Countdowns and 200-Some Meters

We had coffee with the Girimkils recently. Girimkil was telling us about the different foreigners who have lived in our house, and in this area, in the past. We could probably name ten for you, from the stories we’ve heard. The most famous: Don, Sue, Anna Marie. Girimkil was saying Alloe, Arow, Ammo…Luam?, seeking Luam’s help, who offered, “Aaron.” Yes, yes, Aaron. And the story continued. I briefly wondered, Will Luam remind him of Danayit and Daniel some day? and brushed it away like a fly.

He told us about a group of four foreigners who lived here for six months. When they were leaving, saying goodbye, they didn’t want to get in the car. They eventually had Girimkil join them in the car for part of the drive, before they would bid him farewell.

He then told us, in Tigrign-lish and after a few tries, that Meron would go inside our “materials.” He meant luggage. I searched my Tigrigna vocabulary, wondering how I could express If only.

If I think about it, I cry. So I don’t really think about it. One night we lay in bed, talking about what our final week in Adwa might look like. Gosh, can you imagine how excited we’ll be? This line is a staple when we talk about summer 2014. I followed it with something about how devastated I’ll be at the same time. I mentioned leaving Meron, and her not fully realizing that we won’t be coming back. How we’ve given up two years in the states with Zach, but starting next year, we’ll have Zach forever—and yet it’s possible that we may never see Meron again. I’ve learned we shouldn’t talk about things like this at night. I cry into my pillow, and wake up with puffy eyelids.

I’m not a very present person. When I’m in Adwa, I want to be in Willoughby. And I know myself, how I operate: one day, in Willoughby, I’ll be missing Adwa. My future self will give anything to snap her fingers and be back with the cobblestone, bajajes, curious kids, injera.

I’m trying to be more present. At Peace Corps Mid-Service Conference, we wrote letters to ourselves, to open when we leave. We included goals for the next year. My first one was Eat more Ethiopian food.

My sister has been sending me lists of the words Zach says, and the words they’re working on. Down. Tigger. Vroom (that’s Uncle Charlie). When I read the list of names he’s saying, I started crying. He doesn’t know us.

These are the things that keep me from being present. So I remind myself, constantly: Two years are brief when juxtaposed with an entire lifetime. So enjoy it.

This is the kid whose bottom bunk was always decorated with year-round countdown calendars, next to the Kenny Lofton poster. 100 days until Christmas. 100 days until vacation. I’m always looking to the next thing. Nowadays it’s: Two semesters until we’re back home. One year until we start trying for a baby. All the while unknowingly wishing away this precious opportunity we have right now.

I can see it: Two years from now, we’ll have trouble finding a babysitter. We need a night away, just the two of us. I’ll look at Daniel and remind him. Remember Adwa? Remember when school started our second year, and as I walked there alone, I realized it was the first time we had physically been in two different places—in four months?

Four months. Who else is given such a gift? Married astronauts in the same shuttle, that’s who. Them, and retired lovebirds. Some days, spending hours upon hours with my favorite person—knowing that some American spouses cross paths in the night, wishing they had more time—I find myself uttering Lou Gehrig’s words. We’re the luckiest. We know it’s too good to be true, we know what real life with real jobs is like.

And yet I long for home, to be there. Instead.

Sometimes it feels like just another countdown. When visiting a friend in Mekele awhile ago, we saw a stack of Post-It notes on her wall. It said 18. What’s this? we asked. How many months we have left, she said. It’s hanging beside photos of her sister, her mom. She pulls a note away on the first of each month. Sometimes living here doesn’t feel like real life: we don’t have 9 to 5’s, we don’t have salaries. I’ve said this before—it feels like a bookmark, a hiatus of helping. But it’s not a hiatus. This is our life.

Be present. It’s what I’m trying for. After the coffee ceremony, Meron and I played in the yard. I followed her around our house, flapping our fake wings (which were later symbolized by bushels of flowers), cawing and taking turns singing. I echoed her Tigrigna songs, awfully. She echoed You are My Sunshine and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, impressively, adorably, awfully. I gave her piggybacks. We skipped in circles.

It had been a few weeks since Meron came over to color and read. So we asked her to. She came the next day at lunchtime. We were in the middle of a West Wing episode when we heard her knock. We could have said Not now, come back later. It would’ve been easy: we were reaching the episode’s climax—Congress was about to pass a bill the Democrat party wouldn’t have liked, or something. But it would have been a later regret, a way to not be present. She came in and we read, we colored, we dunked biscuits in our tea.

She and Daniel have a few inside jokes. Whenever she knocks on the door, Daniel’s eyes scan the yard at his height. “Man? Man iyu?” (Who? Who is it?) I know when she’s here, when he’s about to let her in, because I can hear her quiet Ana, ana, ana. (It’s me.) They also have this puffing game, between the two of them. Daniel puffs a big breath of air into one of my ears, backs away quickly, and points to Meron. Meron puffs the tiniest breath of air into one of my ears, backs away quickly, and points to Daniel. They go back and forth, blaming each other, giggling; it can go on for awhile.

