The In-Between

Much has transpired since my last post. Many soul-wrenching goodbyes were exchanged; many spirit-filling laughs were shared; many heart-issues were either emboldened or laid to rest in my own life. Those stories will come, with time, as I am able to tell them, for to commit them to paper is to consent to sharing them, and some memories-- some thoughts-- seem too fragile and precious to share. Maybe time will strengthen them, or maybe I will simply treasure them up in my heart. Suffice it to say that things have a curious way of working out in the end, and that the tears of goodbye are made sweet by the promise of reunion. God willing, we will walk those winding village roads again. We certainly intend to.


The last few weeks in Kazembe were… an adventure, to say the least.  Without some seriously sick babies to distract me this summer, I was left with an excess of time to study, reflect, and react. Circumstances both pushed and pulled me out into the beautiful community surrounding the orphanage.  I was able not only to spend time pouring into those six precious first graders that have claimed so much of my affection but also to venture out onto those dusty dirt roads that the rest of Kazembe calls home—and then, I was privileged beyond compare to watch those two worlds begin to collide. The day I left, I told Johnny it was time for me to go home. “That’s okay Auntie Meghan. But will you be back by tonight? Because I want to play with the kids outside.”

Tears flowed unchecked, running off my cheeks and dripping onto the thirsty earth. I know, sweetheart. I can’t come back tonight. I’m so sorry… And I gasp in deep breaths of the African Narnian air, as if filling my lungs with it might somehow keep a part of it with me, or a part of me there… I don’t know how to say goodbye. I’m not sure which is worse—the kids who cry, because they know that goodbye can be for such a long time, or the ones who are too young or to calloused to show emotion at the departure. So I just hug them all in turn. And one of the nannies says, “Auntie Meghan, Maike is calling for you.” And I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can pick up another baby, another tiny baby boy, and tell him goodbye. Because when I fall in love with a kid, I fall all in. I love them like they’re mine. I love them with everything I’ve got. David says I mother everything I touch. I don’t know what to do with that love. But I scoop up baby Michael, and I hug him so tight that he squirms in protest, and I sit in the corner with him and tell him that he is wanted.  I tell him that his family couldn’t be there for him, and I don’t know why. Some of them died, and some of them just couldn’t, or wouldn’t. But he is wanted. And loved. And a treasure.  And I will pray for him often. It will be easy, because his face will be in my dreams. I know that. I always dream about them. The nannies just watch, and I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder what they think about the emotional white girl whose tears are dripping all over these kids. Majory promises me she will watch out for him.  Peter leans against the wall and watches it all. He is expressionless. I go to shake his hand goodbye. He takes my hand and envelopes it in both of his.  He holds on a little firmer and a little longer than normal. “You will not forget us.” It is not a question.

And then it’s time to go. I round the corner of the main house to see half a dozen guys standing at the front gate. They’re the kids we play soccer with at night. I remember our fractured goodbye of the night before—standing there as the sun retreated over the rim of the valley and feeling my entire soul wince and recoil as that farewell was cut short.  None of them are smiling now. David speaks with them for a moment and then comes back cradling a photograph in his hands as though it is the most precious thing he has ever held. It’s a picture of Albert and Nicholas standing in front of the statue of the Mwata in the Boma. I know how highly coveted photographs are here, especially among the children. I know the value of what they have given us. He packs it carefully into a bag, and we walk towards the gate. Peter is waiting for us. “These kids,” he says, gesturing at the soccer boys, “they will wait for you. They will still be waiting when you come back to us.” David keeps walking. I look at the boys again. It’s as if they’re escorting us to a funeral, rather than a bus. David gets out the door ahead of me, and the boys take off with him. I watch them walk down that dusty road together, fifteen yards ahead of me, shoulder to shoulder as if they are best friends and brothers.

“It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are -are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

Ah, sweet Lucy. I think we would have been dear friends. Though I feel that it’s a bit of both things for me. I shall indeed miss Narnia. In so many ways, it is Narnia, because that is where He called me, and that is where I promised to follow him, and one doesn't break a promise to Aslan. But I know that Aslan is everywhere. I have called on him by many names and in many places, and I have certainly known him better by knowing Him in Narnia. But just as surely as He called me through the wardrobe, so too has He called me back for a time of preparation and learning.  

He brought me to this place—to this forsaken little village, where the things of eternity hang so heavily in the air that every joyful breath brings with it a hallelujah…

and he has taken me home again...

and He will bring me back…

and He will sustain me in the in-between.