Put Yourself in the Way of Kindness
It's no secret that these past few months have been full a lot of big life changes, and it hasn't been the easiest time of my life. Since my last blog, I've done a lot of journaling and self-reflection and perhaps a bit too much navel-gazing trying to forge a path forward.
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.
I didn't feel like cooking that night after a day of packing, so D'Assise and I headed to the convent next door for dinner. Les Soeurs Penitentes de Saint Francois, or the Penitent Sisters of St. Francis, had a motherhouse next to my old house, and I'd lived with the same order of nuns in a different village for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer (fun fact: I almost always win at "Two Truths and Lie" with the "I lived in a convent for two years" line).
Some might think it's a bit strange to hang out with a group of nuns on a Saturday night, but to me it was the best possible treatment for an anxious mind. Each of the sisters greeted D'Assise and I with a hug and a warm cup of tea laced with ginger, with a healthy dollop of slightly smokey Rwandan honey. We ate dinner and D'Assise told cheesy jokes to peals of laughter from the nuns. D'Assise eventually went to play outside, and the Sisters listened to me talk about what's been on my mind, the struggles of being a single working Mama and my worries about whether I'm being a good enough parent for D'Assise and what the future holds for us. And they just listened, and listened.
The Mother Superior, a kind, soft-spoken woman named Sr. Donatha, took off her glasses and looked me in the eyes, her brow slightly moist with sweat from wearing her veil in the day's humidity.
"Are you loving him, each and every day?"
"Yes."
"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.
I guess I've always found the Sisters so inspiring because they've chosen to lead such radical lives of love and service, working as teachers and nurses and running centers for the handicapped in Rwanda. I admire how boldly they love, how much they sacrifice, and among them are some of my biggest heroes. There's Sr. Adelinde, who came out of hiding during the genocide to help others to safety (and never spoke about it to anyone--the only way that I found out was through a documentary crew that came to film her about her story after talking to those that she had saved), and Sr. Agnes, who walks with a limp after she survived a bus attack that killed everyone else on the bus, but tends to the flowers in the convent with care and the families with malnourished children that came to the health center with such tenderness. Despite experiencing such tragic events in her own life, she'd always greet me with a smile and maintain her unshakeable belief in the goodness of humanity. Living in their community for two years was such a profound experience it's hard to put it into words.
The next day we headed to Mushaka, my Peace Corps village, so that D'Assise could get some time with his old friends. As I entered the convent where I spent two years, the familiar smell of fresh bread baking in the wood-burning oven filled my nose. A couple of the nuns were baking that week's bread, and they rushed to greet D'Assise and I. I sat in the living room where I'd spent so many evenings playing with tiny three-year old D'Assise and listening to the nightly news with the nuns.
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.
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.
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| Nun dance-off at D'Assise's adoption party |
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"Are you loving him, each and every day?"
"Yes."
"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.
What a beautiful reflection, Claire, and what a full and fulfilling life you are blessed to be experiencing. The nuns are truly inspiring. As are you!
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