We Can’t Be Sure Everything Is Going to Be Okay

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On May 6, 2020

In A Life Overseas, Leaving Tanzania


Since being unexpectedly wrenched from our Tanzanian home a month ago due to COVID-19, my family has been living as vagabonds in California, moving in with various relatives every couple of weeks. (It’s hard to shelter-in-place when you have no home.) This week we’re with some in-laws, and I’ve been walking the neighborhood daily.

Whenever I visit California, the perfectly manicured HOA lawns are always a shock to my system after living in a chaotic East African city. These days, the spring roses are bursting into bloom around me, as if in defiance of the pain the world is facing. And like spring flowers, popping up in neighbors’ yards are identical red cardboard signs that read: Everything is going to be okay. There are dozens of them, and they mock me as I pass by. How do you know everything is going to be okay? I silently yell at those signs. I just had to leave my home three months early, and we had four days’ notice. We lived in Tanzania for sixteen years, and since we were planning on relocating in July, this meant we got no closure, no good-byes, no tying up loose ends. Just grief and trauma. We don’t have jobs or a home. So please don’t tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m not in the mood. 

I walk, and I restlessly pound out my lament to God: How long, O Lord? How long before we can start a normal life again? How long before I know with confidence that the school, the friends, the community I left behind in Tanzania will be okay? How long before this knot of anxiety goes away, the weight of grief lifts off my chest?

I love the stories of God’s deliverance in Scripture. The walls falling down, the giant conquered, the blind man healed. But I have this tendency to speed read through the Bible, focusing on the happy endings and ignoring the miserable parts in between. Yes, God’s people were dramatically rescued from slavery in Egypt. (After 400 years of back-breaking suffering.) Yes, they made it to the Promised Land. (After 40 years of death in the desert.) Sure, God promised them a “hope and a future”….but it would come after 70 years in exile. (That part doesn’t make it onto the coffee mugs.) The Messiah arrived! (After 400 years of silence from God.)

Ever wonder what it must have felt like to live in the “in between” years before God’s miraculous deliverance? Probably felt pretty defeated, and isolated, and alone. Many, many, many of God’s faithful never saw his deliverance in their lifetimes. All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised (Heb 11). You could say that for them, everything did not turn out to be okay. That’s probably why amongst the miraculous stories was a whole lot of waiting and groaning and begging for redemption.


My soul is in deep anguish.  How long, Lord, how long? (Ps. 6)


How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts  and day after day have sorrow in my heart? (Ps. 13)


We are given no signs from God; no prophets are left, and none of us knows how long this will be. (Ps. 74)


How long will the land lie parched and the grass in every field be withered? (Jer. 12)


How long, Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, “Violence!” but you do not save? (Hab. 1)


How long, O Lord? How long? What if life doesn’t return to normal in months, or years, or even ever in our lifetime? What if things get worse? What if everything will not be okay? The truth is that if “okay” means safety, prosperity, and comfort, I might not get that. There is no guarantee. And judging from Christian history and the lives of my Christian brothers and sisters around the world, there is no precedent that God promises me those things.


Perhaps one of the most important things I learned during my life overseas was in watching the lives of those who have lived and died asking, “How long, O Lord?”  She follows Jesus and her husband keeps cheating on her and he got her pregnant with a fourth child and she has only an elementary education and there is no government support and she works incredibly hard but nothing ever gets better. Oh, and even before COVID-19, there already were a dozen diseases around that could kill her or her children on any given day. Yet still, she perseveres in faith.


I must remember that I am not promised that everything is going to be okay. In my lifetime, it might not be.


Unless, that is, we’re talking about the very, very end. I am not promised heaven on earth. I am, however, promised heaven. That’s why Hebrews 11 ends with this: These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, since God had planned something better.


How long, O Lord, until everything will be okay? Maybe not ever. But I can be okay, because I am a foreigner on this earth. This is not where I belong. I can see Your redemption in the distance, and in the meantime, I long for a better country–a heavenly one. 

This article was first published at A Life Overseas.

