Two weekends ago, D'Assise and I took a trip down to southwestern Rwanda, where I lived for four years. It had been a particularly rough week, and my mind was filled with worries as we piled into the dusty old white Land Cruiser I occasionally use, affectionally named Doc, for the winding three hour trip to the motherland.
As D'Assise dozed in the back, sprawled sideways on our suitcases, and the green hills of Rwanda rolled by the windows, I was reminded of a quote by Cheryl Strayed: "Put yourself in the way of beauty." As I drove on through the lush forests and verdant valleys, bursting with the crops that are soon to be harvested, I got goosebumps on my arm and felt my blood pressure slow. Even five years later, the sheer beauty of this country can still be a salve to my soul.
I pulled into my old house in Kamembe late that afternoon, knowing that it would be the very last time I'd do so. I was there to pack up my house, and say goodbye to the place where I felt I became a real adult, the house where I'd spent so many wonderful times with good friends. As I started to dismantle the beds and take down the art on my walls I had so carefully hung, I felt a tightness in my throat from the nostalgia overdose.
|Nun dance-off at D'Assise's adoption party|
"Are you loving him, each and every day?"
"Then you're doing a good enough job. If you're loving him, then you're doing enough."
She poured me another cup of tea, with double the amount of honey, and told me the story of how she felt called to be a nun. As a young girl, some Belgian sisters had started a health center nearby where she lived. It was the only health center for miles, and people would walk for hours with no shoes to come get medical treatment. One of the Belgian sisters would take the worst jobs at the health center, cleaning the latrines and the bedpans and wiping down the floors. Sr. Donatha said that this nun would wash each patient's feet as they came into the health center, calloused feet that had marched for miles through dusty roads and muddy fields, and seeing these small acts of kindness were so powerful to her that she wanted to devote her life to service. Sr. Donatha talked about being uncertain as a young sister, but felt guided by the Penitent Sisters' motto: "Servir dans la joie et la simplicité", or "to serve in joy and simplicity." She'd ask herself whether she was accomplishing just that, day in and day out, and recommended that I do the same.
|D'Assise saying final goodbyes to the nuns on the day he moved out of the convent|
We sat down to a simple meal of beans and rice and boiled cabbage, and then Sr. Appolinaire brought in a omelette for D'Assise and I to eat. I protested, knowing that the nuns had likely just cracked every single egg from every single one of their chickens to make that omelette; that if we hadn't been there all eight of them would have shared it, each taking a tiny sliver. I knew that they only ever served the eggs on Sundays, and if they gave all of their omelette to D'Assise and I it would be another week before they'd get another chance to eat their small portion of eggs. But they resolutely insisted. I felt overwhelmed by their kindness, even though it was such a small gesture.
On the way back to our home from Kamembe, I again thought of the quote, "Put yourself in the way of beauty." I found that its corollary, for me, is to put yourself in the way of kindness. The intense kindness that really hits you somewhere deep down and fills up your cup and allows you to continue. Experiencing real goodness, that kind of raw and rare and unselfish love, is more powerful than even beauty. As dusk fell and we reached our new home, I felt that a huge weight had been lifted. My cup had been filled up, and I was ready to take on the next week.