Breaking Point

There are moments in life when we are all faced with the decision to either remain a wallflower—stubbornly standing in our bubble of self-preservation, relentlessly wondering “what if”—or we dance.

I danced. Literally, I mean. This isn’t some metaphor for our participation in the great mystery of life. This is a white man dancing to the hottest radio jam of the summer here in Sierra Leone. Fr. Francis has video evidence that I will gladly post on Facebook whence I return. This past Sunday was the pastoral visit of Bishop Biguzzi to the parish, and we had a big party after the Mass that went well into the evening. I told God that if the DJ played this one overplayed (but darn it all, catchy) song, then I would get out and make a fool of myself. My friends: do not tempt the Lord.

The catalyst was a woman named Mrs. Koruma. She is an active parishioner, possessor of a considerate smile, and a mother of three. She asked me how I was doing. I told her fine. She looked at me, gently put her hand on my arm, and restated, “how are you really doing?” Don’t get me wrong—Fr. Francis, the Bishop, everyone here has been great so far. But I realized that she was the first person to ask me that simple question and desire the genuine answer, not the stock response, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. I told her that it’s been challenging and a bit lonely, but then she proceeded to ask about my family, my brother, and life back in America. She really wanted to know me, not, Bob the seminarian or Bob the American. Long story short, she told me at the end of our conversation, “Listen, you have adjusted well and you have one month in Sierra Leone. This land is now your second home. So be at home—you are African now.” She had never stopped letting go of my arm. It wasn’t just lip service, she really meant it. And I believed it.

I realized that, after a month of muscling through the difficulties (and being thankful for the moments of joy), I was still trying to control the ride. I was still playing the role of American observer, a journalist with a two-month stint, not allowing my roots to really sink into the Africa soil. God has allowed me to stretch and tear here, perhaps indeed close to my breaking point, but with the intention of always molding me into something greater. I knew then that if I did not dance, the people wouldn’t think any less of me, but I would miss a great opportunity to show the parishioners that I was willing to dive into their culture. I would have to lay down my ego for the greater joy and laughter of all.

The cost of discipleship is high. And sometimes, for Christ, we must dance.

-Bob
written 06/20/11