A week ago we held an Open House to celebrate Grace’s graduation and I was expecting 30 people or so–family, our Home Group, some teachers. But unbeknownst to me, when I told my gregarious oldest child that she could include “a few friends,” she interpreted that as, oh, say, 50 or so. In my last post, when I said that my girl loves people, well, there’s the proof.
So when 75 souls–more than half of them teenagers–paraded through my house over the course of three hours, well, let’s just say there wasn’t any salami or cheese left by 5 pm.
I was exhausted, yes. But I also stood back and marveled: we’ve come so far in four years. I think of my sweet lost girl four years ago, torn from the only home and country and school she’d ever known, starting her freshman year sitting masked at a computer in the school library while her teachers taught in empty classrooms. I remember her telling me of the shy girl who sat next to her, never saying a word. “Grace Medina,” I chided her. “You go in there and win that girl over. Do your magic. That’s what God created you for.”
So she did.
I think of Gil, one of those teachers in an empty classroom, struggling with new curriculum and new students and hating every moment he had to talk into a computer instead of real faces. He came home miserable every day, reminding himself that the only reason he took this job was so that we could put our kids in a great school. Yet– last year, he was chosen by the seniors to be their commencement speaker, and this year he was chosen as Teacher of the Year. At Baccalaureate, two of the five student speakers talked about how his Worldviews class changed their lives.
His life has changed too.
I think of my own days sitting at my computer in my beige apartment, entering a church and a school community at a time when no one knew what the social rules were anymore so everyone gave up trying to be social. Emptiness gnawed my insides, reminding me moment by moment of what I had lost, who I had lost, myself that was lost. Sadness hung around me, limp and raggedy, all of the time.
My life is still quieter than it used to be, but I love what I do. My work introduces me to the most interesting and wonderful people whom God is calling to do interesting and wonderful things, and I get to have a part in their stories. My life is full and my garden is growing and I had 75 people in my house last week, which is one of my most favorite things of all.
Not all the loss is replaced. I don’t think it’s ever supposed to, completely. If it were, then it would somehow demean what you left behind. I started out wanting to replicate the richness and meaning of my life in Tanzania, and because it could never look like that, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be happy again. Yet, here I am, living a life of contentment with pockets of joy, which is just about all one can hope for on this side of heaven.
So, it feels like perfect timing that God is giving all six of us Medinas the chance to visit Tanzania again this month. And even sweeter, a team of people who represent our lives from school and church are joining us. We get the unusual and poignant opportunity to collide our worlds. My two big kids each have one of their besties on this trip–which means that for the first time in their lives, they get a chance to see their old world through the eyes of someone in their new world. I’m praying that they return back to their new home standing a little straighter in who they are and where they came from.
Planning the logistics for this trip, alongside the many activities of the end of the school year and Grace’s graduation, is the reason why you haven’t seen me in this space very much in the last few weeks. And it’s the reason why you still won’t see me for a few weeks more. But I’ve got lots to say, all stored up, and I’ve even got an exciting writing project to tell you about. So please don’t stop coming around. You all are the best, and you keep me writing.
