bed.

3:45 am, goodbyes to the awesome family who has graciously allowed me to live in their house for 3 months. I hate mornings in general, but goodbye mornings suck even worse.

4:00 am, leave for the airport

5:30 am, check in at airport. The lady asked me for proof I'm a missionary. I panicked. Personally if you knew me the sheer fact I was in the airport with tickets to Madagascar in hand would be enough to prove I am not going of my own power. God reminds me of the important document package that is in my carry on. End panic mode.

7:00 am, our flight is delayed due to a strike in Paris.

7:10 am, sit next to an awesome girl named Evangeline who is from the States.

7:15 am, man asks me something in French... I say "oui! No! Uh, je ne sais pa!" He looks at me like I lost my mind... I smile and congratulate myself on speaking French and NOT panicking! Woot!

8:10 am, we finally leave after sitting on the runway for an hour.

9:20 am, we land in Paris, get off the plane and onto a bus. Evangeline and I have an hour and 10 minutes to make our flights. Her to Washington, me to Tana.

9:25 am, bus breaks down. Irritated guy who also needs to make a connection gets into a fight with the guy trying to fix the bus. Not actually helpful in the grand scheme of things.

9:45 am, we arrive at a terminal but have no idea which one it is or how to get to our flight. Evangeline and I ask a kind lady, our flights are boarding a couple of terminals and a passport check away. So we part ways and take off running. I am praying she made her flight and is peacefully flying home as I type.

10:15 am, I make it to my gate and check in. I go down a bunch of stairs to another bus that site there for about 15 minutes, then drives us to this plane faaaaaaar away from the real airport. Thank you Paris for not making us walk.

10:30 am, board the plane

11:30 am, still sittin on the plane. On the runway.

11:35 am, the plane moves. O think I see the Eiffel tower!
11:36 am, false alarm. Twas just a telephone pole. Dangit.

12:04 pm, goodbye Paris and goodbye dream of seeing the Eiffel tower.

12:45 pm, I feel like trying raw fish for the first time when I am stuck on a plane for another 9 hours is a probably a poor life choice. So I think i'll just stick with rice bread and cheese... Oh and the delicious eclair. Also I am fairly certain the last next to me wants my bottle of wine (yep. I said bottle. It comes with lunch). Go for it lady.

3:27 pm, note to self, next time black more motion sickness meds.

4:30 pm, over the Lybian Desert. Ooohhh we're halfway there! Oh oh! Living on a prayer! (I feel like this plane needs to be serenaded... Challenge accepted).

6:30 pm, the map says we're almost over Kampala, Uganda. I know someone there. Maybe they could just open the door and let me hop out quick. I wouldn't be too much trouble. I want off this plane! Ooo... The stewardess just passed out ice cream. OK maybe I'll stay on a bit longer....

7:00 pm, the guy next to me must have unbuttoned his pants while he was sleeping... Cause when he stood up they fell down .Maybe air France should think twice before handing out those bottles of wine...

8:32 pm, there are no movies left to watch. 

8:33 pm, just kidding, I'll watch Pitch Perfect.

9:25 pm, note to Self: Don't watch singing movies on a plane full of people. I don't think the lady next to me is impressed with my singing and dancing.

10:17 pm, Dear Lady Next to Me: I'm really sorry if you don't like my singing and dancing, but if you were listening to this ending, YOU'D BE DANCING TOO!!! (But you probably wouldn't be singing because you don't speak English...)

11:00 pm, OH MY GOODNESS!!!! You know those movies where people are on a plane and then really crazy interesting things happen? Yeah well... this isn't one of those flights.

1:17am, we're approaching Madagascar... is it too late to change my mind? I don't think I can do this... God help me.

We landed around 2 am. I got off the plane and it was hot and sticky, raining a little bit. We were shuffled through lines and made to fill out some paperwork. I didn't know half the answers so I just prayed and wrote stuff down. "What will be your address?" Uhm... Somewhere in the middle of nowhere Madagascar? I wrote 8 Betroka, Madagascar. I have no idea where I got that number, but no one questioned me.

I got my bags and had to go put through customs. Directly outside of the baggage check were at least 100 people grabbing to try and "help" me with my bags. I was fighting tears, and I think that the customs guys took pity on me because they just let me pass. The Petrelli's found me and helped me with my bags. They were so sweet and helpful. I feel like I have known them forever. I am still pretty sure I can't do this, and I am not sure I really comprehend the fact that I am in Madagascar, but for now I am just going to sleep. God will give me peace and rest. He promises.

