The God Who Sees
I think Africa made me an extrovert.
I used to not be this way. I used to be quite content in my own little space. I loved to retreat into privacy and silence. I didn’t mind being social, but I regained my energy from being alone.
Then I moved to Africa. Where privacy is just not a thing. Where the center of life and culture is community not individualism. Where the houses are all right up next to one another and neighbors share a common courtyard. Where cooking and conversing between friends, family, neighbors, and visitors is done on the porches until late into the evening. Where visiting people in their homes is the most popular pastime (and form of entertainment). Where you get knocks on the door at anytime of day and welcome friendly visitors on a regular basis. Where everyone knows everyone, greets everyone, and values everyone.
On top of that, I lived the past year of my life in one big house with four other nurses. It was rare to be in the house alone. Because of our day and night shift schedules, someone was always awake, asleep, cooking dinner, and having people over. Often all at the same time. Plus we always had African friends in the home as well - our housekeeper, cook, neighbors, coworkers, patients, and friends. That’s just how you do life in Africa. You do it together. Together in proximity. Together in real time.
If you’re at home, you literally leave the door open. And if your door is open, people will come in.
I miss that. I try to live that way in the United States, but it’s a lot harder. Our culture just doesn’t lend to community and hospitality very easily. It’s a lot easier to know your neighbors when everyone lives in close proximity instead of large neighborhoods dispersed across the city. It’s hard to even know when people are home when they always keep their doors closed and the garage down. You can’t just show up at people’s houses unannounced, so you try to plan ahead only to find out that most of your friends are booked until next month.
I now live in an apartment alone, and it dawned on me just this week that I do not like it. It’s not a place that I just want to hang out, and that is entirely because there are no people there. So on one warmish winter day I left the front and back door open all afternoon, just hoping someone would come by. One random visitor for the girl two doors down showed up and walked on the front sidewalk past my apartment. I almost lept out the door to greet her, startling her half to death. I really did that. I could tell she was unfamiliar and maybe even alarmed by my enthusiasm. In Africa that would fly. Here, not so much.
I wet my pillow with tears last night, listing to the Lord all the things I miss about Africa.
Getting my morning beignets from the same lady on the roadside almost every day, asking her each morning about her kids and her asking about my work.
Unexpected visitors at lunch time, but they are dear friends, so I heat up the leftover sauce and make some fresh rice and we eat with our hands out of plastic bowls in our laps while sitting on the front porch since its too hot inside the house.
Pulling my moto in front of Juliette’s house for a visit, and before I can even cut the engine, her kids and all their neighborhood friends run out the gate and grab my bags and my helmet and shake my hand and beg me to play cards or guitar.
Tuesday morning prayer with the team - belting out worshipful songs before we study scripture and spend extended time in prayer together.
Climbing the hill in those silly sandals from the market, waddling in my “complet”, but chatting and laughing with a dear sister and her many children as we ascend the hill to where the church sits at the top, overlooking our city as we ask the Lord for revival and see week after week how he is answering.
Staying up way too late with a friend, making shea butter from scratch and talking about life and Christ. We sleep on woven mats on her terrace, falling asleep watching the stars and praying until I can hear her snoring beside me.
I tell the Lord how thankful I am for the life he gave me in Africa, how I’m not mad at him for cutting it short, but does he see how it still hurts? I tell him that it’s hard to live in the American box after my corners have all been rounded out from living in an African circle. And I tell him that I’m struggling because Africa is such a huge part of me that I keep — for the most part — hidden.
I don’t want to be that person. You know, the girl who always talks about Africa. Who compares everything to Africa. Who can’t have a conversation without talking about Africa. So I really do try to reintegrate into American life and culture like a normal gal in my twenties. Until tears wet my pillow and I remember that Africa IS a huge part of my story that I am depriving others of (and myself) when I keep it contained. God has given me a story to steward, and Africa is a worthy part of it.
But no one even asks about it anymore, I tell the Lord. I can’t explain it, but it is hard to talk about it when people don’t ask. So I imagine the Lord asking me about it, and I list more things I miss about Africa, and my face falls asleep on the wet spot on my pillow.
I used to not be this way. I used to be quite content in my own little space. I loved to retreat into privacy and silence. I didn’t mind being social, but I regained my energy from being alone.
Then I moved to Africa. Where privacy is just not a thing. Where the center of life and culture is community not individualism. Where the houses are all right up next to one another and neighbors share a common courtyard. Where cooking and conversing between friends, family, neighbors, and visitors is done on the porches until late into the evening. Where visiting people in their homes is the most popular pastime (and form of entertainment). Where you get knocks on the door at anytime of day and welcome friendly visitors on a regular basis. Where everyone knows everyone, greets everyone, and values everyone.
On top of that, I lived the past year of my life in one big house with four other nurses. It was rare to be in the house alone. Because of our day and night shift schedules, someone was always awake, asleep, cooking dinner, and having people over. Often all at the same time. Plus we always had African friends in the home as well - our housekeeper, cook, neighbors, coworkers, patients, and friends. That’s just how you do life in Africa. You do it together. Together in proximity. Together in real time.
If you’re at home, you literally leave the door open. And if your door is open, people will come in.
