Love at the Speed of Email (17 page)

“Hope chases us in this work.”

During the last eight years of my life – in prisons, in
orphanages for abused children, in villages gutted by war and studded with
landmines – I’d been granted glimpses into lives where cruelty, desperation,
and grief had become normal. If you look too deep into the heart of that
reality for too long, it is profoundly overwhelming. Over time it’s easy for
cynicism to become a habit, even a refuge. It is tempting to rest in the numb
embrace of a fatalistic paralysis.

…That night I dream of
Rwanda, a place I haven’t yet been. After the benefit dinner I was up until one
reading a book with the unforgettable title of
Emergency Sex and Other
Desperate Measures.
I know better than to
read this sort of stuff late at night. The tale is as raw as the title – three
former U.N. workers detailing the savaging of their humanitarian ideals by
successive missions to conflict zones. Their increasingly desperate
disenchantment as the story unfolds is mesmerizing and excruciating, and the
dreams this story grants me are black and white and full of mass graves and
machetes…

Hope chases us.

Sometimes it seems that hope could do with a lengthy course
of steroids. Perhaps then it might stand a fighting chance in the footrace with
despair.

But on a good day I can be anchored by remembering the story
of the
good
Samaritan. In the instant the Samaritan
walked past the wounded man lying in the ditch, he was not being called to hire
and train a police force to escort travelers, hunt down the brigands and see
them
bought
to trial (complete with defense
attorneys) or single-handedly transform the entire Jericho road into a bastion
of safety. He is lauded because he stopped to help the one.

My namesake for the evening,
Panida
,
had lived within the borders of Thailand her entire life, but because she came
from a hill-tribe minority group, she had never been recognized as a citizen.
Two years after she was rescued from the brothel she finally received a Thai
passport and, with it, some legally defensible rights. Her smile as she was
pictured holding up her passport spilled joy and hope into a ballroom eight
thousand miles from where she lived – hope that it is worth trying to make a
difference one life at a time.

I’ve been in California this past week, not the brothels of
Thailand or the hills of Rwanda. Stopping for one wasn’t climbing into the
ditch to haul out the wounded, rescuing a
Panida
, or
picking up a scalpel. It was meeting a friend for breakfast, returning a phone
call, and writing a check.
 

Cynicism is the wide path of least resistance, and hope
never seems to find me when I’m on that track. But when I’m most often
surprised by hope’s companionship is also not when I’m trotting full speed down
the road to Jericho. It’s when, by my all-too-human standards, I’m not really
making much progress at all.

It’s when I pause to see others’ love in action, helping
liberate people from slavery and its usual breeding ground, poverty.

When I’ve stopped for beauty – flowers,
music, mountains, sunsets, great stories, amazing food, and the peaceful hush
of a summer evening.

And when I’ve stopped for one.

Mike,
Papua New Guinea

“Hope chasing us,” Mike wrote to me the next day. “What a
beautiful, precious image. Thanks for the reminder about guarding against
cynicism.

“Why didn’t you publish that one? I really like how you
didn’t cheapen it into the standard ‘I feel guilty because of all the ironies’
essay. I found the ending a bit abrupt, but I don’t know how I’d end it.”

Lisa,
USA

“I haven’t put it on my website yet because I suspect I can
sell it, but I haven’t gotten around to editing it again before I try.” I wrote
back the next night.

“And I’m not sure about the ending, frankly. It’s
interesting that you said it was abrupt. My main problem with it is that I’m
not entirely sure I understand or mean what I’ve written in those last couple
of lines. I know they’re beautiful and all. But do I
really
feel hope when I’ve stopped for one? Or am I more often
feeling impatient because my schedule’s been thrown off, or helpless because
I’m not sure how to help that one, or simply feeling
…
 
nothing
... because I’m looking too
far forward and haven't stopped to notice the moment?”

“I love the image of hope chasing us, love it. But putting
into words what that actually means for me – that’s different. I think I
partially succeeded in that essay, but only partially.”

Mike,
Papua New Guinea

“Do you feel chased by hope?” Mike replied. “I don’t most
times. But I think that sometimes hope sneaks up on us when we’re wallowing in
a dark, dark place and bursts into the room holding a giant candle and says,
‘Surprise! You forgot about me. But I haven’t forgotten you!’

“I think I’m a fairly hopeful person, or at least an
optimistic person. I even like to think of myself as a passionate person. I
definitely used to be. Am I now? If I’m doing things that I (passionately)
believe in, why am I so bloody tired half the time and so blah about life the
other half? And does passion matter in comparison with, say, consistency?

“Passion.
I think it’s a
double-edged sword. I’m trying to learn to wield it without inflicting too much
harm on others or myself. Add this to the rolodex of things we can chat about
in person someday.
Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

Lisa,
USA

“Passion is another puzzle, isn’t it? I was driving home
from work tonight and listening to Josh
Groban’s
O Holy Night
on the radio. That's
probably my favorite Christmas song, and I think
Groban's
got a good voice, but his rendition was all carefully controlled technical
perfection. It came across completely devoid of passion and didn’t stir me in
the slightest. How
can
you sing that
song, with his talent, without throwing yourself heart and soul into it?

“But even as I point fingers at
Groban
I wonder about lack of passion in my own life. Maybe it's just natural that a
keen awareness of not living up to our own expectations in many areas,
including living passionately, sharpens as we get older. But I remain puzzled
as to how the deep passions that I know I am capable of and the immense
gratitude that I feel for so many blessings in my life can sometimes co-exist
with a gray fog that can descend so completely some days that my head and my
heart don’t seem connected at all and I feel as if I’m wandering around wrapped
in cotton wool.

