Wednesday, January 15, 2014

One Last Time




Ever since I purchased the plane ticket half a year ago, I have simultaneously looked forward to and dreaded returning to Jordan.



To return, I knew, would be to relive. Not so much the experiences themselves; rather, the feelings – condensed, and thus all the more intense. Some like heaven on earth, it’s true. But others like hell.



It’s almost over now, and I can see that my coinciding excitement and apprehension were warranted.



Memories stirred, emotions rekindled, again and again and again. Each of these six short-and-long days has awakened within me both the beauty and the pain, the gratitude and the regret, the joy and the grief of my year at the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf.



Sometimes, I could tell what was about to be stirred and predict the kind of feelings that would be rekindled. Then I felt somewhat prepared.



But other times, a shard of the past surfaced when I least expected it. 



On my third night here, after all of the boys had been put to bed, I played a board game with three volunteers, two of whom were close friends of mine last year. We had many game nights back then, and I was thoroughly enjoying the chance to catch up with them while reliving one of those special experiences.



I still can’t decide if it hit suddenly or if it crept in. Or both. But whichever, however, it came.



Just a few minutes left in our final game. I begin recalling what it felt like last year when these evenings ended, and I returned to my room alone. I recall that trying to fall asleep in a strange bed in my bare, silent room brought about some of the worst bouts of loneliness I’ve ever suffered – in spite of the very real joys of togetherness, present just minutes earlier. I realize that I’ll return to the same room, the same bed, in a few minutes. Then I am reminded of, confronted with, assaulted by something – a truth, which we’re all constantly trying to ignore: in every place I could possibly long to be, and with every person I could possibly long to be near, I have felt lonely before.



Alarming. Dizzying.



For those of us who have a history of unhealthily medicating our pain, the most courageous thing we can do in such moments is this: let our bodies cower and our souls whimper as we, minute by minute, weather the storm.



And I did. Two nights.



Shortly after the game ended, while I was alone in my room, lying on my bed, crying, the thought came to me: Perhaps loneliness is not a battle to be won, not an enemy that we can ever fully defeat. Perhaps loneliness is a storm that will inevitably strike, and when it does, we are meant simply to endure, as best we can.



And somehow, before I fell asleep, the Spirit graciously nurtured this thought into relief, even comfort.





… … …





I was writing the words above when, for the first time during my visit, Hazem returned to the school.



Leading up to this week, visions of what our reunion would look like had been the height of my excitement and the depth of my dread.



I decide to wait for a couple of hours, until snack time.



When I enter the deafblind unit’s kitchen and approach his seat at the table, I say his name loudly. Though he is not wearing his hearing aids, he still perks up. I sit down across from him and place my legs alongside his in the same way that I always did. He perks up even more. Reaches out and touches my face. Immediately pulls me in, pressing my cheek against his, holding us there with all of his 15-year-old might until, thirty seconds later, I pull away – it’s a little painful.



The next few times I take his hands in mine to sign something, he just grabs my head again and pulls us together, cheek to cheek. I don’t have to see his face to know that he is smiling.  



But within just a couple of minutes, he has changed.



 Confused. Even upset.



Nothing severe. Nothing like last year’s moments in hell.



But everyone in the room has noticed the change.



Ever since I left last year, whenever Hazem signed “William,” whoever was with him would take his hands and sign, “William finished.”



“William finished.”



“William finished.”



“William finished.”



Then, all of a sudden, William is not finished. He is here.



And there isn’t the slightest possibility of an explanation.



Before this moment, there was no way of knowing what my week with Hazem would look like. Now, I know what needs to be done.



“Fin, could you come over here a minute?”



Fin is the 20-year-old German man who has been working full-time with Hazem for the last five months and will continue doing so for the rest of the year. This volunteer is the answer to some of my most heartfelt prayers.



I want Hazem to touch both of us at the same time. He does. A few seconds later, I give him a hug.



Then leave.



I watch him from afar throughout the rest of the week. That’s all.



Further interactions would exacerbate those last emotions and increase the likelihood that much more destructive ones emerge the next time Hazem is told “William finished.”



And now – I think – he really is.



This time, there was no predicament over how to say good-bye. It was in the hello.



