The Day Between That Life and This

It wasn't yet five in the morning, but it was sweltering hot on the tarmac.  Even as the plane was taxing to our parking space, I could see the heat waves rising from the unnaturally black hue of the pavement and for the tenth time in 48 hours, I wanted to vomit, but that action would require more energy than I had to spare.  So I sat, and bundled all the emotions in my soul up, shoving them in some spiritual closet.  I couldn't deal with them, not then, not there.  There was work to do.

The intercom had politely informed me that the plane was more than an hour late because of the miserable storms we'd passed over central Africa.  The storms that had kept my four babies awake, the storms that had tested my nerves, the storms that seemed to go completely unnoticed by my zombie husband.  Mentally calculating the amount of time we had and the obstacles we needed to traverse to make our connection was sapping precious energy.

Original layover was exactly 107 minutes.  107 minus 62 left us with 45 minutes.  Curses and bad words.  Focus, Britt, you gotta do this or this hell will just last even longer.  45 minutes to wait our turn patiently and deplane, get four babies plus all our carry-ons down the stairs, run through the building, passports stamped, personal screenings, security check, down the stairs, out to the bus, back up the stairs and onto the plane sitting two spaces over, the plane I can SEE from my window. Two.  Spaces.  Over!  If you stress or panic, they stress and panic.  Pull.  It.  Together.

Terribly politely, belying the few snatches of unrestful sleep I'd gotten, while waiting in line to deplane, I spoke to a very understanding Muslim flight attendant who recruited two more attendants and like a mass of crows haphazardly circling a blue sky, we stumbled and tumbled like a gelatinous blob trying to stay quick but in keeping with the steps of a grouchy two year old, the sleepy three year old, and the wide-eyed four year old.  I tried to ignore the loud whimperings for comfort and attention coming from the bundle on my back.  We simply had to make this connection.

Standing in the endless sea of people waiting for all the appropriate stamps, scans, and questions, just like us, I thought again of how this punishment, this forced Exodus, this damned flight path didn't fit. I could not believe then (and I still cannot believe now) that anyone, any sane person with love and compassion in their heart would send a family of six, after packing up their lives in 4 weeks time, would willfully choose the flight path we were given.  We were given it and then told to be grateful. It felt like being violated, and then told to be grateful for not being beaten to a bloody mess.  Only, I felt very bruised, very bloody.  None of it made sense.

I cannot believe its been two-year since I was on that tarmac, in that plane, trying to make the connection in Qatar, in the blistering morning heat of that December morning.  I strained so hard because I knew not making the connection would just add time to our already 42 hour journey.  Miriam Webster defines epic this way:  extending beyond the usual or ordinary, especially in size or scope.

Epic.

I used to think that was always a good thing, always in regards to an adventure, a voyage, something spectacular that you tell your kids and grandkids about.  Right here, on this blog that no one reads, this is the first time I've told even part of the story of that journey.  It is still so very painful, so very, very raw.  Because it was decided to be "best" for me.  "Best" for my family.  "Best" for the church. And we just had to take it.

Johannesburg to Qatar. Southern to Northern Hemisphere   
*Epic layover marathon.  No food, no water, no toilets. Too many check points. Too many babes still in pajamas.

Qatar to Chicago.  Eastern to Western.  
*Epic layover in the middle of the night in miserable and drafty O'Hare airport.  No food.  No place to lay down. Night two of no bed, no shower.  Too many check points.  

Chicago to Philadelphia.  Three and a half hours.  We'd flown three and a half hours too far west, so we had to backtrack three and a half hours more back East.  It would have seemed more cruel had I had any ability to care.  

I know who made those plane reservations.  I know him personally.  I know the rational he gave.  I know because I heard it all from his lips... over dinner... that I cooked... at my old house... in my old life... the life where he was a near, and dearly loved friend.

I miss my old life, I miss my old house and my gardens and my dog and the crazy way that ANYONE on the street could see directly into the lives of my family.  I miss my fire-pit and my clothesline.  But more than that, I miss the naiveté I had back then about friendships, about right and wrong, about love and compassion.  I know things now, valuable, helpful, wise things.  Things that make me a better person, give a finer age to my fermentation.  But today, on the day that marks the Day Between That Life and This, in the space where I was living into the reality that sometimes, just because you call it compassion, doesn't mean it is...  just because you call it Christian charity, doesn't mean it is... just because you call it love, doesn't mean it is; in THAT space, I sit.

I sit and I mourn.

I sit and I mourn what was, what might have been... who I was, who I might have been.

I mourn for the person who is living her Day Between That Life and This right now.

I mourn for the person who cannot see that words and actions must match up, because if they don't you're living a lie.

"Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food.  If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?" James 2:15-16

I mourn because the world we are living in, the world most of us are settling for, isn't right.  I mourn because there are words for these wrongs: lies.  Lies of mediocrity, lies of substandard living, lies of complacence and lies of bureaucracy.  And some days, when I see very clearly how wrong certain 'compassions', certain 'charities', certain 'loves' are, on those days, like today, I'm sad.  Because it wasn't meant to be like this.  It was never meant to be like this.  But God's promises remain, His love is never a lie, and there is always, always promise yet for a new dawn, a new life, a new world.

"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." 

Jeremiah 31:3b (NIV)

"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty.  I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do everything through him who gives me strength" 

Philippians 4:12-13 (NIV)

"We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God" 

Hebrews 6:19 (EST and The Message)