Final Diary Post
Here is the final diary installment. No pictures in this one, sorry. Dream up your own.
A final, concluding post will come sometime soon - probably next week.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saying goodbye was a surreal experience. As we gathered for the farewell celebration, I felt like we were starting just another Sunday evening service, or performing for some visitors. I struggled to find words as I gave my farewell speech (it’s all about speeches here) – to convey to them what they had come to mean to me. They gave me a set of traditional Burundi pants and shirt as a farewell gift, and later many of them (through an interpreter) expressed over and over again their gratitude for what I had done for them. What had I done? What have I done to deserve thankfulness like this?
The fact that I was leaving finally hit me when I reached the airport. I started crying as I walked across the tarmac to my waiting plane, the whine of its engines piercing the cool night air. I stopped before climbing into the plane, tears running down my face as I looked out into the night, there where I had come to know fifty special people. The fact that there was little possibility of me returning for at least several years did little to console me as the plane lifted off the runway. The poor lady beside was probably wondering what to do with the young white man, dressed in traditional Burundian garb, quietly crying beside her.
This would be the first time (since being a child) that I have cried after parting ways with someone. I wished I could have cried more. I wish I cried more often.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I have a one-night stopover in Amsterdam on my way home. It turns out my baggage is checked through till Vancouver, so I have nothing but the few things in my carry-on. I attract many looks in my Burundian garb as I walk the streets of Amsterdam on my way to the youth hostel. Just like in Africa.
It’s really cold here.
The hostel I am staying at is in the quiet Jordaan neighbourhood and I spend the evening wandering around with my camera. My thoughts jump back and forth from Africa to Amsterdam to Vancouver. I am struck how perfect everything here is. The streets are well-laid out, the cars are nice, the buildings are clean. Things just…work here. I find myself soaking in all the little things I have grown to appreciate about our Western life.
As dusk settles in I sit down by the edge of a canal and gaze across the water. People are coming home. A young girl walks her dog. A woman is puttering about in her kitchen. Two men cycle by, talking as they peddle. A car pulls up. A child gets out and heads inside, calling her mother as she steps inside. The father goes to find parking and returns later on his bike. The familiar click of front doors closing echoes in my head. Family. Home. Yes, I think I am ready for it.
Monday, August 31, 2009
I have a few hours to kill before my flight and I head towards the city center to do some more exploring. I love Amsterdam. I love the canals. The little shops. The rich culture. The way things have been here for centuries. I find myself getting the same feeling I’ve gotten before while traveling through Europe – the feeling you get when you walk through streets saturated with history.
I turn into a side street. Whoa. Red-light district. I turn back onto a main street and walk a few blocks, towards the train station. I turn left. Another street lined with brothels, prostitutes standing sparsely clad in the show windows, just like one would display goods in the front window of a shop. The district is much bigger than I thought. I turn down another street, trying to make my way to the station. Garbage lies on the street. Bars. More brothels. Sex shops. A gay cinema. My pleasant thoughts of Amsterdam are washed away by a feeling of dirtiness and…disgust. How can our ‘developed’ world descend so low? I see a church spire close to the station and head towards it. I find solace in the quiet hush of the sanctuary. I stay for the noon-time Mass. There are eight people there, in a cathedral designed for 400. At least there are eight. I grow calm again as the priest recites scripture. Forget Africa; I already live in the real missions field.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I love my family. Christoph and Rebecca had also just come home from their summers out of town. It is a joyful reunion.
It’s going to take some time to adjust. Perhaps a long time. I’ve just seen my family (and the Meekings) so far. I don’t really feel like seeing any of my friends. I don’t know if I know how to relate anymore. How do I tell them about what I’ve seen? And how are they going to understand? How do I continue the same lifestyle of worship and prayer amidst the inherent busyness of our North American lives?
A final post will come. A conclusion. A thesis, if you will. Maybe next week. Any attempt at it now will only lead to a jumble of words on this page. It’ll take some time to sort out.
I DO love you all, and I AM looking forward to seeing you again. Sometime soon.