Not Just Any Rock

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On April 21, 2020

In Leaving Tanzania, Liberia, Third Culture Kids

The day before we left Tanzania last month, I found my rock from Liberia in a bathroom drawer. I had forgotten it was there; I had forgotten to look for it, and I came across it by chance. A shock went through me when I saw it, because it was with some things I was going to throw away, and I shuddered to think that I could have accidentally thrown it out in my hasty packing. I quickly put it in a small bag with other important things that went into my carry-on luggage.

This was not just any rock.

I found this rock on the shores of the ELWA beach in Liberia where I grew up. It was smooth, its rough edges worn off by the sand and waves. I kept it on my windowsill with other childhood treasures. One day, it fell off and split into two pieces.

When I was twelve, my family left Liberia for a year. The plan was that I would do 8th grade in the States, and then we would return to Liberia for the rest of high school. I loved Liberia. It was home to me, and I was not looking forward to being away for a year.

I took the broken-off piece of that rock and hid it in a corner of our house. I took the larger piece with me to California. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing this, and looking back, I’m actually pretty shocked that as a twelve-year-old, I thought of something so symbolic. I was leaving part of myself in Liberia. When I returned, I would be complete again.

Half way through that year, my family listened in despair as we heard reports of rebel soldiers closing in on the capital city in Liberia, of a government coup, of panic and evacuation of almost all the missionaries. Then–a civil war, a descent into chaos and devastation.

We never went back. We lost all of our possessions. We never said goodbye. People we knew were killed. Suddenly loss and grief were a part of my story in a way they never had been before. So it was fitting that the two halves of my rock never found their way together again.

Just a few short months later, we were re-stationed on the other side of the continent, this time in Ethiopia. I was in 9th grade, and chose to go to boarding school in Kenya. I had a new school and a new direction. But that year, rebels descended into the capital city in Ethiopia. During school announcements, all of us missionary kids from Ethiopia kept getting pulled aside for grave conversations. Things were bad, they said. Some of our parents were getting evacuated, they said. My mom and my brother were among them. They were on the last flight out, and later my mom told me how they watched the tanks roll into the airport as the plane left the runway.

My dad stayed behind with some other men, and they slept in a windowless hallway at night. I was still at school. For six weeks, my family was on three different countries. When I arrived back in Ethiopia, the city still had curfews and lockdowns. My dad crammed what he could into several suitcases, and he and I left. Once again, I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I look back on the timeline of my childhood, and Liberia and Ethiopia lay there like the jagged end of my broken rock. No opportunity to finish well. No closure. Just loss.

The night that we were told we had to leave Tanzania, that wound re-opened. I can’t believe this is happening to me again, I wailed to Gil. I can’t believe now it’s happening to my own kids. As foreigners living in a land that’s not our own, we like to believe that we belong there. That we can pretend it’s part of us. Then we are unceremoniously yanked away, and given the stark reminder that like it or not, we don’t belong. Yes, that blue passport is a privilege, but sometimes it takes me places I don’t want to go.

The grief sits on my chest every day. It’s hard to separate out its various forms. Which is the grief in leaving Tanzania early? Which is the grief in knowing that it won’t be my home again? Which is the grief for the sorrows my children are facing, or my friends back in Tanzania, or my beloved school? They all just swirl into one complicated mixture of sadness.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” I find myself not particularly eager to move beyond this grief. It is sacred and beautiful. Being wrenched from Tanzania is worth grieving over, because it was worth loving.

Perhaps the fault in my youthful naivete was assuming that something, once broken, could ever be put back together in the same way again. Jesus’ body, when gloriously resurrected, still bore the scars of his suffering. If I could choose, would I want my scars erased? Probably not. They are part of my story, of who I became, of God’s work in my life. That is the mysterious glory of redemption. And redemption is how we see through the tiny keyhole that shows us the beauty on the other side of that giant door of suffering.