We’re going to miss her, a lot. I once daydreamed about bringing her back with us. Not seriously, but it didn’t stop me. Meron would hate America, Daniel said. But we could take her to a proper dentist, I said. Meron would hate any place where there was no Misilal. (Her mom.) He’s absolutely right.

Relationships are hard. I’m reading a book right now with one of those characters, you know, who are “afraid to love again.” Three out of five chick flicks, and it has always seemed silly to me. I assume that sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. No one really says that, do they? I don’t want to get hurt again, so I can’t love you.

People may not say it, but we do feel it. In different, less-cliché ways. In a masked form, so we don’t even realize it.

In another late-night conversation, I cried about Waco, about missing Waco, about Adwa becoming just another Waco. (For the record, I cry easily. This doesn’t mean I’m depressed about Waco. It means, simply, that I’m talking about Waco, hence I’m crying about it; that’s how great Waco was.) Time passes too quickly. People and places come and go, and far too quickly, they become the past. Just like that.

So, be present, be present. Be present.

J. Grigsby Crawford, in his memoir The Gringo, writes about his Peace Corps experience:

            And here you are, measuring your life not in coffee spoons, but in baskets of laundry done by hand, walks down the dusty road to swim in the river, and cold showers that are good cold showers because it’s hot as hell and from the bathroom you can look through the crack between the brick and the corrugated tin and see the green foothills surrounding the small valley.

            You measure it in Saturdays spent drinking bad beer—except it’s good beer because it’s light and cold and you can drink it in the shade and watch the grainy TV in the corner while the women behind the counter ask you questions about the world….

            There is a calendar on the wall and turning the page over to a new month is nothing if not a satisfying and glorious feeling. But then you feel bad about counting down the months or weeks or days because you realize that this is real life, and counting the days is like marching toward death.

Our last day in Waco was hard. It was our first home. Our home away from home, just the two of us, so far away from family and old friends. I stood in our empty living room, scanning memories, trying not to cry, trying not to think of bringing our kids to this apartment some day to reminisce. I spent a few minutes in each empty room, saying goodbye, savoring last glances. I stood for awhile at the doorstep, and wouldn’t let Daniel get in the car until we took lots of final photos.

We drove our packed-to-the-brim car and van to Seth and Julie’s house, for our final Waco moments. It was a Wednesday. It was Bible study. I tried being present in that hour, tried forgetting that in an hour and a half, this would be the past, and we would be on the road. I scanned the room: Seth, Julie, Cameron, Wendy, Heather, DeAnn. Our lovely friends who I was hoping very much could just get inside our “materials.” Our luggage.

In some ways, it was a blessing driving two separate vehicles from Texas to Indiana. We stood in Seth and Julie’s drive, hugged our friends, and hit the road. In another car, Daniel didn’t have to listen to me crying. I cried our entire way out of the city, out of the county. At stoplights I took photos of street signs. I resented every turn away from the place, and looked in my rearview mirror maybe too often, too long, to be responsible. I prayed, and dripped down my chin, into my lap, thanking God for such a place. For great friends. For an amazing first home. For a church under a bridge (which we also drove past, where I probably nearly collided with a car or a pole for craning my neck in goodbye).

This is why relationships are hard. Sometimes it seems like maybe it would be easier if you just didn’t let yourself get too close. If you refused to become attached to people, because you knew what it would feel like to leave them.

I ran the 4 x 400 in track; I was the last runner, the closer. With just two seasons left in Ethiopia, I feel we’re at the point three or four strides away from the final curve of the track. After a few strides, it’s time to sprint. I know the loop well—we’re close, I can feel it. I partly envy the volunteers who really can’t wait to get out of this place. Who’ve felt this way from the moment they arrived. Who may not have friends, family really, as close as the Girimkils.

One of my best friends, Elizabeth, 2^nd grade sidekick through high school, sat at my kitchen table one night, maybe in 8^th grade. We were having a late night snack. She named her Pop Tart and started playing with it. A bit of time passed and she still hadn’t eaten. Well, I named it. She looked down at it, ashamed that her joke was becoming a little too real. It’s kinda hard to eat it after that. People can get attached to anything. We attach, it’s what we do. It’s even crazier when it’s people. Relationships are hard in that way.

This is why I have to be present right now. As much as I try to brush it away, a time will come when we’re putting our last pieces of luggage into the college car. When I’m biting my lip, trying to look away so they don’t see, and have to physically pull myself around to give them final hugs. We’ll be a few bags of mini-pretzels and a few glasses of tomato juice deep before I can brush away the tears and start smiling about entering American airspace.

It’s not natural for me to live in the present. It’s natural for me to look ahead—to say in Waco, How can a place not have Autumn? I can’t wait until we’re back in the Midwest for Autumn. I can’t wait until we’ll live near family, and can have our parents over for dinner—and then be shocked, devastated, when it’s actually time to leave that place and go have Autumn at home. It’s illogical, maybe insane. I never learn.

So, knowing what I know about myself, I’m trying not to say I can’t wait to get home unless I couple it with We should ask Meron to play today. We’re really going to miss her.

Because, believe me, we will.