Hard Goodbyes and Homesickness

No matter how long I pretended this day would never come, it still came anyway.

Last Monday, the Betty Jonah Orphanage, Redeemer Baptist Church, Randy Godfrey Elementary and Middle School, and LCMI threw Tim, Shane, and myself a farewell ceremony.

The children sang, the choir sang, the people sang, but I could only pretend to sing. It felt like a part of me was being ripped away and no matter how hard I clenched my hands and held on, there was nothing I could do to stop it.

They spoke many words of thanks to us and to God. They proclaimed story after story of God’s faithfulness and how He had used these three Americans to answer prayers we didn’t even know we were answering. We were told that news of the new roof was spreading over all of Liberia – people could hardly believe a team of only three (and in reality just two) had done this “great thing” for the community in Camp 4. They spoke from 1 Corinthians 1 – “For God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”

And I sit there and laugh because God has used these “weak” people by worldly standards, these people that society tells us needs our help, money, or service, to completely humble me in every aspect of life. I think of how many rich, strong, wise men and women around the world would be blessed, changed, and taught by them. They used this passage to lift us up when really, they are speaking a testimony of their own lives.

At one point during the ceremony, a man stood up and began to speak. I did not know his name, but I knew his face. As he talked, he told us that he was the head of the security checkpoint we passed through twice a day going to and from the orphanage. He was not asked to come speak at the ceremony, but when he heard of it, he wanted to come and share. What he shared moved me to tears because it proves how big our God is. This man explained that while Time, Shane, and I had hardly said more than a “hello” or “thank-you” to him or his workers, through us, he saw Christ. Through our consistent trips to the orphanage and the constant joy on our faces, they saw the compassion we had to nurture and help the children and serve the Lord.

I am amazed by our God. I am amazed, and humbled, that He can use something as small as a quick hello’s to spread His name among the lost. I am amazed that though we were not evangelizing, the Holy Spirit was witnessing.

When you offer your life an empty vessel, He can do things you never planned or imagined.

Once the speaking was over, Tim, Shane, and I were presented with many gifts – as if they hadn’t given us enough through their joy, love, sincerity, peace, servant hood, and the list goes on. The whole group cheers as they dress each of us in our fine new African clothes.

The last portion of the ceremony is dedicated for words spoken by the three of us. As the “team leader” I was expected to go first, but as I was already choking back tears, Tim and Shane went before me. Tim thanks the people for what they have taught him – the value of relationships. The roof he and Shane built is nice, but it will eventually decay and become old. One day it will start to leak and will need to be replaced again. But the relationships we have built with one another is something than can be carried with us for the rest of our lives. And even if we are not able to meet again, each one of us will always have the imprint of one another on our hearts and lives.

Shane stands and speaks next, but to be honest, I can’t tell you what he said – not because it wasn’t significant, but because all I could think about was the work that the Lord has done in this man’s life over the past year. This time last year, Shane didn’t even know the Lord, and now, 11 months later, the Lord has led him to Africa to spread His love and His name for His glory. I have seen the way Shane has opened up his hands and placed His life completely into the Lord’s hands to be used and God has answered His willingness by doing amazing things through him. I know that all are touched by his story and his continuous love for the people there.

And so finally it’s my turn and to be honest, I’m pretty proud of the amount of people I am able to thank with a clear and confident voice! However, the moment I turn to the girls sitting besides me, it all falls apart. Not a single one of them will look at me. Rather, their heads are buried into their hands, arms, or laps… crying is not something you do in front of others in the Liberian culture. But I am not quite as strong as these girls because I can hardly get an audible word out between my shaking voice. I finish whatever I have to say, stumble back to my seat, and take advantage of the extra long closing prayer to let out a few tears that no one else will see.

The rest of the evening is devoted solely to games. Many of us head out to the volleyball court and play a few matches before we are forced to leave for the night by the sun disappearing behind the mountains. Luckily a few of the kids who weren’t able to come to camp get to spend the night at ABC with us – I’ve never seen two of the girls try so hard to contain smiles that burst across their faces anyway!

