Get Up and Walk

This is written by Jenni Aber Lynn

Just two days ago, the teachers of Pedro Menendez received news of another student death. I did not know this student as well as the student that had passed earlier on this summer, but I knew him. I did not teach him, but he stopped by my room a few times. His death, along with other events this summer, really affected my happy demeanor.

I have never been one to deal with death very well.

It seems that there have been moments where reality hits pretty hard. This thought process, for me, started with a phone call while I was in Uganda. It was about a student that I had last year.

She sat in the row all the way to the left, three seats from the front. She was quiet at times, but you could see that she still was infected by the contagious excitement for her senior year. She just graduated. She was just killed by a truck driving erratically. When I received this news, I kept saying that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

The next morning, July 12, I woke up to news that there were bombings in Kampala that killed over seventy people. The American that died was here because he was an “Invisible Children” roadie. His name was Nate ‘Oteka’ Henn. He seemed like such a wonderful person. We did not have a chance to meet him, but because I was still feeling the heaviness of the news from the night before, and because he was there with the same organization as my friends and I, it hit close to home. How could someone who did so much good be taken away? I again thought about how it wasn’t fair.

Then on Sunday, July 18, exactly one week from my phone call about my student, people from group 2 went to St. Jude’s orphanage. When they arrived, they found out that a toddler had just fallen into an open cesspool. When the group went back there, there was a man trying to put a ladder down the hole, but it wouldn’t fit. Then John (who we have deemed the dad of the group) pushed the ladder out of the way. John reached down and pulled Samuel (the toddler) out of the well. They started to try to get all of the stuff out of his mouth. Min and Colleen tried to give CPR, and the “Invisible Children” truck drove to the hospital. It took them ten more minutes to find someone to help them. Despite our best efforts, at 3:06 on July 18 the boy died. He was about 2 ½ years old. Definitely one of our more somber nights.

These events really got to me. How could such senseless things that cause so much pain happen? It WASN’T fair. It made me question. I wanted to know why. I was starting to question justice in this world. As I started to ask questions, I remembered thumbing through a book, “Hope in the Dark.” It is a photo-journal about two people who travel to Kenya. Not Uganda, but their story seems relevant enough to mine. I read the entries. I looked at the pictures. As I turned the pages, two entries caught my attention.

The first page is a picture of graffiti, “Piny Pek.” The entry read, “We walked along the dirt road to Muungano village where these words rested quietly on the brick wall next to a pharmacy shop. ‘What does piny pek mean?’ I asked. ‘Heavy world,’ they said” (Hope in the Dark).

That nailed it. It IS a heavy world. I have been feeling the weight of it all along. Where is justice?

As I was lamenting some of these events, I came across my friend Ryan’s blog. It was on dying seeds. I am going to use some of his words because he writes what I have been feeling so effectively. He says, “I’ve always despised the fact that God made death such an integral part of life. “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die,” Bonhoeffer says. But why can’t the Father work with us as though He were a bricklayer? I’d much rather just have my old self whitewashed, built on top of, not crucified.”

Ryan goes on to say, “That, however, is not His will. The Father’s plan for life is one of complete and total transformation that begins with a wrecking ball and ends with a new creation. And if I say that my way is better, I am arguing with the very God who gave me a mind, an intellect and an ability to argue in the first place. Surely, it is an argument I cannot win.

So I am still left asking, “Why?” I am still saying that it is not fair. I am still left presenting my argument and it makes me think of the verses in Acts 3.
It reads, “ 1One day Peter and John were going up to the temple at the time of prayer—at three in the afternoon. 2Now a man crippled from birth was being carried to the temple gate called Beautiful, where he was put every day to beg from those going into the temple courts. 3When he saw Peter and John about to enter, he asked them for money. 4Peter looked straight at him, as did John. Then Peter said, "Look at us!" 5So the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something from them.
6Then Peter said, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." 7Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. 8He jumped to his feet and began to walk.”
It makes me realize that I am like the crippled man and that every time I ask, “Why?” and every time that I argue that it isn’t fair; it is like I am asking for money.

