Love until it hurts

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, then there can be no more hurt, only love."  --Saint Teresa of Calcutta

The first time I read that quote, I thought it sounded beautiful.  Like, if I invested enough of myself into someone else and loved them deeply enough, I could transcend to this mystical state of being where nothing could hurt me anymore.  Or maybe God would somehow reward me with a life free of pain, at least when it comes to the people I love that fiercely.

But, the more I love people, the more I'm finding that that's simply not true.  Things still hurt.  I am investing my life into the kids and staff here at the Tania Centre, but times are still hard.  The food storage room still goes empty from time to time.  We still stress about where we'll get the money to pay the electric bill.  Our teaching staff is still in constant flux, so our students still don't get as much consistency as they should from term to term.  The children still have hurts in their lives, people we know and love still get sick and die.  I still have personal hurts--I miss the people I love back home, I miss the food, I miss the illusion of control over my life.  I come down with malaria, I deal with cars that don't work, I deal with students who don't do work.

I have loved and it hurts.  But the hurt doesn't magically go away.  God doesn't look at me and say "Wow, Beth is doing a great job loving those kids!  Time to make sure she's good and comfortable for the rest of her time in Kenya!"  The hurts are still there.  They don't go away.

But, the more I pour out myself, the more I see that those hurts aren't just hurts--they become something more.  I could go live somewhere away from my family and friends, and it would hurt to miss them, but when I go to live away from my family and friends out of love, the hurt that I feel becomes an act of love.  I could stop eating my favorite foods, or move somewhere that doesn't have my favorite foods, but when I move somewhere that doesn't have my favorite foods out of love, the discomfort of eating unfamiliar foods for months and months becomes an act of love.  I could get sick anywhere, but when I get sick because I moved to a malaria-endemic country out of love, the pain of the illness becomes an act of love.

Pain without a purpose is just pain.  But pain that comes as a result of love, while it remains painful, becomes something more.  It becomes a thing of beauty.  And it is no longer hurt, it is love.

"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."  --John 15:13

Lessons

School has been closed here at Tania, and throughout much of Kenya, for the month of August.  Many children go home with parents, guardians, or foster parents for the break, but others who have nowhere to go stay here.  Because of these children, we're never truly on a break here at Tania.  Someone has to make sure these children are clothed, fed, and safe.  And, even though I'm not teaching in a classroom for this month, there's always something to be taught.

By setting and enforcing "office hours" when students can visit me in my house, I teach boundaries and time management.

By having kids help me to catalog and organize the library, I teach a love of reading.

By involving students in the care of my pets, I teach compassion.

By exploring the property with students, I teach an appreciation for God's creation.

By setting aside my plans to spend time with a child having a hard day, I teach that people are more important than projects.

While I enjoy spending time carefully crafting lesson plans and making sure we cover all of the material for class each term, I think these impromptu life lessons during school breaks may be my favorite lessons.  These children may not remember how to correctly conjugate irregular verbs, they may not always keep their fingers on the home keys when they're typing, but I suspect they'll remember the time they spent helping in the library when Teacher Beth got so excited over finding some of her favorite books, and the time we hunted for four-leaf clovers together.  They'll remember how I let them come visit every day, and they always knew what time to come.  They'll remember the one afternoon when silly Teacher Beth had four dogs, two cats, and a hedgehog in her room at once.

We're gearing up for the third and final term of the school year to begin tomorrow.  As a teacher, I know the value of a classroom education, but I have really treasured the lessons that happened outside the classroom over the break.

The cost of love

"To love at all is to be vulnerable.  Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.  If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.  Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements.  Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.  But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."  --C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

When people ask why I'm here at the Tania Centre, I tell them I'm teaching.  And that's true, but it's not the main reason I'm here.  I'm here to love.  Teaching is hard, but loving is harder.

Shortly after moving here, one of the centre's dogs started following me around and sleeping outside my room.  Her name was Sabina Lady.  I became attached to this sweet girl like she was attached to me.  But, a few months after she started following me around, she became sick and had to be put down.