A final, concluding post will come sometime soon - probably next week.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saying goodbye was a surreal experience. As we gathered for the farewell celebration, I felt like we were starting just another Sunday evening service, or performing for some visitors. I struggled to find words as I gave my farewell speech (it’s all about speeches here) – to convey to them what they had come to mean to me. They gave me a set of traditional Burundi pants and shirt as a farewell gift, and later many of them (through an interpreter) expressed over and over again their gratitude for what I had done for them. What had I done? What have I done to deserve thankfulness like this?
The fact that I was leaving finally hit me when I reached the airport. I started crying as I walked across the tarmac to my waiting plane, the whine of its engines piercing the cool night air. I stopped before climbing into the plane, tears running down my face as I looked out into the night, there where I had come to know fifty special people. The fact that there was little possibility of me returning for at least several years did little to console me as the plane lifted off the runway. The poor lady beside was probably wondering what to do with the young white man, dressed in traditional Burundian garb, quietly crying beside her.
This would be the first time (since being a child) that I have cried after parting ways with someone. I wished I could have cried more. I wish I cried more often.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I have a one-night stopover in Amsterdam on my way home. It turns out my baggage is checked through till Vancouver, so I have nothing but the few things in my carry-on. I attract many looks in my Burundian garb as I walk the streets of Amsterdam on my way to the youth hostel. Just like in Africa.
It’s really cold here.
The hostel I am staying at is in the quiet Jordaan neighbourhood and I spend the evening wandering around with my camera. My thoughts jump back and forth from Africa to Amsterdam to Vancouver. I am struck how perfect everything here is. The streets are well-laid out, the cars are nice, the buildings are clean. Things just…work here. I find myself soaking in all the little things I have grown to appreciate about our Western life.
As dusk settles in I sit down by the edge of a canal and gaze across the water. People are coming home. A young girl walks her dog. A woman is puttering about in her kitchen. Two men cycle by, talking as they peddle. A car pulls up. A child gets out and heads inside, calling her mother as she steps inside. The father goes to find parking and returns later on his bike. The familiar click of front doors closing echoes in my head. Family. Home. Yes, I think I am ready for it.
Monday, August 31, 2009
I have a few hours to kill before my flight and I head towards the city center to do some more exploring. I love Amsterdam. I love the canals. The little shops. The rich culture. The way things have been here for centuries. I find myself getting the same feeling I’ve gotten before while traveling through Europe – the feeling you get when you walk through streets saturated with history.
I turn into a side street. Whoa. Red-light district. I turn back onto a main street and walk a few blocks, towards the train station. I turn left. Another street lined with brothels, prostitutes standing sparsely clad in the show windows, just like one would display goods in the front window of a shop. The district is much bigger than I thought. I turn down another street, trying to make my way to the station. Garbage lies on the street. Bars. More brothels. Sex shops. A gay cinema. My pleasant thoughts of Amsterdam are washed away by a feeling of dirtiness and…disgust. How can our ‘developed’ world descend so low? I see a church spire close to the station and head towards it. I find solace in the quiet hush of the sanctuary. I stay for the noon-time Mass. There are eight people there, in a cathedral designed for 400. At least there are eight. I grow calm again as the priest recites scripture. Forget Africa; I already live in the real missions field.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I love my family. Christoph and Rebecca had also just come home from their summers out of town. It is a joyful reunion.
It’s going to take some time to adjust. Perhaps a long time. I’ve just seen my family (and the Meekings) so far. I don’t really feel like seeing any of my friends. I don’t know if I know how to relate anymore. How do I tell them about what I’ve seen? And how are they going to understand? How do I continue the same lifestyle of worship and prayer amidst the inherent busyness of our North American lives?
A final post will come. A conclusion. A thesis, if you will. Maybe next week. Any attempt at it now will only lead to a jumble of words on this page. It’ll take some time to sort out.
I DO love you all, and I AM looking forward to seeing you again. Sometime soon.
posted by thomassanz at
10:50 PM
2 Comments:
Hey! I've been following your African journey all summer through your blog and it's hard to believe you're home already! I just wanted to say that your writing is really engaging and that you conveyed so clearly through these entries how much Africa has really changed you. It's been so inspiring to hear about what worship can look like when you're free of inhibitions and just so simply on fire and glad of it. Really, really cool stuff.
All I can say is: keep writing. I always look forward to reading your blog, and it always amazes me how you can notice all the little things and remember to write them down later. I suppose that's what happens when a photographer tries his hand at writing.
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