Leaving: In Pictures

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On April 14, 2020

In Leaving Tanzania

Early March: I posted a picture on Facebook announcing that Africa could send America toilet paper. We had plenty.
March 13: All School assembly for Service Emphasis Week–No social distancing happening here!
From Friday afternoon to the following Monday: No kids on campus. Everything changed in one weekend.
Gearing up for Distance Learning
My last day in my office. We had bought tickets the night before. “Take a picture,” I told Gil. “Just in case I don’t make it back.” Why do we smile for pictures even when we are miserable? 
Friends stopped by to say good-bye. My kids with the celebrity-quadruplets. Their presence brings sunshine into any room. 
Baby shoes from my kids’ early days. Sentimental things I had saved, but decided we had no room to bring with us. So I took pictures instead. 
To post on Facebook: “Looking for a home for our sweet dog.”
More friends stopping by to say goodbye. It was rushed, but I am so thankful for every last one of these. A quick goodbye is better than none at all.
Sorting everything to sell. I sold kitchen containers with the flour still in them.
Stopped by school one last time. I took pictures of everything, wanting to grab hold of every memory. This is the administration building where my office is, where I spent the last three years. 
The famous baobab tree at HOPAC. It was there before we were.
Visiting a very, very special family one last time. Their seven and my four fit together perfectly. 
We sold the dishes….so our last dinner was at the nearby Ramada Hotel. We were shocked by how empty it was. Though life in the city seemed to be going on as normal, big changes were starting.
Saying goodbye to our gardener, Paul. He has lived on our property and been a part of our lives for ten years.
With the luggage, saying one last goodbye to Snoopy. Again, why do we smile for pictures even when we are miserable?
On the way to the airport, taking a picture of a guy in a gorilla mask who is selling gorilla masks to people stopped at intersections. Because even when you’re miserable, you find ways to smile.
 I found this on one of the kids’ phones: Shoppers Plaza, one of the places they’ve known their whole lives. 
Eating lunch at the empty Dar es Salaam airport. Hey, did you know there’s KFC at the Dar airport now? This is very exciting.
Coming in for a landing in San Francisco

Living in Saturday

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On April 11, 2020

In Other

We don’t talk much about Saturday. Friday, yes, because now, looking back two thousand years, we know that Friday was Good. But on that original Friday, they didn’t yet know that. All they knew was the horror, the trauma, the beatings, the blood. And Saturday, all they knew was hopelessness and despair. All their dreams nailed down in a torturous crucifixion. Their closest friend, their mentor, their Lord–the one who had calmed the seas and winked at small children–condemned, humiliated, despised.

And they figured they were next. So they spent Saturday in hiding. Hunkered down, the windows closed, in shock. This was not how it was supposed to be. The end was supposed to be a kingdom–power, praise, honor! And they would be right by his side, the conquering hero, leading the people, soaking in the praise by association. But in one horrifying Friday, all of that was decimated. What went wrong? Is God angry with us? How could we have been so misled? This is not how it was supposed to be. 


We know better now. We know what’s coming on Sunday, so we don’t think much about Saturday. Yet, in a very real sense, we live in that Saturday. 

Perhaps this year more than ever, the world is faced with the reality of that Saturday. There’s always been suffering, poverty, war, disease. But in my generation of relatively prosperous Americans, there’s never been a time in our lives when we corporately have felt more powerless, more isolated, more out of control. Here we are, on a planet that’s an infinitesimal speck in a universe of mind-blowing proportions. Yet seemingly immovable cultures and institutions are cut off at the knees by an even more infinitesimal speck that lurks unseen by all of us. We are very, very small, aren’t we? The breath that keeps us alive for another few seconds is not something to be trifled with. We are not as strong as we think we are.

Resurrection, restoration, redemption came on that Sunday. Life was restored. Death was conquered. The world was never the same again. Yet as miraculous as the Resurrection was, it was just the deposit. The down payment for That Day–not yet come–when all things will be made new.

Until then, we still live in Saturday. The earth groans under the weight of war and hatred and injustice. Our frail bodies collapse from a microscopic enemy. We are driven to our knees with the tangible reminder that this is not heaven.