A month later, one of the other dogs had her puppies prematurely.  Two were stillborn, but one was still fighting when I found them.  The mother wasn't taking care of him, so I took him home and did as much research as I could on caring for premature puppies.  I spent the better part of eight hours doing nothing but caring for him, and had mentally prepared myself for little sleep for the next few weeks as he would require feedings every two hours.  But he didn't make it, and I lost another dog.

A month later, Flash, the 3-month-old puppy of another dog started following me around.  I let her in my room and gave her food and let her follow me to class.  My students loved her as much as I did.  She slept on my school bag while I taught, woke up when class was over, followed me to my next class, and went back to sleep on my bag.  But some students who didn't know chicken bones are bad for dogs gave some to Flash, and I stayed up with her all night as she slowly passed away, and there was nothing I could do.  This time, my students cried with me.

The student population in our school is very transient compared to many schools in the US, and with less warning than in the US.  I woke up one morning to hear that one of my favorite students was being taken back to her guardian's house that day because she was changing schools.  I came to school last week to hear that another student I'm very close to had unexpectedly gone home, and no one was sure if or when he'd be back.  When we start a new term, I'm always praying that the students return so I can continue building relationships with them, but not all of them do.

Many of the children here have come from difficult pasts, and their young minds are not always able to process what they've been through.  It manifests in a wide range of behaviors--sometimes students steal pens and pencils from me, sometimes they bite me, sometimes they manipulate other students.  And it's hard.

But not loving would be harder.  I may have my heart broken time and again when students leave, when students break my trust, when students disappoint me.  It may be wrung over and over as I lose more pets.  But this is the cost of love.  And I can remember that it hurts so deeply because I have loved and been loved so deeply.

And I will continue to love.  I will continue spending free time getting to know these children, encouraging these children, and pouring myself into these children.  As I type this, I have a cat sleeping on my lap and a new puppy, who I named Hope, sleeping in her crate by the foot of my bed. And I know that none of these children or pets are truly mine to keep.  The children will grow and move onto secondary school, and I won't see them again, or I won't see them more than a few times per year.  Some of the students will move to other schools in other parts of the country.  I'll move back to the US, and I won't be able to take my pets or my students with me.  I know already that my heart will break a thousand more times in the next three years.

But how blessed I am to have so much to love.

"Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God.  Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God."  --1 John 4:7

Do this in remembrance of me

"The Lord Jesus, on the night in which He was betrayed, took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, 'Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.'  In the same way, He also took the cup after supper, saying, 'This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.  Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.'"

I must have heard those words from 1 Corinthians 11 a thousand times in church as I was growing up.  Different denominations celebrate the Lord's Supper in different ways, but each one holds truth and mystery.  My Baptist church passed around plates of cubed bread and tiny cups of grape juice once per month; some churches use wafers, some use wine, some tear pieces from a loaf of bread to dip in the grape juice or wine, some drink from a communal cup.  I'm no theologian, so I can't explain the ins and outs of each denomination's practice, but I appreciate the beauty and symbolism from a layperson's perspective.

A few years ago, I read an idea that changed the way I looked at the Lord's Supper.  I knew what Jesus' sacrifice meant, and I knew to approach the table with a repentant heart and introspection.  But what does that mean once I've left the table?  In her book "Interrupted," Jen Hatmaker breaks down Jesus' words from that meal in a way that brings them out of the lofty upper room and into our messy lives.  She notes that, when Jesus said "Do this in remembrance of me," the "this" he was referring to was the breaking of his body and shedding of his blood as much as it was of breaking the bread and pouring the wine.  Do this in remembrance of me--break your body as a service to others.  Do this in remembrance of me--pour out your blood as a sacrifice for others.  Constantly make my sacrifice real.

Taking a communion wafer and tiny glass of grape juice once per month or once per quarter and making yourself feel repentant feelings is easy; breaking your body and shedding your blood is hard. But I believe it is what we are called to.  I don't believe everyone will literally lose blood in service to others, and not everyone might feel the aches and pains in their bodies after giving of themselves, but I think more of us need to be open to the idea that God might be calling us to just such a place.

