Bravery: To Admit the Pain You've Caused
I looked into my son’s chocolate brown eyes as they welled with tears. Beads of sweat were on both of our brows as the temperatures reached 38 degrees, in November. All the losses accumulated through a year of transitioning to a foreign land filled his face. I could see them all. What we have asked him to do is too hard. Too hard to a 9-year-old who only wants to play competitive sports, see family, and ski. Too hard to a 9-year-old who wants consistent electricity to play computer games and cold juice but the fridge is again at 22 degrees. To see your child experience grief that you have caused, is painful. “Why are we even here?” he asked, “I never wanted to come to Malawi, you guys wanted to come here.” All of this is true. I swallowed hard and absorbed his losses. I grieved with him the distance from family, the distance from frosty mornings, blueberry picking and Christmas trees and all the things he wishes were here. He sees the children begging, he hears our stories of early deaths and hungry babies and all that we see. He knows of a different reality, that we are here to help with healthcare, but though he can see, he cannot really imagine nor does he understand what that has to do with him.
But then I shared a story with him. A story of a 23-year-old I met today in the refugee camp. This boy-man arrived in Malawi 12 years ago, on his own. This boy-man was 9 years old when he had to leave his war-torn country, on his own. The same age as my son, who cannot seem to run his own shower or make his own sandwich. This son of the Congo moved from country to country seeking asylum, such that he never received an education. His father was a politician, arrested and put in prison. His mom and siblings were all scattered in the chaos. In a straight face, this young man told me that he isn’t even sure he would recognize his mom. The last time he saw her was 12 years ago and he has not seen her since, nor does he have a picture of her.
He was 9-years-old when he had to survive on scraps from strangers. I see my son’s 9-year-old chocolate eyes understand, just for a moment, the hardship this boy has had to endure. I see a revelation in a small way. I see empathy. “Son,” I tell him, “you have a life that many people cannot even imagine. Cannot even dream of.”
I see him, and he sees me now crying with him. I tell him, we are not saviors of this country, we are not likely to make a dent in the reality of poverty here. These people don’t need us, and with or without our help the reality of poor healthcare and short life expectancies will likely persist. That is not why we came. But we can bear witness to some stories, we can journey with those in suffering in front of us, instead of staying far off. We can become acquainted and help carry their sorrows and wipe their tears and hold their hands and champion their victories in the face of such challenges. We can, and we do, and it costs us some comforts. Comforts that are my son’s world, that I also crave, but are only temporary.
We cry together some more. And we pray together. For eyes to see people in their suffering, to be willing to give up things we love to love those who were once far off but now we are coming to know, and for strength to endure endless hot days when we’d prefer cool ones.
These are hard conversations and it is not comfortable to admit yourself as the cause of your child’s pain. But they are life-giving conversations we must have as we learn the cost of love, how to grieve, and what it means to bear discomfort to come close to those who are suffering.
What hard conversations might you need to have, to admit how you have caused pain? How can you grieve with those you love, and help each other embrace what is right in front of you?