maybe you saw this coming...

...but I sure didn't.

I feel pretty separated from Nigeria at this point. I didn't think this would happen. Actually, I feared it would happen and tried to convince myself I could avoid it. As cold as this sounds, it almost feels like I've moved on.

The past couple days, I've been talking about Nigeria a lot: the circumstances that led up to my relocation, the strongholds that were broken in my life while I was there, the person I became, the discoveries I made, the life I led. I allowed myself go back to it all and dwell on it.

It's terrifying how far away it all seems to me. It's also unnerving how different my life is now. It's an exciting kind of different--thrilling, even--and I wouldn't change it or substitute it or even go back. It's just unexpected.

My friend Laura reminded me this morning of something I wrote back in June, a week before I left Africa:

Moments like these make me want to throw my hands in the air and ask God "Why this? Why now?" I'm sure he's got this all under control, but sometimes I'd really like to be let in on the secret.

It's starting to make sense to me why I'm back in the US, and I can't tell you how many times I've looked at friends or family and said, "I'm so glad we're on the same continent right now!" But the price I'm paying for that to be true is more costly and more painful than I anticipated. There have been times in the past few months especially that, had you handed me a ticket to Abuja, I would have gone without so much as a carry-on; I ached that badly.

But in this I have confidence: I am where I am supposed to be, for such a time as this.
I said the exact same thing about being in Africa, and it is no less true now that I'm in America.

To my Nigerian friends and family: I miss you more than I can say. God is still sovereign.

a grief observed

My grandfather, Robert Gene Thomas, passed away in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

Which is an uncomfortably sterile way of saying that my Grandpa Bob is now with Jesus.

It is sad, and we will miss him, and finding the right words to describe him to my children someday will be an impossible task.

BUT.

He is pain-free for the first time in 40 years. He has a new body. He is walking the streets of heaven unassisted, with no walker, no cane, not even a limp. He is praising God in the presence of God.

Today I will watch football and drink a Diet Mountain Dew in memory of Grandpa Bob, knowing that I would trade my reality for his in a heartbeat.

Nigeria, get it together.

Today is the 50th anniversary of Nigeria's independence from Great Britain.

A friend emailed this morning to tell me of 2 car bombs that exploded in Abuja around 11am local time (5am CST). They happened near Eagle Square - a place I know, a place I could easily get to in a taxi.

Do you know what happened to me this morning at 5am? I was startled awake. Seriously, I was. If you knew how hard I sleep, you would understand that it was probably not coincidental.

Nigeria, you're killing me.

There are tears in my eyes as I read news reports and accounts. BBC said the first car bomb drew first-responders to the area, and 5 minutes later, the second bomb exploded.

Nigeria, what are you doing?

Today I proudly wear Nigerian traditional clothes, delighted in the strides made in the last 50 years, blessed to have spent a year of my own life there, grateful that I will always feel at home among her beautiful people.

But today I mourn the foolishness, the selfishness, the greed. I mourn that a celebration which could have united a people religiously and politically divided fell short of that goal.

And selfishly, I mourn that I am not there to rejoice with those who rejoice and grieve with those who grieve.

Nigeria, am missing you today ooo.

you're killin' me, smalls

I miss my students. (I can't bring myself to say "former;" they'll always be mine.)

According to my Facebook wall, they miss me, too. They have a new Literature teacher and I'm getting mixed reviews from the kids. I'm so grateful that someone has come to take my place and I know they will learn from him just like they learned from me. It's just hard for me to hear them say "I really miss you" and "Please come back."

It's hard for two reasons: One, because I can't come back. They have a new teacher from whom they will learn much. And I have an amazing job I know I'm supposed to be at.
Two, because we're all wearing rose-colored glasses. I know that if I went back I would have tough days and so would they. We would get frustrated with each other and I would lose my mind.

But secretly? I'm glad they miss me. It means that for all my failings as a first-year teacher, for all the mistakes I made, what they carry with them are good memories. And sure, they remember those times I got all red-faced and upset. But those memories are outweighed by whatever I accidentally did right.

So as much as it kills me to hear them beg me to come back, I'm glad we have such great memories from our year together. I, for one, will never forget that.

honesty

As optimistic and hopeful as my last post was, life isn't all sunshine and rainbows.

Life is also the gritty messy bits, too.

Life is the gritty messy bits.

Today has been an extraordinarily difficult day.

I can't pinpoint exactly how or when it crept in, but I have been absolutely flattened by homesickness for Nigeria this evening. I'm a mess right now. Lots of tears. It's not the missing phenomenon, either. "I miss..." would be an impossible fill-in-the-blank at this moment.

It's so hard to put words to this! I don't have the vocabulary for the emptiness I feel. I'm angry and I don't know why, and I don't think it's fair to be angry, and I don't know where to direct my anger: myself? I chose this. I chose to leave.

It's just this; as in, this is all there is:

I don't feel comfortable in my own skin right now, and I just want to go home.