Jesus' words came to me this week as I lay in my bed, body aching from the malaria I've been fighting off, sweat dripping off my forehead from the fever, head pounding with a week-long headache: this is my body, broken for you.  A body that would not have been broken like this had I stayed teaching in America.  I sobbed as I thought about how grateful I was to be allowed to serve Jesus in these children, even when it meant being physically broken.

Americans generally have a difficult time giving up comfort.  People I spoke to back home before moving to Kenya seemed most surprised about the comforts I was giving up, and most concerned about the potential for physical suffering I could face.  But this is where I am called to, and sacrifice is what we are all called to.  You may not be called to Kenya where you could find yourself fighting off malaria, but wherever you are called will be uncomfortable in its own way.  It might not be safe.  But, as Mr. Beaver described Aslan in "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," He's not safe, but He's good.

"Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul."  --Matthew 10:28

Do this in remembrance of him;  break your body, shed your blood, and constantly make his love and sacrifice real.  In this way, we proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.

Hope deferred

"Hope deferred makes the heart grow sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life."  -Proverbs 13:12

It's easy, sometimes, to focus on all of the hopes that are being deferred, in my life and the lives of those here at Tania.

There are little things being deferred:  comforts that we can't afford for kids and staff, favorite foods that I can't find in Kenya, comforts of a familiar culture.

There are large things being deferred:  I won't get to meet my new baby nephew until he's over a year old, I'm waiting to be with so many people who I love back in the States, Tania is waiting for the projects begun in February to start generating income, children here with special needs are waiting for the resources to allow them to be the best students they can be, orphans here are waiting for someone to call mom and dad.

Focusing on these deferred hopes certainly can make the heart grow sick.  To keep from despairing, I need to remember how many longings have been fulfilled here.
Though many children are still waiting for a mom and dad, they now have a hundred brothers and sisters, staff here who love them, a roof over their heads, and food in their bellies.
Many children who longed for an education are now receiving it.
I longed for years to be in Kenya, and here I am, living here for three years.
The directors of the Tania Centre longed for a beautiful, life-giving place for orphans and children with special needs when they began the centre over 15 years ago, and that is exactly what it has become.

Joseph, one of the founders & directors of the Tania Centre, told me that the property on which Tania sits had only two trees when they moved here.  They spent many hours planting, watering, and caring for tree saplings to help bring new growth and life to Tania.  Today, it is practically a forest here on Tania property.  Trees fill the space between the dorms and the school, they line the edges of the fields on the farm, and provide fire wood to fuel the school kitchen.  It may have been hard to imagine 15 years ago when they were first being planted, but these trees of life remind me that God will fulfill the longings he gives us, but in his time, not ours.

So I will keep praying for the orphans to be placed in families, for the students with special needs to be given what they need to learn and grow, for Tania to start generating income, for the children and staff here to feel comfort, even without comforts that are common in the US.  I will continue letting my loved ones back home know how much I love them, and I will spend a ridiculous amount of time staring at pictures of my baby nephew.  But I will not despair over the delay of these hopes.  I will look out my window at the trees that were only a hope 15 years ago and remember that God will fulfill our hopes in his time.

Revolving doors

I grew up in a small town.  The group of people I started kindergarten with was almost identical to the group of people I graduated high school with.  Friendships we had when we reached adulthood were friendships we'd had for most of our lives.  The longevity of the friendships meant we'd shared many memorable experiences, we'd laughed together, we'd cried together, and we'd grown together, which added a depth to those relationships that only occurs with time.

I'd been warned before moving here that the relationships missionaries build are like a revolving door--missionaries are constantly building relationships with people who come into their lives, then leave as quickly as they came.  Though living for seven years in the transient Fairfax County, Virginia, prepared me for this a little, I'm not sure it's something I'll ever get used to.

