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)