“I wonder, even as I write this, whether hope or joy is
connected more intimately with passion. What role does hope have in sustaining
passion, or the other way around?

“It’s almost midnight here now. Travis came home just as I
finished writing that last bit.

“Sigh.

“Have I told you about Travis? That when I came back from
Turkey in August he believed he was starring in his own reality TV show?

“I
thought
it was
a passing thing, but yesterday we actually got some time to hang out together
for the first time in weeks and those delusions are all still there, probably
even more firmly entrenched. Travis is convinced that he’s got the whole
conspiracy figured out and it's driving him crazy (no pun intended) that no one
will admit to any of it.

“I’m so glad I’m going to San Diego tomorrow to spend
Christmas with Erica and Leah and the gang. I’m not incredibly freaked out like
I was the first time Travis dumped this story on me, but I know I can’t quite
trust anything with regard to him at the moment. The whole situation breaks my heart.
What would it be like to really believe that, to live under all that
manufactured mental pressure? And how will he cope when this whole grand
delusion that’s giving his life purpose and meaning at the moment (even as it’s
putting him under incredible pressure) comes crashing down around him?

“It makes me feel helpless because I cannot see any way to
reach him. And it makes me frustrated because I know I’m going to have to move
out when I get back from Australia and the prospect of
that
is just exhausting. And, in the short term, it makes me
incredibly unsettled when he’s around, because I’m never quite sure what he’ll
do or say, or what mood he’s in, and I can feel the mental and emotional
turmoil that he’s going through coming off him in waves.

“And yet, in the middle of all of this, there are glimpses
of the
flatmate
I really enjoyed living with for the
first year and a half.

“As I was yawning and making it clear I needed to go to bed
tonight, he told me that he was journaling about all this and that he was going
to write a book.

“‘You’d better write nice things about me. You’re going to
make me famous,’ I joked, trying to finish the conversation on a light note.

“‘No,’ he said to me, laughing. ‘You’ll make yourself
famous. I’ll just make you more famous.’

“It’s late, Mike, and I have a throbbing headache. I must
close and try and go to sleep.”

Mike,
Papua New Guinea

“It’s Christmas Eve, late afternoon, and I’m stuck in the
office waiting for my staff to return from all their personal errands around
town. I’m going to be the mean manager who locks the project vehicle up at my
house over Christmas
break
so that staff don’t waste
fuel donors intended for travel out to the projects on scuttling their friends
around.

“Sorry to hear about what’s going on at home. You totally
need to move out.
 
You already know that,
so my saying it is only affirmation. In the meantime I hope that San Diego and
good friends have cured your headache. Probably safe mental space is doing
wonders. I hope.

“I hope I’m able to make it to Australia next month.

“I hope I can get better at managing my emotions. I hope
passion will remain a healthy force in my life that spurs love.

“That last is an up-and-down journey. Today is down. I
learned yesterday that a raiding party looted and destroyed some buildings in
one of the villages where we’re working. They also happened to destroy three of
the precious seven toilets that my team has actually managed to get constructed
there during the past three months.
Ahh
yes, just another day at work.
These are the types of
things that humanitarian organizations don’t mention in their glossy
adverts.
 

“(For the love of God, why did they choose to destroy the
toilets?)

“On days like these I must remind myself that this is just a
down and that ups exist, too, so I’m sending along a piece called
Jesus Wants You to Build a Toilet
that I
wrote earlier this week about a day recently that made me feel passionate, and
purpose-filled, and hopeful.

“It’s well after the time I wanted to leave the office. The
guys aren’t back with the vehicle yet, so I’m faced with the decision of
whether to stay or go home and hope for the best. It’s Christmas Eve, though,
and I’m leaning toward hope. And trust.

“Merry Christmas to you.”

Mike,
Petats
, Papua New Guinea

Jesus wants you to
build a toilet

“Jesus wants you to build a toilet for the women,” I told
Pastor Barry in my best broken
Tok
Pisin
. Normally I feel a bit annoyed when people make Jesus
the poster child for their personal cause. I remember, for example, the
billboard in Atlanta a few years ago that showed a picture of a cherubic Jesus
and said “Jesus was a vegetarian.” I laughed every time I saw it.

But Pastor Barry wore a baseball cap that sported the phrase
“Jesus is my boss,” so I figured this might get his attention.

We were sitting on a bamboo bench on
Petats
Island, in Papua New Guinea. A refreshing sea breeze rustled the coconut palms
and mango trees. The bright red hibiscus flowers danced in the wind. It was a
beautiful Pacific morning – a perfect day for conducting an evaluation of the
water and sanitation project we were implementing in the region.

I had just inspected one of the new ventilated improved pit
toilets built near the church. It’s a really well-constructed toilet. And
Pastor Barry keeps a lock on it. The women told me it’s only used on Sundays or
special occasions. Apparently Pastor Barry doesn’t want people to use it
regularly. So most of the time people go in the bush or walk into the sea, but
sometimes they get to use the nice new toilet.

I asked the women whether they liked it. They giggled,
perhaps on account of my broken
Tok
Pisin
, and perhaps because they were embarrassed that a
white man with notebook, camera and funny GPS unit strung around his neck was
asking them whether they like defecating in the lone toilet. After the initial
embarrassment, the eyes of one of the women lit up. “Yes,” she told me. “We
feel safe with the toilet.”

The United Nations has proclaimed this year the
International Year of Sanitation. That may seem irrelevant for those of us who
are able to flush and forget, but roughly a third of the people on the planet
don't have access to improved sanitation. That more or less means two billion
people relieve themselves in the bush.