{Re-entry, Hope, and More Tears}

{Please, before you read this post, make sure you've read my previous post here which talks about my time and emotions in Honduras more specifically}

For those of you who knew or guessed at the depths of my emotional state in Honduras, and now for those of you on the world wide web who know from my last blog post, you have thought and/or are thinking that I now have my happily-ever-after, Cinderella ending. Honduras is in the past now, and I'm back in the States with all the conveniences and comforts of home and small, private, Christian education. The answer to that is yes and no.

Yes, I'm back in the States and a huge weight has come off my shoulders. I feel like myself again, thank God. But it's not that easy.

Re-entry, the transition back into the States for expats, is rumored to be just as difficult as the culture shock of going to a new place. (See here and here for more info on re-entry).  Because I was only an expat for a relatively short time, and because I had such a hard time abroad, I thought I'd have an easy transition home. As I settle in, though, it's becoming clear to me that it will be far more complex and messy than I expected.

Culture shock is present for me in ways that are easy to point to and understand.

It's present in humorous ways, like when people on an elevator complain about being too cramped together, while I laugh because I feel like I have plenty of space because no one's sweaty armpit is in my face and it's only a 2 minute elevator ride and not a 5 hour bus ride.

It's present in a completely overwhelming sense of choice at the size of a gas station.

It's present in the way my brain shuts down a little when I hear too many voices speaking in English around me.

It's present in a renewed sense of wonder and joy in the little things, like having a kitchen sink with two sides and hot water to wash my dishes.

 It's present in the guilt of my own participation in American materialism when I open my closet and burst into tears because of the sheer size of the closet and the amount of clothes I have.

It's present in the frustration of the settled complacency of life here (myself included).

It's present in my sense of annoyance that I have to depend on my car now, rather than being able to walk everywhere I want or need to go.






It's also present in ways that I can't easily point to or explain.

It's present in the struggle to understand and give meaning to what has happened.

It's present in the nights I can't fall asleep because my mind is going 120 mph chewing over the past.

It's present in a sense of loss or grief that I can't understand, on a beautiful summer evening in which I feel nothing but content, but inexplicably begin crying and can't stop for a long while.

So what I'm trying to say to my family and friends is that America is not the source of my hope or healing. The world is not black and white. There were moments of true joy in Honduras just as there are moments of deep grief in the States.

My hope does not come from a place. Rather, it comes from faith in a God who promises to work all things to my good and who has said that in Christ my labor is not in vain (Rom. 8; I Cor. 15). It comes from the joy of a Savior who came not only to forgive and fix my personal brokenness, but also to fix the brokenness of the world around me. Romans 8: 20-25 says that creation itself is subject to futility, and groans with us for redemption. Revelation 21-22 speaks of the hope of the new heavens and the new earth, when Christ will have made all things new ...including flawed educational systems and vicious cycles of poverty and injustice based on race and class found in Honduras, the States, and throughout the world.

And so, to end this post, all I can say is come Lord Jesus, come quickly!

{Failure, Faith, and Tears}

It's almost 5 weeks to the day now since I've left Honduras. I can't quite believe it...these weeks have been a blur of travel, family, friends, moving, and unpacking. It's left little time and energy for me to try to process mentally and emotionally everything that happened and everything that is happening. In some ways, I don't want to do that, even though it's necessary. So this is my attempt, and in this process I'll be baring a good chunk of my soul to the world wide web. In other words, if you don't enjoy emotional voyeurism, go ahead and click right back to facebook, twitter, pinterest, or this (because puppies).

My pat and easy answer when people ask me about Honduras is to say it was really hard, but good. It's difficult for me to go beyond that, when I'm striving to unpack that phrase myself. "Really hard" doesn't even begin to explain it in my opinion. I struggled far more than I was willing or able to admit to myself, much less others. Deep down, I knew there was far more than normal, everyday frustration and discouragement going on, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. Near the end of the year, though, it became undeniable, especially when I happened to stumble across this.

     Personality change? Check. I was not myself in so many ways.

     Agitation? Check. I was moody and irritable, and had trouble sleeping.

     Withdrawal? At times. I usually fought through this though because I knew I needed people, even if I wasn't totally honest with them.

     Hopelessness? Check. It was impossible for me to feel optimistic, and most days ended with feelings of failure, guilt, and shame.

The night in late May/early June when I read that, I remember breaking down, finally acknowledging what I had known for a long time, that I was depressed.

I had suppressed that truth for a long time, for a variety of reasons. I was afraid that to name it would make it more real and powerful. I worried that to admit it was synonymous with admitting weakness, which my perfectionist self can not handle. I didn't want to voice it for fear of making people I love worry more about me than they already were. I stressed about the stigmas that continue to surround mental health illnesses.

In other words, I was filled with so much guilt, shame, and doubt. If I were a good teacher, I should not have had so many failing students. Am I even fit to be a teacher? I was ashamed of my weak selfishness that made the year so much more about me, and hindered me from loving my students and coworkers as I should. I left feeling that ultimately I had done more harm than help to myself and those I was called to serve. Worst was the plaguing thought that if I was a Christian (or at least a "good" one), why was I allowing my circumstances to define and control me so strongly? If I were both a good teacher and Christian, I should be committing to a second year in order to better help this community. ...the introspection has been vicious and endless....

((((On a side note, I can't help but think of the song "Blood Pressure" by Mutemath ("Why can't you be more like your older brother...why can't you do a little more for Jesus...be more, do more...")Also, if you're inclined check out the song "Stay Gold" and "My Silver Lining" by First Aid Kit...their entire album pretty much has helped me process my emotions.))))

So yea, that was a bit of the really hard part. Despite all of that, though, Honduras was also good. Some of you have wondered or asked, directly or indirectly, if I have regretted the choice I made. The answer to that is a firm no. Yet it's messy. Part of the reason it is/was hard is because the hard is easier to name and explain than the good. I'm still waiting, hoping and praying to see the good of my time in Honduras.

Perhaps the good will only ever be the lesson of failure and the reality of my own weakness. Most of my life I feel has been successful in worldly terms--middle class privilege, scholarly success, good social relationships, etc etc. This is the first time I have felt the full weight of failure-- professional failure, emotional failure, spiritual failure.... As a teacher it's easy to talk about the value that can be found in failure, but when it's your own failure it's hard to own up to and seek that value. My inability to sign up for a second year was an acknowledgement of my human weakness and limits. My choice to go was an act of independence, but the entire year showed me just how dependent I am and must be.

Beyond that, I'm not sure of the good. I have to trust and believe that the year was good and will bring about good. I couldn't go on if I didn't. Also,  it would be a denial of my faith in a sovereign God who loves me and who promises to work all things to my good (Rom. 8) and who will make everything beautiful in time (Eccl 3). Either way, just because I can't see the good and beautiful in the year doesn't negate its existence.

{this post focuses more on what was going on while I was over there...see here for what's been going on now that I'm back in the States}