Scars

A year ago today I was traveling to Betroka for the first time.

I had been in Madagascar for a little over 2 weeks. For the first week I stayed with an amazing missionary family, the Patrelli's in the capital while I awaited the arrival of the team. Then, on the 7th, the team arrived and we started a whirlwind of activity. Getting enough money and groceries for 4 months... How do you calculate how much powdered milk you will need in that amount of time when you have never used powdered milk in your life? I still don't know... I just used the mathematical principal of "THROW AS MUCH AS YOU CAN INTO THE CART!"

We then traveled to Ranohira for language training. This part was hard for me. I missed Stacy and the kids, I didn't know what I was doing, I felt like everyone on the team knew each other and I was the outsider. I was "on the team" but I was only short term. I had no concept of what was expected of me and I was fairly certain there was no way I could do any of this. Even teaching, something I have always had a gift for, was foreign to me. How was I supposed to teach these two little girls English? What had I gotten myself into?

I quickly learned that I liked language learning, so that was a bright spot in my day. It was embarrassing to walk around fumbling through language and getting laughed at. But I LOVED it.

A few days later, the 16th I believe, we had a "day off". We went hiking in Isalo National Park. Now, those who know me know that I am not a hiker. I'm not even good at walking. It takes enough concentration to stay upright on flat ground, let alone the, you know, natural kind of ground. But off we went.

 It was beautiful.

 I mean breathtakingly beautiful.

 

But as I said earlier, I'm not exactly a hiker. I don't mind going for leisurely walks along clearly marked paths that have safety railings anytime you get somewhere potentially sketchy. 

There were no safety railings.

          Anyway.  By the time we were on our way back, I was exhausted. I was hot and sticky and struggling to keep up. "Just keep going..." I told myself, "Keep up with them Meg... Don't get too far behind!" I've always been the last one in any type of things that involves athleticism. That doesn't bother me. Making the whole group stop and wait for my slowness... THAT bothers me. So I plugged on. Slipped a few times on slippery rocks and yelled at myself (in my head) for being clumsy.

Sunk into a mud hole, laughed about it trying to be cool, all the while thinking, "I am such a moron."

And then it happened. I fell. I didn't just slip this time, I completely missed the rock I was trying to land on and fell into some more rocks and some mud. I had rolled my ankle and it felt like fire was shooting up it. There was bloodied mud all across my right ankle and knee. It was starting to trickle down my leg like lava from a volcano. My toe was all mangled and it looked like I had cut half of it off (I had been barefoot at the time because that was easier than trying to walk in shoes). Someone took my backpack for me and another person helped me up. Our team leader squirted some purified water on the cuts, trying to clear away some of the mud. There was still quite a ways to walk before we got back to camp. 

Fun Fact: I am one of the most stubborn prideful people I know.

I insisted I was fine to walk. Partially because I knew the longer I sat, the more it would ache. Better to keep moving than to think about the pain. But mostly because I was embarrassed by my clumsiness. Of course I would be the one to fall and get hurt. Of course.  We plugged on, every step a painful reminder of my stupidity. "I'm fine!" I kept insisting to anyone who asked. I tried to keep a normal pace, and a normal conversation. I would NOT show that I was in pain. We got to the place we were to stop and eat lunch, and my team helped patch me up. 

We still had a long ways to walk after lunch, at least, it seemed terribly long. Probably not more than a kilometer. I plugged on, at first trying to use my own strength. Halfway through, I realized I couldn't make it on my own power. I'm not sure when I stopped berating myself and telling myself to "suck it up", but by the time we reached the van that would take us the rest of the way out of the park I was simply praying God would help me make it. 

They were the first of the scars on my body from this trip. There are many. As I look at them now, I am not embarrassed. I don't think I am an idiot for falling. I look at them and I see my filthy pride. I see my inability to let others help me, which would come back many times throughout the year, and I suspect will come back time and again throughout my life. 

Psalm 147:3 says, "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." 

It took time, but my wounds were bound up. Let's just say I am as slow of a healer as I am a learner. God binds up our wounds, but sometimes he leaves the scars to remind us where we have been It reminds us of our mistakes, of our hurts and of the incredible mercy and grace he offers so freely. 

I am a filthy sinner who has been made new by the Creator of the Universe. His scars offer me freedom form my scars. His wounds have paid my ransom.

There is beauty in scars.