As I am now on the upswing of my second "slump" since
crossing the pond, I feel mentally and emotionally capable of chronicling the
events and emotions of the past couple of weeks, semi-objectively (not at all).
It has to be a fact that all people who are immersed in another
culture, in a whole other part of the world or even another part of the
country, experience some degree of culture shock at some point or another
during their time away from "home". I have had two recognizable bouts
of culture shock in the past 4 months: one in the third week when we left the
capitol and settled into our home in Antsirabe and the second... well, I'm on
the mend.
For me, the manifestation of culture shock occurs slowly and
results in a meltdown. It is only in hindsight that I see everything that led
up to me losing my marbles. Take the past couple of weeks, for instance...
The excitement of the holidays wore off and I started to get bored
with every day life: get up, go to class, come home and eat lunch, run to the market,
come home and watch a movie while Waverly naps, start fixing dinner at 5:00,
eat dinner, give Waverly a bath, study/watch movies until bed time. Rinse and
repeat. And I got tired of having to spend an hour to an hour and a half
cooking dinner and I wasn't finding any fresh recipes, so we started the whole
"fend for yourself" dinner routine. Then I started getting anxious
when the last of our company friends moved off to their final locations leaving
us alone except for our national friends. Then a persistent young man came to
our house a few times wanting to look at the top floor of our house as a
potential renter after we had clearly expressed that the top floor is not for
rent. That same day, I find Waverly at the top of the stairs that lead to the
front door of the upstairs apartment. Uneven, tile and stone stairs do not a
friend of a young child make. Still that same day, I look out to check on
Waverly and see just her little, white legs under the gate. She was outside of
the compound and I didn't even know! I was so annoyed with everyone, even myself for not being more responsible! I just wanted
to be irritated with everything “Madagascar”.
The very next weekend, both Chandler and Waverly came down with
different illnesses. We had to miss church that Sunday and even missed language
the next day as we battled Waverly's fever and Chandler's rebelling stomach.
Sunday night I laid in bed, late into the night, running "worst case
scenarios" through my head and thoroughly convincing myself that I will be
completely useless in the event of an emergency.
On top of all of this, I started to feel purpose-less. God called
me to minister and share the Gospel with a people who have never heard of Him
and here I am just living. Really, it's all we can do right now as we learn
language, but you have to understand how frustrating it can be to feel like
you're just spinning your wheels! I just cried and cried one night trying to
explain to Chandler, between the hiccups and sobs, how frustrated and
discontent I was. And of course, I wailed about how it's never going to get
better.
Then the bottom fell out. Just a few days later, as we are getting
ready to leave for language class, we hear Waverly crying hysterically outside.
Chandler goes to her and as he walks in the door he says, "Her head is
bleeding."
Oh, well, let’s just dance on my already frayed nerves.
After an hour of deliberating: Do we take her to the doctor for
stitches? Is it really that bad? What
about language class? Speaking of stitches, the dog needs the stitches taken
out of his feet before they get infected... Let’s call around to a couple of
friends, former medical personnel, and see if her cut is stitch worthy. Could
we find super glue here somewhere?
Seriously. We really wanted to avoid a trip to the doctor. But
alas, we had to go because an hour later the wound started bleeding again.
All over again, I began crying. Honestly, though, it wasn’t
because my baby needed stitches; I was just done. But I sucked it up and we
headed to a doctor. The doctor took one look at her head and, in a mix of
Malagasy and French, told us she needed two stitches, which would be
dissolvable, with iodine and a local anesthetic. We probably only understood
that much because we recognized “sutures” (French), “roa” (2 in Malagasy),
“iode” (French), and “anesthésie” (French) while imitating a shot in the head
with his forefinger.
Chandler took her into the “operating room” while I stood outside
crying and praying. Total transparency right here: I told the Lord that I
couldn’t do it anymore. I was emotionally and mentally drained and I couldn’t
handle hearing my child in so much pain. And in the middle of me pouring out my
heart to the Lord, He gently reminded me of these words, “My grace is
sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
I got a little distracted from myself at that point, trying to
remember where that verse could be found in the Bible. I knew it could have
only been the Lord bringing it to my mind because I hadn’t read it in such a
long time. Having His immediate comfort at that moment was exactly what I
needed as a reminder that when I am at my lowest and my strength is not
sufficient, HIS is. I’m not living in Madagascar on my own strength. Never, in
26 years, have I had to rely on Him as much as I have the past 4 months. It’s
been the most difficult 4 months of my life, but I am thankful to experience
Him and my reliance on Him in a very raw, transparent, desperate way.
And there were a couple of upsides to the epitome of a bad few
weeks: ice cream at 10:00am (to help ease the pain of the stitches, of course) and
four packages from family waiting at the post office (one with Velveeta!!!).
