Many of you may have heard already, but in case you haven't, I will tell you how it happened. Yesenia and I were evacuated from Chad this week. I honestly don't really know if there is anything REALLY happening in Chad, but what I do know is that I wasn't expecting this at all during my time there.
It was Saturday morning, September 12, when I got a whatsapp text from my missions coordinator asking if Yesenia and I had a few moments to talk. I was on my way back from teaching Sabbath school at a nearby village and told my coordinator that that was fine and that I would let her know when I got back to the hospital compound. When I arrived, Yesenia had already come back from teaching her Sabbath school in other villages, so I walked into our SM hut telling her the news. I sat in my chair across from Yesenia and said, "Linda said that she wanted to talk to us. I wonder what could be so important that she wants us to call her right now." We called Linda and had casual a conversation: How is Chad? How are your host families? Do you like them? What's going on there so far?
We told Linda about our experiences in Chad and how much we were loving it. Linda said that that was great and that she was happy for us, but then she said this: "You guys, we have received a warning from the U.S. Embassy saying that the violence in Chad is increasing. Due to civil unrest, you guys have to leave Chad."
I don't really remember much about what happened after that besides the fact that Yesenia started to cry immediately. I remember that we asked why we had to leave if there was NOTHING happening in Béré! No one in Béré was panicking and no one was freaking out over Boko Haram. There weren't any bombings that had occurred or specific threats that we knew of. I remember that I sat in my chair and just listened. I listened to Linda speak about what was going to happen, whether or not we wanted to be relocated, and Yesenia asking if we would be able to come back to Chad. I remember all of that, but my emotions and thoughts on that day are still somewhat of a blur.
After we had discussed the issue with the doctors, Dr. Olen kept getting calls from everywhere and looking up online to see what really happened. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that the warning may have been a mistake from the U.S. State Department and that the warning should have been sent months ago. However, all visitors to Chad were suggested to leave. Suggested. Yet mostly everyone who worked at Béré Adventist Hospital was required to leave. Or at least that's what it sounded like. Yesenia and I decided to be relocated to the island of Chuuk because it was the fastest way to get out of Chad, but it wasn't in our hearts to leave Africa. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. We felt safe. I felt safer walking to the market in Chad than I did if I were to do that in America. And yet, we still had to leave.
This was on Saturday morning. Between Saturday and Monday that weekend, Yesenia and I had to choose a new place to serve and we had to say goodbye to Chad. It's a funny thing, to be a missionary. No one really knows what it's like until you become one yourself. I hadn't given much thought to it until I actually started to feel things, emotions that I usually held back in America and would shrug off over a good nights rest. No one really knows what it's like to go to a foreign place that you plan to call home for a year, that you hate at first because you're homesick and physically sick, and then with time learn to love it because of the simplicity of life that you find in a place that completely depends on God and is surrounded by people that love you just because you decided to come to their home.
We had 3 days to say goodbye. That Saturday night after we found out that we had to leave, I went home to my host family. They were all home, which was a rare thing to see because my oldest brother ALWAYS went to the cinema (every night) and my sisters were usually visiting their friends down the road on the weekends. Apparently, they had already heard the news about our having to leave. There weren't any nasara (white people) in church that morning and the pastor had told them all why. So when I got home that night only to find everyone home, and for Momma Baikao to tell me that they had all heard the news, I started to cry. I don't know if I have ever cried that much. I sat with my host family around our small table outside of my room and we all started to cry in the dark of night, beneath a cloudy, starless sky. Nothing was said for a while, and momma tried to comfort me by putting food on the table for me.
I was too sad to eat, so I only had a few bites. I cried so much that I was surprised at myself for doing so! Through my snotty nose and hot tears I asked my oldest brother Eric why he didn't go to the cinema that night. He responded that he was said and that he didn't want to go to the cinema. My sister Exouce started to sob on our mat and my momma was holding back what she could. I started to think about what was going to happen to my family, about whether or not I would ever see them again, about how much I loved each one of them for being who they were. When I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep the next night either. Monday night, my last night, my family sat around outside again and talked to me about where I was going next, about all of the things that I was going to do. I gave away all of my American clothes, except for two shirts. I gave away my Luci lights, my portable fan, lotions and so much more.