In the morning, after our car is packed and we have said goodbye to our ABC friends, the moment that I have been dreading since before we even came to Africa arrives – the final goodbye. At first, I was doing well. A few handshakes for the older kids and hugs and kisses for the younger.

But as I’m sitting on the hill in front of Ma and Pa’s house, Eldigay on my lap, and surrounded my many of the other girls, Ma Betty walked slowly up to me with her head bowed. She’s not smiling like usual. I sat Eldigay down and got up to hug Ma. I started to tell her how much I have loved being at her home and how much I will miss coming everyday. As I let go of our hug Ma starts to wipe tears away from her eyes and says the worst and last thing I wanted to hear Ma say at that moment.

“Next time you come here, I won’t be here anymore.”

It felt like someone tried to shove an elephant down my throat, like I had been hit by a school bus in my stomach, and now there was a big dam about to break from behind my eyes.

I looked at ma straight in the face and told her, “You will be here when I come back. You will always be here.” I pointed to the words on the side of the girls dorm and said, “look at the name on that building. ‘Mother Betty Jonah Orphanage.’ That means that as long as this place stands, you will be here too.”

She gave me a half smile so I hugged her again and told her, “mm-nigh-ee-kah” – I love you.

All the goodbyes after that one were sadder than the beginning ones. I was hit hard by the realization that maybe this really is goodbye. And Maybe I won’t see any one of these people I have grown to love and to cherish again.

Last year when I said goodbye, I think I knew deep down that I would return. But this year, when they ask me if I will come back, my heart sinks each time. It’s not that I don’t want to return. In fact, I want to return more than ever. But if there is one thing I have learned over the past year, and it is something I have learned well, it is that nothing (except the Lord) is concrete. Sometimes God even leads us down one path as a means to get us to another. So even though as of now I can see the Lord opening doors for me to return, until I have Pauline, Comfort, Josephine, Eldigae, Julie, Serena, or Ma Betty in my arms again, I can’t answer them.

Eventually, I know it’s time to tear myself from the kids. I climb into Emmanuel’s car holding back that dam of tears that keeps threatening to break at any moment, releasing flood waters that feel like they won’t stop for hours. I look at the kids – my kids. How much easier it would be to never have to say goodbye. Over the past six weeks, these people have not just been people I have been serving, helping, or discipling – they have been my friends. They have been my brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and my mother and father. They are not numbers and statistics for poverty, rape, unemployment, or the orphaned. I know each of them, some better than others. I know their names, their faces, their colors, their stories, their foods. I know how to make all of them laugh and how to make all of them feel special, just like they know how to do the same for me.

How did Paul do it? How did Peter do it? How did they spend time, short or long, with people, pouring their lives and Love into others knowing they were leaving, most likely never to return again? But then I’m reminded not the how, but the why. They did it because they had something in them that has the power to change any person’s life. They had something in them that burned to be told and they couldn’t suppress it. It had to be shared and they desired for all to know and hear about it. And all was done so that they would see them again one day. They took comfort in the fact that the next time they saw many of those they ministered to, there would be no poverty to separate them. No oppression threatening to crush them. No disease to hinder them. No hurt to carry baggage from the past, and no sadness to veil their inexpressible and never-ending joy.

Being home has been a huge adjustment. It feels strange. As the phrase goes, "I feel like a fish out of water." But though I am sad and though I feel like there is a whole in my heart, I take comfort in the fact that what the Lord did through all of us in Africa wasn’t about us. It was about Him, spreading His Word and Love, and serving those He loves dearly. He was just kind and gracious enough to let us be a part of it, and that is why we all feel changed. And while personally, I now feel like I’m living in a place I don’t really belong in, I know that we are all actually living in a place we don’t really belong in.

Revelation 21:1-7 – Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I head a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and He will dwell with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then He said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To the thirst I will give water without cost from the spring of the water of life. Those who are victorious will inherit all this, and I will be their God and they will be my children.”

As homesick as I am for the Betty Jonah Orphanage, I think I'm even more homesick for heaven.