Yet one thing makes us different from those who hid away on that dark, hopeless Saturday. Yes, like them, we grieve, we anguish, we fear. But we have hope. That’s the difference. We grieve, but with confident expectation of what’s coming. We are on our knees, but we look up. If God could take the worst day in history and use it for our salvation, can He not redeem all the other hard things? The tomb was empty on Sunday. One day, ours will be too.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (Gil Medina)

I Don’t Deserve Your Sympathy

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On April 6, 2020

In Poverty

Leaving Tanzania suddenly was probably the most stressful experience of my life. Selling everything in our house, trying to get Johnny’s visa processed, having flights and airports closing around us, and worrying about all the people and responsibilities we would be leaving behind–all in a period of a few days–just about broke me. There were times when I found myself shaking uncontrollably or simply immobilized by the inability to think clearly.

But there were moments during that week–and even more so now that it’s over–when I am overwhelmed with how much privilege was connected to this sudden departure.

Yes, my stomach was in knots. But never once did I worry that my family wouldn’t have enough to eat. Yes, there was tremendous grief in being given a mandate to leave. But never did I feel my life was in danger. Yes, the trip probably exposed us to the virus. But I knew we were headed to a country with high quality health care. Yes, it was hard to find open flights. But I could afford to buy tickets on those flights. Yes, the trip was exhausting. But we had in-flight entertainment and a night at an airport hotel. Yes, I was forced to leave my home and return to a place that doesn’t feel like home. But I had a passport to let me in.

In contrast, consider India. When the government put the country on lockdown last week, stalling all public transportation, hundreds of thousands of migrants started walking back to their home villages over one hundred miles away. People who scratch out a living of five dollars a day, walking. No money, no food for their journey. Sleeping outdoors. Many of them with children.

Yes, “shelter in place” isn’t much fun. Like the rest of America, Gil and I are struggling with our kids’ online learning while trying to do our own work. Our kids are climbing the walls. We are bored. We’ve been on quarantine so it’s been a challenge to figure out how to get more milk or find a protractor so that Josiah can do his math. Yet again–I have no worries of going hungry. Zero worries. Sure, we are 8 people sharing three bedrooms, but my parents’ house has 24 hour electricity and running water. Friends have brought us homemade pizza and root beer and ice cream, and a protractor for Josiah.

In contrast, I think of Uganda, also on lockdown. I think of families with 10 people sharing one room. Not one bedroom, one room. Little to no electricity. Their daily water supply costs a quarter of their daily wages–yet now there are no daily wages. We stress about boredom; they wonder about survival.

Yes, Gil and I are worried about the future. In three months, we will be unemployed. We’ve been applying for jobs at Christian schools, yet no one is confident of enrollment for next year, no one even knows when schools will open again, so everyone is reluctant to hire. Our future–where we will live, what we will do–is a big black hole of unknowns. Yet again–I have zero worries about going hungry. I have zero worries about ending up on the street.

In contrast, I think of how the tourism industry in Tanzania has come to a screeching halt, leaving hundreds of thousands without jobs. I think of the names and faces of Tanzanians I know–friends I have shared life with–who are now jobless due to so many foreigners leaving the country. But unlike Americans, they can’t apply for unemployment benefits. Or even welfare. Or even food stamps.

I don’t deserve your sympathy. They do.

I’m not saying that we didn’t need your prayers or concern, because what we went through was really hard. I’m not trying to minimize my grief. The trauma my family experienced in being yanked from our home is very real. The anxiety about our future is tangible. I am grieving, and going through all the stages right now–denial, guilt, anger. I’m not trying to minimize the hardship of millions of Americans who have lost jobs, who are facing uncertain futures. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t mourn the loss of the thousands of Americans who have died in this crisis.

But I do think that there is room for gratitude in my grief. Enduring a pandemic as a citizen of the richest country in the world–as difficult as it is–is still filled with privilege. My kids get to continue school. My country’s health care system is strong. My family has several safety nets in place if we continue to be jobless. Sure, it might not be our first choice–living with extended family, public school…but we won’t starve. That is a privilege.

Grief is healthy, so I’m not trying to squelch it. My losses are real. But choosing to find gratitude alongside the grief keeps me from spiraling into self-pity or despair. I could question why so much has been taken from me. Or I could question why I have still been allowed so much. The contrast makes all the difference.

Johnny visiting the cockpit of our last flight to California

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