The middle of the world

If you were to crack open a world map, you would find the city we reside in—Arusha, Tanzania—located not far from the center fold, just 3 degrees south of the Equator and 36 degrees east of the Prime Meridian. Arusha is not exactly in the middle of the world, but it’s a whole lot more central than anywhere else I’ve been. And as my family and I have lingered in this place, I have sensed that my life here is more central as well—closer to the lives of the multitudes who call this beautiful blue planet home. I confess that I am new at cross-cultural living, and with only a month to go in our African sojourn, I will still be new when I leave. But for what it’s worth, here are some of my musings, some lessons learned while living in the middle of the world.

In the middle of the world, geography takes on new meaning. My kids and I have worn creases into the pages in the back of our children’s encyclopedia, the pages depicting a world map, and maps of all seven continents, and colorful spreads of the flags of the world. Recently I watched my children huddled over the encyclopedia, their light hair pressed close to the long dark hair of a friend from India and the short dark hair of a friend from Cameroon, each child locating the flag of their country, and I thought, “What a gift to have this perspective on the world!” Last week, we shared meals with friends from Australia, India, Germany, Morocco, and Canada—five meals and five continents represented, and how the earth seems to shrink until it's small enough to pull up a chair at the table, too. Nations and continents I’ve never visited feel closer here, like anywhere in the world is merely an ocean away.

Here in the middle of the world, I realize that no place on earth is perfect. Certainly there are more beautiful places than others, more comfortable places, place with geographic advantages or storied histories or natural wonders. But I am beginning to suspect that if a person is to linger in any location of the world, not just for a two-week vacation but really linger, every place would have its disadvantages. Nearly eight months ago, when we left the icy grip of January in North America for the sunshine and tropical fruit and safari animals of Tanzania, we felt rather grand about our place in the world. But as the seasons turned, and summer arrived in the Northern Hemisphere, and friends at home posted pictures of beach vacations and family gatherings while we slumped through the gray skies and chilly nights of July… well, suddenly the tables were turned. And so it goes, I suppose. The grass will always seem greener somewhere in the world, and how then shall we live in the place where we are planted, in season and out?

Here in the middle of the world, I feel powerless to change the things that are hard about my life. I can’t change the fact that we have power outages here—days and weeks when the electricity is off more than on, and we can’t use the computer or take hot showers or bake a cake or know when the power will come back on again. I can’t change the varying inventory in the stores—a favorite item, available one week and then missing for six weeks, the scramble to figure out meals made with simple ingredients or many substitutions. And I can’t change the condition of the roads, or the lack of infrastructure, or the political climate, or the weather. The only thing I have the power to change is my attitude:  a slow turning of the heart, a deliberate unclenching of the fists, a decision to stop worrying. In the end, this too is a gift:  the power to allow the Holy Spirit to cultivate his good fruit in the fertile soil of my trials.

Here in the middle of the world, I am a child again. Many things are unknown or incomprehensible, and I have little control. Like a child, I must roll with the punches, be surprised by life, be flexible and gracious. Here we have an abundance of time but a scarcity of possessions, and when necessity calls for creativity, creative we are. My children have learned new card games and playground games, jump-rope rhymes and hand-clapping games. I have learned to make foods from scratch that I always bought before—flour tortillas, tomato sauce, chocolate pudding. And we have all learned to throw open the doors of our house to the chaos without and chaos within—vegetable vendors who knock on the door all morning, neighbor children who wander inside to play or to read books or to get a drink of water. We have learned that sharing is important, that abundance comes as we are generous with the little we do have, and our dolls and art supplies and play-dough have been well loved and used.

Here in the middle of the world, I feel a deeper compassion for anyone who has ever been a stranger in a strange land. I know now what it feels like to be different, not only in the color of my skin but in the way I approach life, in my basic assumptions about how the world works. It is easy to laugh at the habits of strangers when you belong in a place, but things that seem obvious to an insider can be baffling to someone on the outside. Back at home, I find it odd that people buy bottled water, because I know the tap water is safe to drink. Yet here in Arusha, I buy bottled water even though my Tanzanian neighbors drink the tap water, and I am sure my mistrust seems odd to them, even laughable. I also have a new appreciation for what it means to welcome the stranger, for I know what it meant to me to be welcomed here, to be included, to be sought after and remembered. It meant the world to me.

Early in our sojourn in Tanzania, we were invited to have lunch with a family from church, and as we gathered around their large dining room table, their four children began to sing, “Bless the Lord, oh my soul, oh my soul, worship his holy name. Sing like never before, oh my soul, worship his holy name” (Chris Tomlin, 10,000 Reasons). Our family joined in, and it was a sweet moment for me, to lift my voice with these new friends in worship of our good and holy God. Last Sunday at church, we sang the song again, and again I was reminded that “whatever may pass, and whatever lies before me," I can still sing of God's goodness. Here in the middle of the world, in my plenty and in my want, I have ten thousand reasons to worship the God who holds me, and you, and the whole world in his hands.