Jesus' ministry led him to many temporary relationships, too, even more temporary than the ones I'm likely to experience in my ministry.  Crowds would follow Jesus to hear his teaching, but only for a few days.  Jesus stayed with Zacchaeus for a day, then moved on.  He healed the sick, gave sight to the blind, gave life to the dead, and stayed up all night talking with Nicodemus, all people who walked through the revolving door of Jesus' life, never to be heard from again.

But that doesn't mean that those relationships were insignificant.

The crowds and Zacchaeus and Nicodemus were all likely changed for their encounters with Jesus.  The sick, the blind, and the dead were no longer--they were healed, seeing, and alive.  This is no small thing.

I had my first real experience with my own revolving door last week.  A team of volunteers from Canada spent the past month here, building and painting and strategizing and loving.  In their short time here, they built and stocked a chicken barn to start us in an egg-selling business, as well as providing a much-needed source of protein for our children:

They stocked one of our fish ponds with catfish and are helping us to stock the other two fish ponds in staggered intervals to help us start a fish-selling business:

They helped our administration get started with ideas for a small shop & café which will be opening soon on our property as another source of income:

These are no small things.

The Canadian team swept into and out of my life in the span of about a month, and saying goodbye was difficult.  I grew to love them and the Jesus I saw in them.  These relationships aren't the same as the relationships I've had with my friends from my hometown, but they are not insignificant.

So I'm thankful for the breadth of relationships that I'm learning to navigate and appreciate as I adjust to missionary life.  Adjusting my expectations of relationships is difficult, learning to love people while they're here with the same love as if they were staying forever is difficult, learning not to dwell too long on how much I miss those people is difficult, but it is necessary, and it is beautiful.  And it is no small thing.

Tension

On earth as it is in heaven.

We spend our lives living in tension.

The tension between right and wrong.

The tension between what is and what should be.

The tension between what we can do and what we should do.

The tension between what is real and what is true.

The tension of needing to lose your life to find it.

The tension of waiting for a Kingdom that has already come but is not yet here.

On earth as it is in heaven.

It's tempting, when the tension becomes tiring, to jump off the tight-rope into one extreme or the other.

We can't rescue every child from the streets, so why rescue any?

We can't save every tree in the rain forest, so why save any?

We can't pick every bit of litter from the ocean, so why pick any?

Or, we think we must save every child, every tree, every ocean, and end up burned out, jaded, or depressed.

But, every once in a while, we get a glimpse of why we walk in this tension, wearisome as it can be.

On earth as it is in heaven.

This morning, the entire school was gathered in the largest classroom of the school for a short church service before classes.  After the children on the worship team led us in a few songs, a teacher instructed the children to take a minute to pray.  "Just say something to God," he told them.

As I glanced around the room at the various ways the children were praying, I was struck by how beautifully unique their different prayers were.

A girl in Class 7 spoke quietly in English, with her hands raised in praise.

A Maasai girl with Down Syndrome whispered a prayer in the Maasai language, hands folded and head bowed.

A deaf boy's hands flowed with a graceful prayer, silent to us who are hearing.

A toddler sat on the floor, rolling her toy car back and forth, the sound of its wheels making a different sort of prayer.

Charity sat in her chair, rocking back and forth, perhaps with some thoughts running through her mind, perhaps not, but God heard her just the same.

I sat there, a teacher from suburban America, clutching my coffee mug and wondering how on earth I'd been so lucky to witness this little bit of heaven on earth.  So many languages, so many tough circumstances, but God heard them all.

On earth as it is in heaven.

So, even though we can't save every child, we can save these children.  Living in the tension means that we're never satisfied to save only these children, but we still save these.

Among these children, some will go on to secondary school, university, and successful careers, but some, like Charity, may never even learn to speak.  Living in the tension means we still love all of these children the same, whether they may be the future president of Kenya, or whether they may need round-the-clock care for the rest of their lives.

We live in a fallen world, so we can't expect idyllic circumstances in our lives.  But living in the tensions means bringing about these small moments of heaven on earth, because the Kingdom is coming and has already come, so we should live like it is and it has.

On earth as it is in heaven.