This is the blog post I never wanted to have to write. I sit here typing and, honestly? I'm nauseous just trying to put words to my messy, muddled feelings.
A little over a week ago I was told by my program that, in light of COVID-19 and the official statement released by the State Department encouraging all US citizens living internationally to return home, I would have to leave Colombia in a matter of 2 days. Flights were booked and emails were exchanged and my entire sense of security was swept from beneath me. In an effort to take fast, effective preventative measures against the spread of the virus, Colombia was quick to put a pause on international air travel, ultimately adding even more urgency to my departure and almost no time for proper goodbyes. Just days prior to this decision I had felt comfortably (and maybe naively) confident that I could ride out this season in Colombia, of course still staying in-doors at my host family's home, etc. But, as many have said, this is an unprecedented pandemic and, thus, has had unprecedented consequences --- and I find myself now holding the splintered pieces that were stripped apart by those unprecedented consequences. I don't share any of this to cast blame or bitterness -- logically, I understand and respect the decision that was made given the uncertain circumstances --- but that doesn't change the heartbreak I'm left with in the wake of that decision. Lord, draw near.
As I was beginning to process this news, Colombian officials had already begun encouraging folks to shelter in place, so there was no option to say my in-person goodbyes with friends, family members, and coworkers as I had trusted I would be able to say goodbye at the end of my service. No last days at work to offer a transition period for myself or for the kids and staff that I've built relationships with for the last 7 months; no time to lift up this transition in prayer with the faith community I've invested so deeply in; no time, even, to hug goodbye with my dearest friends. Of course, there is still the promise of digital connection and I'm grateful for the ways I've already been able to maintain contact with my community in Colombia, but that will never replace the comfort or closure of a physical goodbye. Lord, draw near.
These were incredibly painful days. Immediately, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of powerlessness, unable to reverse this sudden decision, and I was ringing with shock at how quickly my reality was changing. More still, I was overcome with grief for the months of time I would no longer get to share in the same rhythm and relationship I had so lovingly settled into in my communities. While talking to my site coordinator I told her it felt like "my life had been turned inside out and handed back to me." It still feels that way. As an ending to my "year" of service, it was chaotic and heartbreaking and acutely dissatisfying. I didn't stop crying for days. Lord, draw near.
Looking back, it's very disorienting to think how quickly things changed. Just over a week before hearing the news that I would have to leave Colombia, my sister was just wrapping up her visit and my tummy still hurt from all the belly laughs we shared. For some 8 days, we practiced her Spanish, giggled all the way through Rumba class, and tried every new food we could find. It was our first time traveling together abroad, just us, and I treasured the time we shared.
In that same time frame, the youth from my church spent an afternoon in La Plaza de la Paz connecting, laughing, and playing together. In some ways it was just an ordinary Sunday and yet I found myself saying over and over, "this is one of the best days of my life" with a goofy grin on my face. There was something extra sweet about our time together and the unforced rhythm of the day that unfolded from church in the morning to lunch to our afternoon jóvenes event. Capturing what I had come to love most about my time in Colombia, it was the most ordinary day made completely extraordinary by the people I was sharing it with.
It's painful looking back on these memories now knowing how quickly the course of my time changed, and my heart hurts from this uprooting. As I'm writing this, my stomach feels like it's physically in knots, my grief holding itself in my body once again. That is, as much as my heart aches as a result of being thrown into this unwelcome transition, it also aches because this Monday, March 30, marks 3 years since my Dad's passing. What was already going to be a tender time of loss has compounded into something much greater. Lord, draw near.
3 years ago I received a phone call that severed my life into before and after. I won't go to the extreme and say I'm in the exact same situation now, but there is at least the shadow of similarity -- my hopes and plans and excitement for a whole season ahead have been cut off and canceled leaving my immediate reality unexpectedly uncertain and fragile. I feel stripped to my humanness and deeply vulnerable, brought back to a place others want me to claim as "home" when I'm not sure I know anymore where "home" is for me. I had found comfort thinking that I would have time toward the end of my program to prepare myself emotionally for the transition back into US culture and the return to familiar rhythms while still making space for the ways in which my experience in Colombia changed me. 48 hours, though, leaves little time to prepare for any of that. I'm reminded of when I would run between the hot tub and the ice bath at the local gym growing up, at the time savoring the tingle of such sudden, shocking, immersive change. Now, though, that change is much more jarring and I'm only starting to figure out how to adjust to the abrupt change of address.
It's a strange thing coming back to the same place different, and it's not clear (for myself or, I imagine, for loved ones) how to hold room for all the ways I'm returning different than when I left. And yet we must learn. I look back to just a year ago when I was committing to the YAV program and my excitement for a faith-based year of service, not knowing how much faith I would need to muster when the unexpected happened. Lord, draw near.
Still, while I'm heartbroken over all the ways this experience won't end as I had planned, I'm filled with gratitude for all I was able to live and learn during this season; my time in Colombia has changed me indelibly. This hurried and hectic ending is not what I hoped for, but I won't allow it to sour what was otherwise an incomparably beautiful, nuanced, joy--full experience. I don't believe my story in Colombia is over, either, but for now I have ~plenty~ of time to continue reflecting on how I have been shaped and molded by this wild, wonder--full experience.
For now, I'm in Michigan, safe & sheltered for some 7 days more (an inconvenient but necessary precaution after traveling internationally). In all of this whirlwind transition I've been brought to my knees by the generosity shown to me, above all the offer to spend these 2 weeks at a friend's cabin north of my hometown. And in that, there are rays of light peaking through...but the "darkness" demands my attention for a time. All this big mess of feelings needs to be felt and I'm trying to honor that process for the time being and just take extra good care of myself. But, even as I grieve, I will keep coming back to the root of this loss: profound love and gratitude for all I was invited into.
John 1 "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it"