I’ve struggled with how to write this post. I’ve started it several times, but then can’t seem to get the words to flow right. There are too many words, too many conflicting emotions, and then it’s just easier not to write. Yet I want to.
Last month, while the conflict still raged in parts of South Sudan, we heard that Nasir was among the villages to see heavy fighting. The government troops recaptured the town from the rebels after heavy bombardment. Initial reports were all so confusing. First we heard that all of Nasir had been burned, and we imagined a scene much like had been reported about Bor and Bentiu, burned to the ground with nothing left. We then heard from one of our MSF friends (who were all able to get out of Nasir unharmed) that only sections of the town were burned: parts of the market, the sorghum stores, and some huts in various parts of the village. Many people had either already left Nasir prior to the bombardment or were able to flee when it happened, and there was very little loss of civilian life. We praised God for that news!
The news that came next was honestly quite devastating. We heard from Gatdet, who was able to travel to Nasir when everything calmed down, that our compound (along with all other NGO compounds in Nasir) was looted. We had hoped that since our compound is so far out of town it would be spared. It was not.
We’ve had a lot of people ask, so I’ll start by telling you what we don’t know. We don’t know exactly when the looting happened, though it seems to have happened right around the time of the bombardment, as our Internet signal stopped streaming at that time. We don’t know exactly who was responsible for the looting. We’ve hypothesized, but no one knows for sure.
What we do know is that the looting was more than just our things being taken. Whatever wasn’t taken was trashed. Gatdet reported that it seemed as though food was missing, all of our beds were taken, and who knows what else. Other things were smashed and broken, like our chairs and even a computer. We haven’t been in the houses to see for sure, but we can imagine our trunks being spilled onto the floor and our precious things pillaged; books, letters, and cards strewn about waiting for mice and moisture to ruin; gifts and other sentimentals either taken or tossed aside. Our imaginations have painted a scene of chaos, and for us, expecting a total loss is the only way we can grieve and move forward.
Upon hearing the news, I think we were both in shock. We had prepared ourselves for this, but the reality that it has actually happened is completely different than the possibility that it could happen. For days, I talked about it like I had read it in a novel, and I felt so disconnected to our house and our life there. It seemed like such a distant dream.
Eventually, it really began to sink in and what came next was a mixture of anger and sadness. I’m not saying it was pretty, but we were angry at the people who looted our house. Those things that we so carefully packed–agonizing over every ounce that went into those trunks–meant nothing to the people who so quickly and carelessly destroyed them. Items that we’ve either had since we first got married or that were given to us as very thoughtful gifts, gone. The anger burned white hot. Then there was honestly some anger toward God. We gave up everything we had back in the States, brought with us a few carefully packed trunks, and then lost all of what remained, all in our faithfulness to follow Him.
The anger would subside and would vacillate to intense sadness. We know that they are just things and we are thankful that no one was hurt, neither on our team or on our compound; however, we still had to grieve and feel the sadness over losing things that meant a great deal to us. My cousin’s wife, Megan, had drawn us a beautiful piece of art the year we committed to moving to Nasir, and it meant so much to us that we brought it and displayed it in our living room. Blaise’s step-dad, Dan, gave him a military knife that he had had with him while he was serving a tour in Djibouti. Each of our parents had given us things, small tokens of their love and support, that meant very little monetarily, but a great deal in our hearts. I left my journal, thinking that I would be back in a month to pick up where I had left off. That journal had chronicled our miscarriage, our months of training in Houston, our time back in Indiana, and our transition to the mission field. There was a lot written on those pages. Blaise left his tools, all of the ones he’s had since he very first started working in sheet metal nearly 10 years ago.
The layers kept revealing themselves, too, as we moved past the things we lost and began to realize the dreams and the relationships we lost.
For almost three years, our calling and our desire was to move to Nasir. We spent those years dreaming of our life there, and once we actually got there, began fulfilling those dreams. We had formed amazing friendships in the community, started to transform that little block house (dubbed The Ginter Cottage) into a home full of warmth and love, began learning the language in earnest, and really started to envision many more years to come living in Nasir. When Blaise and I found out we were expecting, we mentally decorated the baby’s room and imagined our child growing up in Nasir, learning to speak the language and knowing an entirely different childhood than either of us had known.
We also saw ministry unfold before our very eyes. What had been so difficult to imagine in training was there, playing itself out as we spent time in people’s homes, prayed with them, shared Bible stories, and knitted our hearts and lives together. We could finally envision a community transformed, and our passion to see that happen grew with each passing day.
Another layer that has recently revealed itself is just how alone we feel without our team. We spent months and months getting to know them, training with them day in and day out, making the huge move to Africa alongside them, living with them in community, sharing laughter, and sharing struggles. They have been our family, and it’s been incredibly hard to be in Tonj without them. As if losing everything we owned and the dreams we had for Nasir wasn’t enough, we’ve lost our team, too (they are serving in Gambella, Ethiopia currently).
The sadness at the loss of those dreams was entirely overwhelming. And while we’ve mostly grappled with and moved beyond the loss of things, it’s the loss of our future in Nasir that still hurts the most. I can’t say how our journey is compared to the rest of our team’s, but it’s definitely hard to still be serving in South Sudan, only instead of among the Nuer, we’re among the Dinka, and instead of living in Nasir, we’re in Tonj. There are days when I miss life there so bad that it literally takes my breath away and I have to fight back tears. It’s a homesickness not unlike missing my family, friends, and home in America.
Almost a month has passed since we first heard the news, and I know we really are somewhere in the healing process. We mourn for everything we lost, yes, but we’ve also really begun to understand that our pain is just a small glimpse into the lives that the South Sudanese people have been living for decades. They know loss and grief better than they know hope and security. They’ve lost everything time and again, only to come back, rebuild, and start again. They inspire me and they humble me. Because my life has been incredibly cushioned–always with the airbags of insurance, healthcare, a stable government, and so on–this experience is new and painful to me. But it’s not new to many of the men and women among whom we live and serve.
I can’t say why God has us on this journey. And while I’m not to a place yet where I can safely say I’m over it, that I don’t get angry sometimes, that I’m to the “new life” phase of the grief/loss cycle, I can say that I trust Him who called us here. I know that God does not waste pain, so I trust that out of the ashes will come something new and beautiful.