Part 14

I talked on.
In fact, I couldn't find my "off."
He sat opposite me and did not flinch. The light showering from his balcony faded and turned to shadow. He switched on a lamp nearby to encourage me to go on.

"The entire time I was in Kenya- and I mean every waking moment- I was terrified or guilt-ridden or a blinding mixture of both. The fixed predatory gaze pointed at me from most of the men; the total lack of apparent traffic laws while we traveled all over the city in vans (called matatus) packed beyond capacity with sweaty bodies and sneaky hands (we were warned to keep any cash in our shoes as people can less easily find their way into your SHOES than your bag or your pockets); the half-naked little ones without a loving adult to hold their hand or at least mourn over their swollen bellies...The threat of thieves seemed ever-present and non-navigable: from the blitzed out glue-sniffing boys reaching their scarred arms into the vehicle if you happen to stop, to the very pastors and teachers we were meant to be learning from. The pastor that we lived with was the one exception. He and his wife sheltered us as best they could. But the sly requests from almost every other authority figure- for a little cash on the side so they could pay for matatu fare or feed their children or buy Bibles- confused me profoundly. My trust could not land anywhere.

And even though the organization I represented had grossly miscalculated my costs for this internship, I did not have enough to go around.
I didn't have enough granola bars to hand out.
I didn't have enough shoes to give away.
I didn't have enough training to offer any real help.
I didn't have enough cultural understanding to steer clear of offending.
I didn't have enough energy.
I didn't have gracious enough tastebuds.
I didn't have enough kindness toward my fellow intern.
I didn't even have the categories to try and name the level of poverty and abuse I witnessed daily.
And I don't have enough courage to admit to everyone back home that I was and am a total failure..."

My face and hands were wet with articulated grief.

I pressed my palm against my forehead, sniffed unapologetically, and forced my head up to look at Dave. He raised his eyebrows just slightly and half-smiled. He wasn't mocking me - he had heard.

"Yes, that's true," he said.
"What's true?"
"The part about you not having enough. The part about you being a failure."
"Wait, WHAT?" I changed my tune.
"What do you mean by THAT? I tried my best, OK? I mean, I'm not perfect, but it was risky to go on that internship and I gave everything I could. I sacrified an awful lot..."

My jaw jutted out to one side as I finally heard how bizarre I sounded. How schizo.

It was quiet then.

We shifted in our well-designed chairs.
We looked at our watches and mentioned how dinner had come and gone.
I said I should probably go and he said OK.

As I stood, he remained seated.

"Anna, why does God love you?"

Um...

"Why does God forgive you, Anna?"

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