We assume that love will always draw nearer and nearer. But sometimes, for whatever reasons, love must keep its distance. At least for a time.





… … …





On my second night here, I visited the common room of the high school boys’ boarding house for an hour or so. Knowing that the boys should be studying for their exams, I brought a book with me. One of Toni Morrison’s novels. But as I probably should’ve guessed, it didn’t get much use. Most of the time, I just talked with Samer – my closest Deaf friend, the subject of this poem. When I arrived, he asked to look at the book in my hand. I gave it to him, he flipped through it for a minute, and then we started talking.



Towards the end of our conversation, he asked me who my closest friends at Princeton were this past semester.



“You mean like actual names?”



“Sure,” he said.



I paused, then began finger-spelling “Matthew.”



My hand had hardly finished this first name when he responded, “Oh” – another pause – “Is he the one whose name is on the inside cover of your book?”



I had completely forgotten.

How could I be so stupid?

What does this mean for me?

What will happen now?



Written on the inside cover of that book are the following words: “September 14, 2013. A gift from Matthew on our first date.”



Thank God it was Samer. Thank God he was subtle. No signs, barely an expression – just his eyes:
 “I know. And it’s okay.”



Freed from some of the fear, freed to speak the truth. “Yes, that’s him.”



When our conversation ended, we hugged. As we always did.



It was a dangerous grace. One I never would have chosen.



But God did. And praise be to God.



Sisters and brothers, may we be granted strength and courage to embrace even the dangerous graces that come to us on our respective journeys.



…Which are really all the same, right?



Learning to love and be loved well. 





… … …





I leave for the airport in less than twelve hours. Thank you so much for your prayers during the past week.



For those who haven’t read this blog before and who want to learn about my experiences without reading all 70+ posts: here’s something of a Top 20 list (confession: I originally intended on a Top 10, but I just couldn’t do it. Even picking 20 turned out to be hard. So, apologies for not offering a more abbreviated option. …And for my apparent vanity.)



The Holy Land Institute for the Deaf! (September)

Where No Hand Moves? (October)

Cruel Possession (November)

(Mis)Understanding Deafblindness (November)

Christmas Poop (December)

A Religious Reprimand (January)

Laboring Towards Likeness (January)

Nightmare (January)

Playing Father (February)

Click (March)

That Morn Shall Tearless Be (March)

Answers Lived (April)

Pictures of Hazem (April)

Sign (April)

Stitched Together (May)

Prayer for a Beloved Boy (June)

Nearing the End (June)

These Broken Bones (June)

Bear William (July)

Discipleship (July)


Tuesday, July 16, 2013

The End


First, some songs (to which you are by no means obligated to listen)...







...then, some pictures...






























































...and now, final words:



Thank you.

For reading, for caring, and for telling me that you do. Lord knows there were days when my spirit was resurrected through a simple e-mail. Your prayers and words of encouragement have sustained me throughout this year. Praise be to God, who brought you all on this journey with me!

Just so you know, here are the logistics of my travel and transition back to the States. Tomorrow, I’ll be in Amman with my fellow MCC volunteer Kristy. We’ll probably just sit around, look at pictures, and cry together. Then, at 11:00 PM, we’ll head to the airport, and in the middle of the night, we’ll fly to Frankfurt. After a lovely German breakfast of sausage and beer, we’ll fly to Philly, where we’ll spend the next four or five days recuperating alongside the other 50 or so MCC one-year volunteers. 

Then I’ll fly back to home base in Texas, which is where I’ll stay (excepting a couple of short road trips) for the following five weeks or so. In the beginning of September, I’ll head out to Princeton Seminary and begin pursuing a Master of Divinity degree.

During this time of transition, it would be my privilege to continue sharing, however I can, about my experiences this year. And of course, I want to get caught up on your lives as well. So, don’t hesitate to reach out. 

I also want to mention that my family will be hosting a welcome home party. We’ll talk together, eat dessert, and watch the adorable “Deaf News Jordan” video that the school made this year (assuming I can get my hands on a projector and some plug-in thingies). My mom is sending out invitations, but perhaps some people who’ve been following the blog and who would enjoy being a part of the conversation won’t be on her list, so feel free to contact me, and I’ll fill you in on the details.



