Comfort

I stroll along the road into the center of town and carry my large blue sunhat in my hands. As evening sets in and the cool breeze rushes, I have no need to hide from the sun. I hear a street vendor call out, “Mahay mifoiky.” You know how to whistle. I realize I am whistling while I walk; I realize how comfortable am I in Toliara. I know the roads. I know the back ways and front ways, the ways that get muddy when it rains, the ways to avoid at dusk, and the ways that smell less like waste. I know which coffee vendor pours most generously and which mokary tend to be hot and fresh. I shake hands and make small talk without stressing about my language skills. It flows naturally. I can walk to the outhouse in the dark without a flashlight because I know where to step. I know the order of a Sunday service by heart and can even sing the offering song without looking in my hymnal. My stomach knows how to digest large quantities of rice, and my legs have learned to walk more slowly - in line with the relaxed pace of Malagasy life.

While strolling and whistling, I thank the Lord for the ability to adapt and feel at home. When I first arrived, everyday activities took incredible effort, energy, and focus. Everything was so new and thought-provoking. Now, I feel comfortable. I whistle while I walk.

Then, after thanking God, I pray for discomfort. I pray God would rattle my heart again.

In the midst of growing comfortable, the shock stopped. I no longer look twice when I see beggars on the street, clothes worn to pieces, or distended and malnourished stomachs. I am not surprised by insufficient food at dinner - when host sister gets only a small plate of rice. I am fed well and fed first; others in my family are not. I am not startled by a lack of money for soap, school fees, or even a snack. I have come to expect glaring differences in power between men and women, and I know what to expect when people see my white skin. I am not shocked by blatant expressions of tribalism. I no longer view the SALFA hospital facilities as inferior to hospitals in the U.S. but instead see them as some of the cleanest and nicest I’ve seen in Madagascar. I know how to act at a Malagasy funeral, and I know what it looks like to die and suffer due to preventable and treatable disease. I care little about the skeletal dogs which roam our yard. Their visible spines used to haunt me, but I give them little attention now.

Mama Jeannette says I have become Malagasy. She means to say that I have learned the Malagasy way of life. I agree, but her statement reveals more. I have learned to live with Malagasy expectations. I have accepted a new norm.

I cannot lie, this has saved my heart from pain. Walking past the same children covered in smut and longing for food each day wears on one’s soul. Accepting these children and their circumstances as a part of life diminishes the sting. I do not go to bed in tears every night. I do not weep on the road for those children.

But maybe I should.

I will continue to thank God for adaptability and comfort. God knows I cannot handle all the pain in this world, but God instead reveals that pain bit-by-bit. God shatters me in manageable pieces. Yet, I refuse to allow my heart complete comfort. We live in a broken world - not just me, and not just the Malagasy people. We all live in a broken world. Look around, my family and friends. See the pain. See the oppression. See how we hurt one another - in small ways and in devastatingly large ways. See how we can do better.

I pray your heart will be broken today. I pray the pain of this world will strike you and bring you to your knees. Maybe your heartbreak will lead to a solution. Maybe your heartbreak will simply sit with you. Let it. Let God awaken your heart and open your eyes. Let tears fall for the sadness and brokenness. Then turn to God and ask for strength to continue on amidst the pain and amidst the hurt. May God not relieve the weight placed on our hearts but instead use it to lead us on.