When Tuesday morning came around, I woke up feeling extremely sad. I told my parents in America how I felt, but nothing they said could make me feel any better. I didn't want to be a pessimist, but I was sad because I was leaving Chad just when I had learned to love it, and because no one at home could understand what I was feeling. Everyone said God was leading Yesenia and I in a new direction, which may be completely true, but no one really knows what it's like to just get up and leave and to be in our shoes unless you have also done it.
My host family came into my room and helped me pack up the last bit of my things just as the truck to take us to our bus pulled up in front of my house. It was 6am. Everyone woke up to say goodbye, except for my youngest brother Arnold (he's 6 now) who was sick with malaria. We took a family photo and one of my brothers, Elisee, ran inside to give me a basket that he had made for me. My momma came out with gatou, freshly baked to take with me on my journey. I said my goodbyes and hugged everyone, telling them all to say goodbye to Arnold for me when he woke up. My momma and sister, Jeco, got into the truck with me to say goodbye to me at the compound where our bus was waiting.
Once everything was loaded onto the bus, I gave one final glance at my momma and sister. They had tears in their eyes. I turned away and started to sob. I couldn't look at them. In America, my parents were telling me that it was going to be okay and that it was time to change my mindset because I was going somewhere new, but there was nothing that they could say that could make me happy. You never really know how much of an impact someone makes on you until you have to leave them. It's like the famous saying: You never know what you have until it's gone.
I thought I knew that I was going to stay in Chad for ten months. I thought I knew that I had more time with my host family. I thought I knew that I was going to start teaching English at the local village school and walk with my brothers and sisters to school at seven every morning. I thought I knew what God wanted from me. I thought I knew what it was like to be a missionary, but I didn't. Now, I don't know anything.
As I am writing this in the airport here in Guam waiting for our flight to Chuuk to be called, I can't stop thinking about my family and the people in Chad. As of right now, I will no longer be hearing NASARA! when I walk down the dirt roads to the market or to my house. I will not be sitting outside of my house at night in the dark, slapping mosquitos and scratching my feet until they bleed and scar. I will not get to see my brothers and sisters run to me when I come home in the evenings, especially Arnold as he screams, "Vianay, speak English!" as soon as he takes my hand to lead me to my plastic chair. I will not fall asleep to the sound of the frogs and crickets outside, or the storms that shake my window and door during the night. I will not hear the thunder rolling over our village or wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of the wind and rain pouring onto our tin roof, only to see flashes of lightening through the cracks in my door.
I will not wake up to the sun peering inside my room early in the morning, or hear Exouce laugh and laugh at everything and at nothing. I will not wake up to my youngest brothers, Casimer and Arnold, fighting over the soccer ball I gave them, or hear Jeco reprimanding them for kicking the ball against my wall. I will not hear my momma yelling at all of her children to stop fighting and to help her work and cook. I will not walk outside to see Eric lounging in his plastic chair, or see Elisee reading his French/English dictionary, eager to learn more. I will not peak into the room we call a kitchen to say good morning to my sister Ayane, seeing her shy smile and saying "good morning" back to me in her broken English.
I really thought I knew what I was in for when I signed up to be a missionary. I really thought that I knew how to control my emotions. I thought that I knew I was going to stay in Chad. I thought that my family in America was going to be able to understand everything I was going through. I especially thought I knew that God wanted me in Chad for the ten months that I had signed up for.
But you really don't know what is going to happen no matter what you do or what you sign up for. No one can see the future, and I for sure did not see this outcome in mine. I'm going to Chuuk now without any real knowledge of anything, still numb to the thought that I left behind beautiful people that I love with all my heart and plan to come back to visit one day, if not this year. I'm going somewhere new, where culture shock will happen all over again and where the agriculture is also different. The people will be different. My living conditions will be different. God's plan for me is probably different. And this is all going to be the complete opposite of what I thought I knew.
