Everyone Has a Story

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past...I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. Isaiah 43:18-19

"Everyone has a story..." Words spoken to me by an Army major as we waited for a plane that would tear us from our lives and deploy us to a desert halfway around the world. In the days since the journey to that far-off place, I have occasionally returned to those names and stories etched into the pictures and letters that chronicled my time there. One of my final letters in particular has been present recently, posted here:


A Brother's Bond (10/26/04)

In the midst of my orientation week at Duke University years ago, I distinctly remember the information meeting for the Wesley Methodist Fellowship. Searching for the words that could best describe what made the fellowship unique, one of the seniors in the group settled on this statement: "New or old, when you can't attend our regular gatherings, it simply feels like you are missed." In the years to follow, that simple portrayal of family atmosphere has developed into a key ingredient of my own concept of community--a sense of belonging I have searched for in each of the places I've lived; a quality of love that I wish all Christian communities would strive to possess (though we might inevitably fall short). In February, merely weeks after I had arrived in Djibouti, a short-notice meeting swamped my afternoon and kept me from my growing routine to help teach baseball at the local boys orphanage. It was later that evening, when one of the other soldiers noticed me in the dining facility and told me the boys had asked about me, that I knew I had discovered the place in Djibouti where I would feel closest to home...

As I grew to know the boys, the tight bonds of their relationship continued to impress me. It is when one of the older boys relinquishes the chance to take a scarce job on our camp, insisting the job go to his senior "brother" so that he might be able to provide for his family. Or when my closest friend named Al Capone foregoes the one that that could be most important to him--English class--at the request of his brothers so that he can translate a crucial need to the Americans during our weekly soccer game. Perhaps the remarkable selflessness and strength that seems inherent in their ties stems from first-hand experience of the brittle nature of so many other relationships in this life. Growing up as orphans, I can imagine these boys have seen more than their share of adults and "role models," a revolving door of distant happy memories mixed with promise unfulfilled. Of course, our relationship with the boys at the orphanage might be no different from a procession of others that have made brief appearances in the boys' lives. Each of us has chosen to invest our time and ourselves. Yet through it all, will those hours carry significance, despite the mere hint of time we each have spent in this country--a country to which most of us will never return? That is a question that I think might drive a number of us as we interact with the boys, wanting our moments together to have enduring meaning. My own reassurance lies in faith. Faith combining with prayer that when I finally depart, a part of me--a part of God within me--remains behind, residing in and transforming the boys' hearts. Just as He has used them to work in mine.

As the much-anticipated day when I am to return home draws near, it will be with mixed emotions that I step onto that airplane. Though there is much about life here that I am eager to leave, there are some bonds to this city that will not easily be walked away from. Above all, I will miss the sense of community I felt when I was with the boys, and their eagerness to welcome into it. Last spring, Al Capone stopped me as we were preparing to leave the orphanage and earnestly asked if we might have a picture taken together after the next game. I remember thinking about the transient instability that must define an orphan's life, a life that makes them clutch at those fleeting memories before they have the chance to escape forever. I reassured Al that we would not be leaving Djibouti for many months. It was later that I realized the near-certainty that neither Al nor any of his friends had any hope of access to a camera, or any type of film development. The fading memory he was concerned with, the life story he wanted to be a part of, was my own. He needn't have worried. In a dwindling number of days, we will say farewell for the last time, possibly for a lifetime. As always during greeting or parting, Al will grasp my hand in a tight handshake, then quietly bring our still-clasped hands first to the center of my chest, then straight across to his. I have come to see the act as a metaphor for a relationship: though perhaps destined to be diminished by the erosion of time and distance, one whose essence will remain in the heart, a brother's bond--until one day, we meet again and all is renewed. What a day that will be.


And now that day is improbably almost here. Though this trip will feature many old friends and a literal mountain to climb, it is that first African reunion that has been on my mind--weary of conflicting emotions that might resurface, unsure of reception, yet also with a sense of unsettled excitement. Echoes of long months past might linger; but it is the reawakening of a friendship, a stream through the wasteland, that carries the prayer of worth and resonance that transcends the short time I will be present. So...I go.