Over four months ago, I set my freshly worn and worldly suitcases on the floor of my childhood home. I pulled on my duffel’s zipper wondering how the countless gifts from my Malagasy loved ones had survived my flight back to the United States. Still jet-lagged and filled with oceans of thoughts and emotions, I carefully unwrapped, unfolded, and un-nestled relics from my year in Toliara, Madagascar. I showed my mom the ring my host sister, Esperance, had somehow managed to buy for my birthday. I turned to my father and translated the Malagasy written on a large decorative cloth. Words foreign to him felt comfortable and natural leaving my mouth, and with them came a mental image of the friend who had gifted me the stunning fabric. A nearly endless stream of gifts unfurled from my luggage, but with each item, memories and love came tumbling out, too. In the midst of such a joyous mess, I looked at the faces of my family. My heart delighted in their presence, but my heart also deeply ached and unleashed a fury of questions. Were my loved ones in Toliara safe and happy? Had I communicated how much I cared for them? How soon would my Malagasy language skills start to slip away? Would I forget the things I had seen? Could I hold on to the fervent fire in my heart? What about the tears in my eyes? Would they stop streaming at night? What would life look like in the United States? My small suitcases already sat mostly empty, but I had barely started the process of unpacking.
Much like my year in Madagascar with YAGM, my transition back into the United States has brought both great joys and utter heartbreak. Reuniting with family and friends, engaging in new and challenging conversations, and small luxuries including soft toilet paper and a plethora of peanut butter have warmed my heart and refreshed my spirit. At other times, the transition has left me feeling shattered and overwhelmed. I deeply miss my loved ones in Toliara. When the plague spread across the island of Madagascar this Fall, I worried for their health and safety. I longed to know they were okay. Though the plague outbreak has subsided, my deep desire for knowledge of their safety has not. I daily try to imagine the size of my host sister’s nine-month belly. I wonder how soon she will go into labor. I hope I will somehow see a picture of those sweet newborn hands. Moments later, I cringe as heaps of food and plastic fall into U.S. trash cans, and I attempt to reconcile the sweet taste of my $3.00 ice cream cone with my awareness of how much rice and meat $3.00 can buy in Toliara. These thoughts and emotions come in waves - sometimes gently rocking and sometimes storming through me. They carry, urge, guide, bash, and batter. Sometimes they wash me back in time and I imagine my life one year ago.
Last December, I sent a newsletter entitled, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I had gained new insight into the Advent season. Never before had I so desperately felt the need for a savior - a savior for the world and for myself. My experiences in Madagascar had brought me to tears and most certainly brought me to my knees. Upon returning to the United States, I worried I would forget the things I had seen and experienced and simultaneously, the intensity of last Advent season. Perhaps in a country of incredible wealth and privilege - immersed in a sea of glistening stores, shining lights, and holiday goodies, I would fail to fall to my knees. How could I so desperately long for a savior in a place which didn’t seem to need saving? Yet, this Advent season, I cry even louder, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” Our entire world lies broken and deeply in need of healing. Last year, I realized American actions and mindsets cause physical and metaphorical droughts in Madagascar and around the world which leave many wanting for food, autonomy, and basic human rights. I now realize those actions create brokenness not only abroad, but in our very own country and hearts. While inciting global drought, we, ourselves, drown in frivolous consumerism, debilitating over-consumption, and isolating individualism. Brokenness begets brokenness. Our self-centered ways deny us happiness and deny others life. We long for genuine human connection and happiness while ironically failing to acknowledge our global family and opportunities for abundant love and relationship. Yet, just like our brokenness, our liberations are bound up in one another, and I burn with hope for liberation this Advent season. We can emerge from seas of selfishness and turn our hearts and hands outward. When we do so, we will find hope begets hope and freedom begets freedom. May our coming and ever present savior, a sweet child asleep in the manger, grant us hope for life-giving and healing liberation, freedom, and love this Advent season.
