Four years and eight thousand miles ago, I was wrapped in my skirt, resting on folded banana leaves placed carefully on the red clay mud that is the soil of Uganda, surrounded by Africans. Now I find myself here at my desk in my home near Ann Arbor, Michigan, sipping steamed milk and snacking on a Luna bar, my baby asleep, my husband at the lab diligently pursuing his doctoral studies. So much has changed - my name, state of residence, continent of residence for that matter, the vision for the next ten years of my life. I am married. Nathan and I have a son. I no longer have a career outside the home. I have relinquished the yearning to return to Africa, though I once believed that it one day would be our home.
So now I am here and I am home, for that's the saying these days—stay-at-home Mom. But what does this mean—home? How do I live my longing to serve, to sacrifice, to be of use, to be in community? Home these days for me is such a small world, seemingly consumed with caring for ten week old Elias, washing diapers, mopping spit up off our hardwood floors, cooking, cleaning. And meanwhile, the world around me continues at its chaotic pace. It seems difficult to remember a time of life other than now, and yet I carry the stories of that place and those people within me, and I long to live a life reflecting their example.
My home in Africa meant anywhere between twelve and twenty-six people under one roof, shared bedrooms all around, magnanimous hospitality for guests (and in Africa all guests arrive unannounced), and reliance on neighbors. We gave all, shared all, needed our neighbors and supported them by buying their tomatoes, flour, oil, onions, and spices, though we easily could have gotten these staples from the market. They had a cow, so we traded our water for their milk and early each morning one of their sons would bring a jug of warm milk, freshly
squeezed as we jokingly called it, and we'd pour it straight into the tea pot on the charcoal stove where the chai was boiling. That was community. That was home.
And yet this is also home, living here in our first house on a quiet street in what used to be a farm town in southeast Michigan, just south of Ann Arbor. Remnants of a former life exist in this town - our neighbor across the street, a woman in her seventies after whose father-in-law the elementary school is named has told us stories of all the people she used to know and the life they lived before they were sub-urbanized. We still have pig roasts and chili feeds, and the volunteer fire department still puts on a Fourth of July parade that gathers a crowd at our ne stoplight. On the outskirts, the farms are the same - small, family owned, with their hand painted signs at the end of the driveway advertising fresh eggs, sweet corn, or pumpkins, depending on the season. But in town, life has given way to a faster pace and though you may still greet someone on the street, their face is unfamiliar. Nate and I know our immediate neighbors well, but efforts to extend hospitality to a few of the neighbors at the end of the street have not been wellreceived. We attend a large church and have managed to join a small group of friends with whom we meet weekly for study and fellowship, but it took nearly a year. It seems that all of us have our lives established and are too busy with other priorities to build new relationships.
At least, that's how it seems. What we find under the surface, however, is quite different. Our friends at church are glad for invitations to our home and welcomed our suggestion that instead of meeting at the church each week, we start meeting in our homes. We have never been turned down when we offer dinner, nor have we refused when invited. Under our impersonal, individualistic, intellectual, and self-sufficient exteriors, it seems we are hungry for community, hungry to know and be known. The problem is that hospitality requires vulnerability, taking a risk, an opening of the self, an extending of our lives that leaves us exposed. And far too many of us would rather remain safe.
On several occasions, I have seen another young mother who lives down the street and have wanted to introduce myself but haven't done so for fear of seeming too forward or desperate for companionship. We have passed each other on walks and exchange greetings, and I keep meaning to stop and strike up a conversation, but last time I saw her, I surprised myself by walking past, nervous and self-conscious, having convinced myself that she is already surrounded by friends, her social calendar full. In doing so, I succumbed precisely to what I hope to overcome - my pride and the fear that accompanies, both of which isolate and prevent me from admitting my need for others.
Two of our friends here, who arrived the same year we did and who have also struggled to find community, consistently remind us of the generosity and openheartedness of the Africans. Three months after we met them, Nate and I suffered the loss of our first baby in a miscarriage. Though they still seemed like strangers at the time, they gave us a card with enough money enclosed to pay for two nights at a bed and breakfast so that we could get away and be alone together during that difficult time. Such a lavish gift from people we hardly knew was impossible to receive and our first instinct was to return the money, but we knew that we must accept. We needed what they had given and though we were astounded by their generosity, we were humbled and blessed to receive it, knowing that we could never repay them and also knowing that it didn't matter, that they hadn't given it expecting anything in return. This one gesture revealed to us the beauty of community, of friendship, of mutuality - the chance to share in the joy and pain of another life, no one keeping score, no one trying to make things even out in the end, knowing instead that over the course of a lifetime we each are allowed the giving as well as the receiving.
And this is why I still have this longing for Africa, this yearning. I long for the expanses of Africa, the largeness of the hearts of the people, of their community and family. Everything seems vast and so real. Why, when I look in the mirror or within this country, is it difficult to see this? The generosity of the African people, the color wrapping the bodies of the Ugandan women, even the rounded features of their faces speak a compassion and connection with the mercy needed in order to live the rough and beautiful life that is handed to each of us here on this earth.
I notice this all the more when I look at myself and most of us in the so-called western world, those of us who live more as individuals, who rely on ourselves, who are taught at an early age to be selfsufficient. It saddens me that we don't allow ourselves to laugh hard and loud, to mourn loudly and deeply, to throw back our heads and open wide our lips and drink in the rain of the monsoons, to wrap ourselves in the color of life, to dig with our own hands and feast on what we ourselves have planted and tended and harvested.
Instead, we protect ourselves. We know that life is fragile and weak and we are tempted to keep our distance - from it and from each other. Far more at ease when providing for ourselves, we try to ensure that the burden of our life doesn't rest on another, and our pride keeps us from admitting our own needs, perhaps even to ourselves. And yet if we continue to do this, we will miss the beauty and power of community, and the blessing of allowing someone else to meet a need of ours.
Our neighbors knocked on our back door tonight, bringing with them a celebratory bottle of wine to share with us the news that they are engaged and to thank us for the apples and fresh donuts we left on their doorstep yesterday, which were waiting when they returned from his proposal (since we hadn't known that yesterday would be their engagement day, it was a beautiful coincidence). We spent the evening hearing stories of their relationship, laughing at family eccentricities, and planning future meals together. With them we have shared the abundance of our small backyard garden, mostly tomatoes and zucchini, and they have recommended their friends' local produce stand and orchard to us so we can buy what we don't grow for ourselves. They have seen me biking to the store and offered their car, knowing that Nate and I have only one, and together we have improved our yards and porches, recommended books, traded recipes, and shared impromptu meals around their grill. And tonight they left with a container of spaghetti sauce, made from my mother's recipe, still warm from the pot.
If we could only see that mutuality is the life for which we were created, that we must learn the power of being in need and the humility that accompanies it. This is life. This is beauty. This is what I long to pass on to my son, the legacy of our people, our generation, our nation. We are given the chance and the choice. How beautiful it would be if we as Americans could find a way to demonstrate mutuality, if we could join the Africans in their way of life that places community at the center? What if this was the source of our power and influence? What if we opened our doors and our lives to receive and be received? Perhaps this would be a beginning. Perhaps then we would all be home.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Darien Palpant is a graduate of Whitworth College and a 2001 Krista Colleague. She spent her year of service in Uganda working with AIDS orphans and teaching in the village schools. She is currently living with her husband Nathan near Ann Arbor, Michigan, and spends her time writing, editing, and caring for their son Elias.
