What It Was Like To Go Back

I had forgotten many things in four years: the feel of my bare feet on smooth tile floors. The sounds of critters in the ceiling above my head when trying to sleep. A fancy wooden chair leaking sawdust from termites. 

We arrived at the Dar es Salaam airport at 3 a.m., an hour later than scheduled, which meant that four flights arrived at the same time, overwhelming the baggage workers. It took two hours to get our luggage, and we blearily exited the airport at 5. There were 11 of us total: six Medinas and five Snyders, them with a decade of living in Tanzania, us with 16 years. You probably think we should have known what we were doing. 

Almost instantly, we all realized that we had also forgotten how hard it is to live in Dar es Salaam – especially arriving at the airport all on our own, with no car, no home, no SIM card. We felt like brand-new foreigners all over again. 

Our AirBnb host had offered to send a car to the airport to meet us, but the driver missed the memo that his job was to lead the two vans that followed him with our luggage and the rest of us. Most houses do not have addresses, and the pin on AirBnb was incorrect, which meant that we spent a good portion of our first morning directing our van drivers in circles as we tried to find the house—with no address and no local cell service. 

When we finally arrived at the AirBnb we discovered there were no towels and no top sheets and no drinkable water and a pre-paid electricity allotment of only eight units a day, which was barely enough to keep the lights on. So we dug into our jetlagged brains and remembered again how to buy more electricity and how to find bottled water and breakfast for our cranky children and cranky selves. 

After the first few days, we planned to move to a bigger AirBnb because the Dunkers were flying in from Kenya to join us. But the day before, I discovered this second house did not exist.

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh. We resurrected this dormant skill.  

Still, I asked myself, How did I love this place? Everything is hard. Everything is frustrating. 

But then I remembered.

Soon after we discovered that we had nowhere to go, well, we suddenly had a place to go. Carley, who has been our friend since 2005, heard about our plight and invited us all to stay at the Young Life ministry center. We found ourselves staying at a place that was way better than any AirBnb. Our kids hung out with her amazing quadruplets while Gil and the Dunkers held the Reach Tanzania Bible School reunion and Ben and Lauren and I made plans for our team, who would be arriving soon.  

I was reminded of how we navigated the hardness and frustrations of living in Dar for so many years: we had an extraordinary community. Oh, right. This is why nobody new was ever allowed to arrive without a host. Shame on me for assuming we could handle going back to Tanzania on our own without leaning on our community. In four years, I have become so American. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. We can handle this independently. No, we couldn’t. 

I stepped onto my haven called Haven of Peace Academy, where every inch of the campus is crammed with memories spanning 20 years of my life. It’s where I grew from 23 to 43; it’s where I discovered who God created me to be; it’s where I was known and seen and loved by a heaven-like community. It’s where the gospel took root in my life and grew from hypothetical to gritty and real, substantial and fruitful. Whether I gave more or gained more during those years is a toss-up. 

HOPAC celebrated its 30th anniversary while we were there. Since it was my school for all but its first six and the last four, attending a family picnic and a fancy gala with staff and alumni from multiple generations filled me to overflowing. I attended the grade 5 promotion – kids who I admitted to HOPAC as their principal and were in grade 1 when I left. We attended the Grade 12 graduation –  Grace’s class. Everywhere we looked, we were surrounded by people we loved and who loved us and who built our history. 

Our team from California arrived and joined us in putting on a day camp at HOPAC for 90(!) kids, and once again, I got to stand on the chapel stage and say, “Good morning, boys and girls!” and some of the big kids remembered and chanted back happily, “Good morning, Mrs. Medina!” My heart filled and burst open. Who knew that a “Good morning” could make me cry? 

Once again, I got to see the joy of HOPAC kids taking such delight in water balloons, the big colorful parachute, and songs that included lots of dancing. The American missionary kids were excited by the goldfish crackers we carefully packed in our luggage, but the rest of the kids weren’t sure what kind of nonsense snack this was, and I loved them for it. (The Skittles, however, were a hit.) 

On the last day of camp, a mom of a camper came up to me and said, “You probably don’t remember me, but my daughter applied for kindergarten your last year as principal. She was on the waiting list, and space opened up for her at the last minute. You wrote to me, told me the good news, and said it was one of the last things you did at HOPAC. Thank you so much.”

I had forgotten, but I remembered. So much joy that she remembered, too.

Bernice came to HOPAC to have lunch with me one day during camp, and Aishi came another day. They are beautiful women now, in their 30s with very successful careers and making a difference in their country. They were my students in my very first class at HOPAC – I was their teacher for grades 5 and 6 and they continued to be in my life and Gil’s (he was their high school Bible teacher and soccer coach) until they graduated from high school when I gave their commencement speech. 

We spent time with so many other former students, too: Boniface, Benji, Vanessa, Cynthia, Iain – and more.  

The weight of the honor of being such a big part of their lives fell upon me as we sat on that same campus and remembered and laughed and delighted in the 25 years of life God has given us since we met each other. It felt sacred. Holy.

Then there were my own kids. They have their own stories to tell, and I don’t want to tell those for them. Honestly, they might not even know how to tell them until many more years have gone by. Their lives are complex and layered and they are still figuring out how the pieces fit together, but I believe that this trip helped them to snap a whole lot more into place. 

We invited a team from our church to join us because we wanted to bring our worlds together, but I hadn’t considered how having friends and peers experience the country of their childhood would help my kids bring cohesiveness to their own fractured identities. I watched my kids take pride in their past in ways that I hadn’t seen in them for years – or ever. To God be the glory for answering many of my desperate prayers for my children.

When the girls and I visited Tanzania in 2021, I had so much grief. That trip was the beginning of healing for me. So this time, there was no grief. I was able to recognize that I have indeed fully transitioned, fully said goodbye, fully moved on. California does feel like home now. But still, I cried when we left HOPAC on the last day of this trip. I felt such a beautiful mixture of sweetness and sadness, which really was a kind of overwhelming gratitude that this incredible country and school got to be my life for such a long time. Who am I that I was granted that privilege?