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And in those moments I began to collapse into a deep and profound loneliness. The thing is however; I didn’t feel as if I should be lonesome. I had a loving wife that would do anything for me, two kids that were constantly demanding my attention, and the weight of caring for the children in our program. How could I be struggling with loneliness when my entire world was flush with activity and social interaction? I felt like an introvert at a massive party, (a situation that is shockingly similar to every social gathering I’ve ever attended), as everyone around me mingled and laughed and I fled deeper inside my own thoughts and feelings. At night, when the kids went to bed and Deanna was off taking care of some responsibility, loneliness and sadness would creep in and silently surround me.
I could understand the same feelings my wife was going through. Her life was mainly relegated to the area inside our compound. She still maintained the responsibility of caring for and schooling our children and had little time for the interaction that was prevalent in my life. While she still traveled with me extensively, often several months would go by in which she’d have little deep interaction with other women. At this point we had little time to begin any deep relationships with locals and the other foreign families that had been living in town had all moved away.
In those times social media became both an ally and an enemy. There is something fascinating and weirdly intimate about being able to see what everyone is doing with their lives. At the same time however, you feel like little more than a silent spectator, glancing down at everyone’s existence and watching how they’ve moved on without you. Even though it was ultimately my decision to change the course of our relationships by leaving the country, it’s inherently painful to be able to continue watching your friends press on without that piece of their lives that once remained for you. It’s almost as if you’ve passed away and can keep looking down through the clouds as your loved ones find new friends, new relationships, and new lives void of your presence. You become nothing more than a ghost hovering in the distance. At least that’s how it felt.
It’s embarrassing to admit. But it was a real struggle. It was hard not to be jealous watching everyone else connected. Perhaps even the time change made it excessively difficult. By the time everyone was reaching the apex of his or her day in America, I felt as if I was ready for bed. Sporting events and television shows, those little pieces of commonality that tied relationships together; they all began long after I’d already gone to sleep. I’d comb back through social media feeds in the morning to see the conversations that were shared while I slept. When I woke up in the morning my loved ones were now going to sleep on the opposite side of the world.
When I would start to feel this way I would often tell myself it was ultimately better to just create more separation, to drift further apart. It seemed easier to admit that life would never be the same and that relationships most certainly would not be either. Perhaps that seems like a bleak outlook, but when wandering through distant patches of prolonged separation, it becomes a natural course of thought.
Self-pity began to inherently filter into self-doubt. Self-doubt pushed me farther towards issues of self-worth. Was I even worth remembering?
Were my friendships and relationships as deep as I remembered them? Was I glamorizing the past? Surely if we were that close we would have remained in touch, things would still feel the same right?
I began to wonder if what I was doing with my life was even worth it? I was 30 now, and I didn’t have a single thing to my name. I had no house, no property, no long-term plans. I couldn’t do this job forever; part of my responsibility was to hand over the program to national leadership, how would I keep providing for my kids? What about their future?
In recording this now and going back to reread the things I jotted down as I experienced those moments I realize that the twinges of pain associated with moving to Africa and readjusting to life hadn’t just suddenly materialized after 6 months on the ground. Instead they had slowly fought their way to the surface as our barriers collapsed, eventually erupting in a rolling wave of depression. As we searched for a new normality we reached a point in the journey where the scales tipped and the bad began to outweigh the good. When it happened we were simply too exhausted from the emotional toll of the first few months to even try to rectify it. Although eventually the valley would begin sloping upward again, for a time we dwelled in the pit.
I feel compelled or even obligated to throw in a series of big buts at this point, as in, “but God had put us there and we were content; but kid’s lives were tangibly being changed; but my own kids were experiencing life in a profoundly different way…” And while those things were true, ultimately so was the rest of the stuff. And sometimes life was painfully difficult.
Around this time I stumbled upon a blog post by Donald Miller entitled, "Following God and Farming." (You can read it in its entirety here: http://storylineblog.com/2010/02/14/following-god-and-farming/). Essentially it read that the best advice he had ever been given was to "wake up every morning and plow your field." Whatever God has given you, whatever responsibility, whatever task, then get up and do it. It starts with cultivating your immediate family, your wife and your kids. It extends to your career and to the work God has put in front of you. When simplified, life could be summarized in the exhortation to, "plow your field."
And so I started focusing on doing that. I started trying to be the husband that my wife deserves. Someone who cared for her needs above my own. Someone who listened to her struggles, not with the intent of fixing them, but simply to be a support and a confidant. I started to make the most of the moments I had with my kids. I had to begin looking for and recognizing the impact our move was having on them, and at the same time learn to treasure the very special moments and memories we were creating in East Africa. I don't mean to sound as if I was perfect or that in a moment I had rid myself of all negativity and pain, but I had begun to refocus on what God had laid in front of me, and not what had been taken away.
I did the same with our program. To be honest, I was good at what I was doing. I maintained the program well, despite some real challenges, and went about implementing and changing things that would directly impact the lives of our kids for years to come. And I just kept doing it. I kept plowing my field. I learned to enjoy the quite contentment that comes with focusing on what's in front of you while still treasuring and appreciating what came before. And though it was hard seeing my kids without common friends, missing out on Halloween, school activities, parties, sleep-overs, all of that stuff, we just kept moving forward.
We'll do this thing until God says it’s time to do something else. And however much I might pray that something else brings me to a place where maybe we could have a house, where maybe I could see my friends and my family, spend time with my dad and my mom, there are no guarantees. And I have to accept that. There are times when I remember glimpses of what life used to be like. I can recall how it felt to be with my family. And that at times makes living here all the more difficult.
But, and I’m going spiritual here, that’s what we’re sometimes asked to do right? If we really believe that God is God and His promises are true, then a bit of time away will be worth it when we arrive in eternity. Only then will it make it sense to put down our plows.
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