 That's all for the logistics.

...But how to end?



To Us Little Prophets


None have seen
what you've seen,
or heard what you've heard,
or felt what you've felt.
Every life's journey is utterly unique.
None have experienced God like you have.
So take a deep breath and open wide.

We will illuminate
angels and demons
within the demons and angels they've made.
Problems will become persons,
strangers will become saints,
they will become us,
and we will become them.

But take care:
these weapons build up and tear down
what the strongest of armies never will.
Always listen first
and last.
But take risks:
in the end, we cannot lose.

Go
tell it
on the nearest mound.
Keep going.
Perhaps we won't change the world,
but we can change
ours. 

 

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Left Unsaid



Carrying thirty other boys up the stairs a hundred times

Five more Hazem nightmares — one of which Jesus miraculously ended through the mere touch of a 72-year-old woman

Becoming friends with a man I randomly met in the bakery down the street

That time I tasted tear gas (for reasons totally unrelated to political protests)

Hosting a week-long sleep-over with a Deaf student and a deafblind student

My typical morning routine of NesCafe and Jordan’s national anthem

Reflections that followed forgetting my country’s presidential election day

Attending the bachelor party of a Deaf co-worker

What life is like for the one hearing student at our school

A miracle that preceded the death of a 4-year-old boy with cancer in Salt

The taxi ride during which I experienced my one successful argument in Arabic

Unfortunate moments when the behavior of certain Deaf boys caused me to compromise my peace ethic 

What it’s like to hear the inimitably beautiful sound of a Deaf child’s laugh, free from all 
self-consciousness and inhibition

That night I had to hitchhike back to the school

The shockingly good fried chicken restaurant down the hill

GENDER IN THE ARAB WORLD!!!!

Personal opinions about the Islamic faith

Gratefulness for my home away from home (...away from home) with my dear friend Isaac Rank and his family

The things that I’m ashamed of doing and the things that I’m proud not to have done

Feeble yet earnest attempts to describe the Trinity and the Incarnation in Sign language

An informal inter-faith dialogue that would have been discouraging if it weren’t for the hugs afterwards

My periodic indignation at what I have perceived to be the bastardization of the Gospel in this community

The conflicting feelings of hope and hopelessness that defined my relationship with my dearest Hazem

----------

Each of these deserves at least a few paragraphs, and the list could go on and on. It seems that no matter how much I write on this blog, I simply cannot comprehensively share this year’s experiences with you. And it seems that no matter how descriptive and illuminating my words are, you simply cannot understand those experiences to an extent that fully satisfies me. And this leaves me feeling alone. 

But of course, this is not unique to me and my year in Jordan. 

Sobering words of wisdom from Henri Nouwen... 

“We speak about our ideas and feelings as if everyone were interested in them, but how often do we really feel understood?” (The Way of the Heart). 

“All human beings are alone. No other person will completely feel like we do, think like we do, act like we do” (Bread for the Journey). 

“It is this most basic human loneliness that threatens us and is so hard to face” (Reaching Out). 

“We ignore what we already know with a deep-seated, intuitive knowledge — that no love or friendship, no intimate embrace or tender kiss, no community, commune or collective, no man or woman, will ever be able to satisfy our desire to be released from our lonely condition” (The Wounded Healer). 

“In every embrace, there is loneliness. In every friendship, distance. And in all forms of light, there is knowledge of surrounding darkness” (Out of Solitude). 

In her hauntingly beautiful speech entitled “Solitude of Self,” addressed to the U.S. Senate Committee on Women’s Suffrage in 1892, Elizabeth Cady Stanton stated, “In that solemn solitude of self, that links us with the immeasurable and the eternal, each soul lives alone forever. ... Our inner being, which we call our self, no eye, nor touch of man, nor angel has ever pierced. ... Only omniscience is permitted to enter.”

Even so.

At the end of the day, as I look back on the last eleven months, I’m just grateful that I was able to share all that I’ve shared, in spite of the inevitable shortcomings. 

And all of us can strive to be grateful for any and every moment and shade of intimacy in our lives. 



One more post planned. Grace and peace, friends.