"We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall."
-Psalm 16:33
It was Saturday morning, September 12, when I got a whatsapp text from my missions coordinator asking if Yesenia and I had a few moments to talk. I was on my way back from teaching Sabbath school at a nearby village and told my coordinator that that was fine and that I would let her know when I got back to the hospital compound. When I arrived, Yesenia had already come back from teaching her Sabbath school in other villages, so I walked into our SM hut telling her the news. I sat in my chair across from Yesenia and said, "Linda said that she wanted to talk to us. I wonder what could be so important that she wants us to call her right now." We called Linda and had casual a conversation: How is Chad? How are your host families? Do you like them? What's going on there so far?
We told Linda about our experiences in Chad and how much we were loving it. Linda said that that was great and that she was happy for us, but then she said this: "You guys, we have received a warning from the U.S. Embassy saying that the violence in Chad is increasing. Due to civil unrest, you guys have to leave Chad."
I don't really remember much about what happened after that besides the fact that Yesenia started to cry immediately. I remember that we asked why we had to leave if there was NOTHING happening in Béré! No one in Béré was panicking and no one was freaking out over Boko Haram. There weren't any bombings that had occurred or specific threats that we knew of. I remember that I sat in my chair and just listened. I listened to Linda speak about what was going to happen, whether or not we wanted to be relocated, and Yesenia asking if we would be able to come back to Chad. I remember all of that, but my emotions and thoughts on that day are still somewhat of a blur.
After we had discussed the issue with the doctors, Dr. Olen kept getting calls from everywhere and looking up online to see what really happened. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that the warning may have been a mistake from the U.S. State Department and that the warning should have been sent months ago. However, all visitors to Chad were suggested to leave. Suggested. Yet mostly everyone who worked at Béré Adventist Hospital was required to leave. Or at least that's what it sounded like. Yesenia and I decided to be relocated to the island of Chuuk because it was the fastest way to get out of Chad, but it wasn't in our hearts to leave Africa. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. We felt safe. I felt safer walking to the market in Chad than I did if I were to do that in America. And yet, we still had to leave.
This was on Saturday morning. Between Saturday and Monday that weekend, Yesenia and I had to choose a new place to serve and we had to say goodbye to Chad. It's a funny thing, to be a missionary. No one really knows what it's like until you become one yourself. I hadn't given much thought to it until I actually started to feel things, emotions that I usually held back in America and would shrug off over a good nights rest. No one really knows what it's like to go to a foreign place that you plan to call home for a year, that you hate at first because you're homesick and physically sick, and then with time learn to love it because of the simplicity of life that you find in a place that completely depends on God and is surrounded by people that love you just because you decided to come to their home.
We had 3 days to say goodbye. That Saturday night after we found out that we had to leave, I went home to my host family. They were all home, which was a rare thing to see because my oldest brother ALWAYS went to the cinema (every night) and my sisters were usually visiting their friends down the road on the weekends. Apparently, they had already heard the news about our having to leave. There weren't any nasara (white people) in church that morning and the pastor had told them all why. So when I got home that night only to find everyone home, and for Momma Baikao to tell me that they had all heard the news, I started to cry. I don't know if I have ever cried that much. I sat with my host family around our small table outside of my room and we all started to cry in the dark of night, beneath a cloudy, starless sky. Nothing was said for a while, and momma tried to comfort me by putting food on the table for me.
I was too sad to eat, so I only had a few bites. I cried so much that I was surprised at myself for doing so! Through my snotty nose and hot tears I asked my oldest brother Eric why he didn't go to the cinema that night. He responded that he was said and that he didn't want to go to the cinema. My sister Exouce started to sob on our mat and my momma was holding back what she could. I started to think about what was going to happen to my family, about whether or not I would ever see them again, about how much I loved each one of them for being who they were. When I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep the next night either. Monday night, my last night, my family sat around outside again and talked to me about where I was going next, about all of the things that I was going to do. I gave away all of my American clothes, except for two shirts. I gave away my Luci lights, my portable fan, lotions and so much more.
