Uncomfortable

       As much as I love being in South Africa - helping students at Thandokhulu High School solve math problems and set up email accounts, watching the waves crash on the south coast, holding hands with children in urban townships and rural villages, and a thousand other amazing things in between - there are times when I am unbearably uncomfortable.  Well, maybe not unbearably - I'm still here, I haven't switched my plane ticket from November 18th, I really do manage to carry on, but not without a momentary urge to curl up in a ball and teleport to my comfortable, familiar bedroom in Kansas City.  Thankfully I lack the apparation abilities of my cousin Harry, and the constant and varied uncomfortable situations I face in this amazing country have forced me to grow more than I ever imagined.

       For the first few days of my minibus taxi commute to Thandokhulu High School, I sat frenzied and high strung as the drivers swerved around each other and often drove with the door open as their assistant yelled "MowbrayClairmontWynbeeeeerrrrrgggg!!!!!"  Funny enough, after making it through several roundtrips alive, I began to grow fond of the minibus taxis.  Amidst the booming bass coming from the giant speakers under the seat, squeezed between women carrying huge bags of secondhand clothing and young men with mysterious packages wrapped in newspaper, somewhere in my subconcious I accepted that there was nothing I could do to force this situation into my comfort zone.  Instead, I let go of a lot of my anxious thoughts and my comfort zone expanded on its own.

       As encouraging as my minibus taxi experience is, it did not make my comfort zone completely elastic.  Even after nearly two weeks of invigilating exams at Thandokhulu (it's the same as proctoring or supervising, but invigilating sounds SO much cooler and reminds me of Dr. Reed, my high school's International Baccalaureate program coordinator), I still felt uncomfortable addressing basic behavior issues.  At 20 years old, I'm hardly older than most of the students, and I had this weird, "Well, this isn't my classroom..." feeling that held me back from being more assertive with students.  I was also less comfortable because I did not know the exact rules at Thandokhulu - is it acceptable for students to have their cell phones out during independent work time, or must they put them completely away?  I worried (perhaps needlessly) about being too harsh with something like that when in fact the rules were more lenient.  As it happened, I was probably more lenient than most teachers at Thandokhulu simply because I was afraid of being the "mean teacher."  I am still sitting in an uncomfortable uncertainty about that aspect of classroom management - how much leniency is part of my personal teaching and managing style, and how much is being a pushover?  It's a frustrating, confusing place to be, but the discomfort is forcing me to think and to grow as a preservice teacher.

       On June 18th I said goodbye to Thandokhulu (not forever, I hope, but for the time being), and the next day I started working with Jabulani Africa Ministries.  After less than two hours at Apostle Battery (a former military base converted to a JAM campsite and living quarters for interns and staff), I got in a car with seven people I'd just met and traveled to Sir Lowry's Pass, a township about 45 minutes outside of Cape Town.  I was completely overwhelmed - I knew that JAM did "outreaches" in the townships, but really had no idea what that consisted of.  I had no training, no planning, no debriefing, and no control.  If it isn't clear already, I am SUPER uncomfortable in those kind of situations.  Finally I started to ask God to just use me.  Some of my muscle tension let up, and I entered the muddy, littered streets of Sir Lowry's ready to give as much love to the kids as I could.  I held hands, hugged, kissed, played games, sang songs, and listened with the children who came to the kids' ministry program that the JAM team puts on each week in a field right in the middle of the township.  By the time we were driving back I felt more confident that I could handle being part of the JAM team, especially since playing with kids and talking about God is right up my alley, but a new kind of discomfort was setting in.  I am heartbroken by the situation these kids live in.  There are the material aspects of filthy streets, worn out shoes, broken glass everywhere, clothes falling apart, teeth that aren't taken care of, and insufficient food.  But even more heartbreaking are the aspects that I cannot necessarily see - the alcoholism and drug abuse that surrounds these children, the way HIV pervades the community, and the abuse of all kinds that these precious little people face at home.  I felt angry at God after visiting Sir Lowry's.  Why aren't You taking care of these children, God?  You feed the birds of the air and you clothe the flowers of the field, but these children are hungry and their clothes are falling apart!  Why do You let them suffer abuse at home?  What does a middle-class American white girl like me have to offer them when I can't even come close to solving their problems?

       I am still struggling with the position I am in as an intern at JAM.  I really do not believe that the message of Jesus is just a pie in the sky by and by kind of thing.  I believe that it can change the lives of people here and now by working in their hearts to start to realize God's kingdom on earth, where we love one another as ourselves and give everything to obey God and all of that good stuff.  I honestly believe that Jesus' message is worth spreading, not just for eternal reasons but for immediate reasons as well.  But I still wonder if I am making a positive impact - or making any impact at all.  Yes, I can give lots of love to the children in local townships and in rural villages like Mavhuza in Limpopo (an update on that experience to come), but is it really doing anything?  Are they really going to apply any of the stuff we talk about when we act out Bible stories and do little activities and sing songs?  I know I cannot be with them every second to see if they will apply things, and I know that I cannot single handedly solve the problems of poverty that surround them.  And that really sucks sometimes.  It makes me sad and frustrated and heartbroken and freaking uncomfortable.  But when I really think about it, I thank God for that discomfort that forces me to think and to grow and to keep turning to Him, because I cannot handle this by myself.

I would love to hear your input!  How have you grown through discomfort?  What are your thoughts on the kind of impact short-term missionaries (I guess I'm a missionary now) can have in poverty-stricken communities?