I have to realize and trust that the experiences given to me will become beautiful. It is not money, but the ability to walk.

A couple of pages later in “Hope in the Dark”:

“I stood within the filthy, shack-filled slum of Kibera while also looking up at the stunning clouds that danced across the vast stretch of the African sky. There is such tragedy and yet such beauty at the same time” (HitD).

I remember that we were in a place where the blended scent of pit latrines and burning garbage lingered in the air. I remember the showers were cold. I remember we could not drink the water. I remember the dirt roads were full of potholes and mud. I remember the village was filled with poverty that often broke our hearts. I remember the deaths that will change me forever. I remember the tragedies.

With this entry, I also remember the beautiful friendships that I have made with the American and Ugandan teachers. I remember sharing the new experiences of learning to use shillings and negotiate for a boda ride with these people. I remember everyone playing with the kids in the street in front of our house with Frisbees, kites, and limbo sticks. I remember hearing, “Munu!” and seeing children run from the streets to greet us. I remember seeing the teachers from Uganda share stories, and play, and dance with us at our events. I remember the students’ willingness to share their stories, and the change it brought in us. I remember seeing the faces of deaf children in an orphanage light up because they could share their names and play. I remember seeing my friends bring smiles, laughter, and love to the same orphanage where death broke our hearts. This is the beauty that I remember. Breathtaking.

“Overwhelmed by the insanity of this broken world, I find it difficult to understand how the pieces of it all fit together” (Hope in the Dark).

Heavy world. Where is justice?

“The same earth can hold the fragrance of a field of flowers while also occupying the stench of urine on hot concrete” (HitD).

Where is justice? I think it’s in beauty. Where is beauty? I think it’s in compassion.

So what is something that I have learned on my trip? It’s a heavy world. I am terrified and weighed down by this information. Out of the tragedy, rises beauty and compassion. In the “Invisible Children” video for Nate Henn, it says that his legacy lives on. For me, out of the ashes of tragedy, a field of flowers scented with compassion will rise. That is my pledge to Shae, Nate, Samuel, and Jonathan. My pledge to those who have been and will be affected by a heavy world. My pledge to my new friends. Instead of asking why and saying that it isn’t fair, I am going to “get up and walk.”

I will no longer ask for money when I know that the ability to walk is there. I will no longer sit at the temple gates and ask questions. My promise is to “get up and walk” and bring beauty and compassion with me.

Jenni


my response on facebook

Einstein said, "Small is the number that see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts." It would have been great, if Jenni's experience in Uganda would have been all smiley kids yelling "munu bye". but not this year..

...To all those around Jenni, you already know who she is, but I got to see it for the first time. She is the real deal. I have listened to many and sometimes I hear "the sound of the genuine" from someone new. I pulled that young boy out of the worst shit water I have ever seen or experienced in my life, and tried to figure out how to get him to breathe, And in the end, tried to figure out why, and cursed myself for not winning the battle. But what I saw during that frustration was love, so many of the people in the picture above, reached out and gave me their love.

It would be nice if we could just love first, take a risk and appreciate the beauty of each other, and let these feelings be known. But our lives are often ordinary, and ordinary thoughts in ordinary lives crowd out these real thoughts. Maybe it takes this realness, this "heavy world" to remind us of not only who we are, but what we are capable of.

Don't get me wrong, I would much rather have a live Samuel then writing words on Facebook, but Jenni walked into my world this year, a world populated by amazing people, and became one of them.

And whether it is the first student you taught who dies, or the 12th..... it does not get any easier... but for Ashley, and Leslie, and Michael, for one Matt who died of Cancer, and one Matt who died in Iraq, and too many for me.... and of course, My Best Friend, Phil, whose death left a hole for too many of us.

I will take Jenni's advice and "Get Up and Walk". To do my best for Samuel,..... I will Get Up and Walk