When Tuesday morning came around, I woke up feeling extremely sad. I told my parents in America how I felt, but nothing they said could make me feel any better. I didn't want to be a pessimist, but I was sad because I was leaving Chad just when I had learned to love it, and because no one at home could understand what I was feeling. Everyone said God was leading Yesenia and I in a new direction, which may be completely true, but no one really knows what it's like to just get up and leave and to be in our shoes unless you have also done it.
My host family came into my room and helped me pack up the last bit of my things just as the truck to take us to our bus pulled up in front of my house. It was 6am. Everyone woke up to say goodbye, except for my youngest brother Arnold (he's 6 now) who was sick with malaria. We took a family photo and one of my brothers, Elisee, ran inside to give me a basket that he had made for me. My momma came out with gatou, freshly baked to take with me on my journey. I said my goodbyes and hugged everyone, telling them all to say goodbye to Arnold for me when he woke up. My momma and sister, Jeco, got into the truck with me to say goodbye to me at the compound where our bus was waiting.
Once everything was loaded onto the bus, I gave one final glance at my momma and sister. They had tears in their eyes. I turned away and started to sob. I couldn't look at them. In America, my parents were telling me that it was going to be okay and that it was time to change my mindset because I was going somewhere new, but there was nothing that they could say that could make me happy. You never really know how much of an impact someone makes on you until you have to leave them. It's like the famous saying: You never know what you have until it's gone.
I thought I knew that I was going to stay in Chad for ten months. I thought I knew that I had more time with my host family. I thought I knew that I was going to start teaching English at the local village school and walk with my brothers and sisters to school at seven every morning. I thought I knew what God wanted from me. I thought I knew what it was like to be a missionary, but I didn't. Now, I don't know anything.
As I am writing this in the airport here in Guam waiting for our flight to Chuuk to be called, I can't stop thinking about my family and the people in Chad. As of right now, I will no longer be hearing NASARA! when I walk down the dirt roads to the market or to my house. I will not be sitting outside of my house at night in the dark, slapping mosquitos and scratching my feet until they bleed and scar. I will not get to see my brothers and sisters run to me when I come home in the evenings, especially Arnold as he screams, "Vianay, speak English!" as soon as he takes my hand to lead me to my plastic chair. I will not fall asleep to the sound of the frogs and crickets outside, or the storms that shake my window and door during the night. I will not hear the thunder rolling over our village or wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of the wind and rain pouring onto our tin roof, only to see flashes of lightening through the cracks in my door.
I will not wake up to the sun peering inside my room early in the morning, or hear Exouce laugh and laugh at everything and at nothing. I will not wake up to my youngest brothers, Casimer and Arnold, fighting over the soccer ball I gave them, or hear Jeco reprimanding them for kicking the ball against my wall. I will not hear my momma yelling at all of her children to stop fighting and to help her work and cook. I will not walk outside to see Eric lounging in his plastic chair, or see Elisee reading his French/English dictionary, eager to learn more. I will not peak into the room we call a kitchen to say good morning to my sister Ayane, seeing her shy smile and saying "good morning" back to me in her broken English.
I really thought I knew what I was in for when I signed up to be a missionary. I really thought that I knew how to control my emotions. I thought that I knew I was going to stay in Chad. I thought that my family in America was going to be able to understand everything I was going through. I especially thought I knew that God wanted me in Chad for the ten months that I had signed up for.
But you really don't know what is going to happen no matter what you do or what you sign up for. No one can see the future, and I for sure did not see this outcome in mine. I'm going to Chuuk now without any real knowledge of anything, still numb to the thought that I left behind beautiful people that I love with all my heart and plan to come back to visit one day, if not this year. I'm going somewhere new, where culture shock will happen all over again and where the agriculture is also different. The people will be different. My living conditions will be different. God's plan for me is probably different. And this is all going to be the complete opposite of what I thought I knew.
"We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall."
-Psalm 16:33