I miss that. I try to live that way in the United States, but it’s a lot harder. Our culture just doesn’t lend to community and hospitality very easily. It’s a lot easier to know your neighbors when everyone lives in close proximity instead of large neighborhoods dispersed across the city. It’s hard to even know when people are home when they always keep their doors closed and the garage down. You can’t just show up at people’s houses unannounced, so you try to plan ahead only to find out that most of your friends are booked until next month.
I now live in an apartment alone, and it dawned on me just this week that I do not like it. It’s not a place that I just want to hang out, and that is entirely because there are no people there. So on one warmish winter day I left the front and back door open all afternoon, just hoping someone would come by. One random visitor for the girl two doors down showed up and walked on the front sidewalk past my apartment. I almost lept out the door to greet her, startling her half to death. I really did that. I could tell she was unfamiliar and maybe even alarmed by my enthusiasm. In Africa that would fly. Here, not so much.
I wet my pillow with tears last night, listing to the Lord all the things I miss about Africa.
Getting my morning beignets from the same lady on the roadside almost every day, asking her each morning about her kids and her asking about my work.
Unexpected visitors at lunch time, but they are dear friends, so I heat up the leftover sauce and make some fresh rice and we eat with our hands out of plastic bowls in our laps while sitting on the front porch since its too hot inside the house.
Pulling my moto in front of Juliette’s house for a visit, and before I can even cut the engine, her kids and all their neighborhood friends run out the gate and grab my bags and my helmet and shake my hand and beg me to play cards or guitar.
Tuesday morning prayer with the team - belting out worshipful songs before we study scripture and spend extended time in prayer together.
Climbing the hill in those silly sandals from the market, waddling in my “complet”, but chatting and laughing with a dear sister and her many children as we ascend the hill to where the church sits at the top, overlooking our city as we ask the Lord for revival and see week after week how he is answering.
Staying up way too late with a friend, making shea butter from scratch and talking about life and Christ. We sleep on woven mats on her terrace, falling asleep watching the stars and praying until I can hear her snoring beside me.
I tell the Lord how thankful I am for the life he gave me in Africa, how I’m not mad at him for cutting it short, but does he see how it still hurts? I tell him that it’s hard to live in the American box after my corners have all been rounded out from living in an African circle. And I tell him that I’m struggling because Africa is such a huge part of me that I keep — for the most part — hidden.
I don’t want to be that person. You know, the girl who always talks about Africa. Who compares everything to Africa. Who can’t have a conversation without talking about Africa. So I really do try to reintegrate into American life and culture like a normal gal in my twenties. Until tears wet my pillow and I remember that Africa IS a huge part of my story that I am depriving others of (and myself) when I keep it contained. God has given me a story to steward, and Africa is a worthy part of it.
But no one even asks about it anymore, I tell the Lord. I can’t explain it, but it is hard to talk about it when people don’t ask. So I imagine the Lord asking me about it, and I list more things I miss about Africa, and my face falls asleep on the wet spot on my pillow.
~~~~~
The next morning I get a text from a friend.
“I’m up. Are we still good for coffee?”
She comes over while I’m still in my pajamas with my hair pulled up in a giant clip. She stays for a couple of hours while we have multiple cups of coffee, read a Psalm, and talk about really light and really significant things.
Shortly after she leaves, I get another text from a friend in Searcy.
“I’m in Little Rock and have something for you. Can I swing by this afternoon?”
An (almost) unannounced house guest! My heart leaps for joy and I put a pot of soup on the stove, hoping that she will stay for lunch. She does. We are both blessed by sharing rich conversation over warm soup.
Another friend comes over in the afternoon for tea, which we had planned, but what we hadn’t planned was some sweet time in prayer together about the things that were heaviest on our hearts. She allowed me to share and pray and cry through talking about Africa.
That evening at church, I made mention of how I made rice and peanut sauce for dinner because I missed Africa. “What is hardest for you about being here?” A friend genuinely asked and then genuinely listened as I gave the most honest answer I’ve given in a long time.
~~~~~
Remember Hagar? When Sarah basically kicked her out of the family, an angel appeared to her in the wilderness to tell her that she was with child, and to return to her home and family. In her despair, this was the beacon of hope that Hagar needed. “You are the God who sees me,” she told the Lord.
When I was complaining to the Lord about my loneliness, he sent three friends to visit in my apartment the very next day. And when I was complaining about how no one asks about Africa anymore, he sent two people to ask and allow me to weep through my answers.
It’s raining and I’m driving and it feels like a good time to cry again — but a good cry this time. I keep listing the things that I miss about Africa, but with a changed heart. I’m not complaining at all, I’m only half grieving, and I’m 100% remembering. Remembering gives way to worship. He is the God who sees me.
You’ve got a story, too, you know. Steward your story well, including the parts that people don’t ask about. Including the parts that you don’t need to hide anymore. There is a time, and I know it well, to let yourself cry, to grieve, and to pour out your complaints to the Lord. When you do that, just remember to wait and watch for his response. He is the God who sees; he is the God who answers. He will find you in your wilderness and will show up with hope in his hands just for you. This will be the time for you — like Hagar — to embrace hope, accept the new thing he is doing within you, and return to what you fled from. Then you will start stewarding and sharing your story again.
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