A blank Word document awaits my thoughts and some kind of indy music pumps through my earphones. A warm beverage in a white ceramic cup sits next to my white computer. I take long pulls from it as I mull over my thoughts and what I will pound out next.

This is scene I know well. Usually my backdrop is a coffee shop. Students and other lost creatives don’t bother to interact with each other but stare into a screen looking for that companionship they so desire. Soccer moms order lattes, cappuccinos and other sugary drinks that fool you into thinking they are not currently destroying your body. Old men sip coffee and debate about topics they are surely experts on. I try not to make my appearance well known, but I do want someone to notice me.

This time thought it is a drab yellow box of a room. There are two windows, both filthy and one is partly covered by a nearly standing bookshelf. Around the room are stacks and stacks of papers that have some meaning of organization to the person who put them there. Instead of a leather over-sized chair or a steel one with a matching table, I am sitting on a wooden desk built for two. I am not picking at a pastry; rather a half slab of corn a student gave me. There is no one but me and it feels relieving and painful at the same time.

So much has changed in my life as I went from my weekly stops to coffee shops to this worn room in rural Africa. Time and experience have passed, but it seems that something bigger should mark this transportation, like a flip of a switch or the cross of a red line.

Somewhere, somehow those days became the past and this the future, then the unfamiliar and this the comfortable. I nearly can’t remember those days.

The night before, I walked home from school, washed my dishes out of a bucket, ran, took a bucket batch while my dinner cooked over a gas stove and then treated myself to a few hours of old TV episodes on my lap top. It felt completely normal and routine and that I can no longer recall what I did after a day of work back in the U.S. I suppose something similar, maybe with the occasional drink or dinner with a friend thrown into the mix. But I seriously do not remember.

This is how I live now, but soon it will end. That is terrifying. What will I do after work? Where will I write? I dream about scooting into a corner booth with my computer and cup of coffee or curling up on the couch watching my favorite sitcom after work, yearning for them because I know that at one time they were comfortable. But those little moments of life are what drove me here in the first place, looking for something more.

Now, I want them back but they are now unknown to me. This is what I have and slowly they are becoming my comfort. Yet, soon, they’ll be gone too.

The window pain is slapping its sill and the fragile trees are bobbing between 45-degrees and upright. To the north, fluffy white clouds dot happy skies while, to the south, a furious blue has taken over. The clouds smack into each other and the temperature drops. The rain is coming.

It may seem that I write about rain more often than any form of weather deserves, but rain in Africa is enchanting. Instead of something you have to put up with, it is something to stop and observe. It’s not a little annoyance to your day, but a symphony of the heavens. It has the menace known to destroy entire cities, yet it can be gentle like a mother rocking her baby to sleep. The way the clouds move in from the southwest and the wind rustles through the trees is dramatic but, when the rain finally starts to fall, there is relief.

It’s been hot lately, like the kind of heat known in late August in South Dakota. One knows fall and cooler temperatures will soon arrive, but the sun beats as much warmth into the earth as it can during those final days. Yes, the nights do cool but the afternoons show no remorse to those working in the fields or walking long distances to and from school.

The heat is pounding me down, not unlike life at the moment. Little things – a pile of dishes, a stubbed toe, the unending irritation of flies – nearly bring tears. Keep going, I tell myself, but sometimes I yearn for an excuse.

There is none and so I keep going. I climb each anthill like it is Everest and tell myself that eventually it will get better.

The morning of the rain, I decided that I would stop suffering through the small pains. I would let go of all “woe is me” and try to find something worth noting in those times when the entire world feels against me.

I sailed pleasantly without the normal exhaustion of another day. This new attitude, I thought, would work.

Then the clouds shifted and the wind rolled. The rain, the relief I desired so much, was about to come. It was a metaphor, I assumed.

The rain didn’t come. The blue storm clouds skirted past the village, hanging low but not leaving a drop. My reprieve wasn’t.

I resigned myself into acceptance. This was enough. The temperatures were cooler, there was a new air about. It was enough.

The clouds kept building until the entire sky was dark. It took a few hours, or it felt that way at least, and then she opened up. Hard and fast. Cooling and soothing. I was at school and wanted to get home to enjoy the silence. The only time there is not someone outside my door yelling or animals notifying everyone of their existence comes when it is raining.

The rain briefed for a moment and I started my journey home. I ran to quicken my pace but carefully as not to slip on the mud. A strange sound came from behind, almost like a car with a desperate need of an engine repair. When I turn around, I noticed it was the sound of the rain pounding the tin roofs, catching up with me. I still had a long way to go, but wasn’t too worried about the rain. It was the slashes of lightening that scared me the most as Lesotho boasts an usually high death by lightening rate. Maybe I could make it to the shop and seek refuge there, I thought.

A man whistled from the police station and I took his advice. I trampled into the office with four men, spreading fresh mud on the linoleum. My white shirt was now speckled brown and my white socks looked gray. Two men behind a desk chatted and another sat on the bench with me, while the one closest to me stared at a television. I kept my eyes on a puddle, waiting for the drops to slow.

When it did, I thanked them men and braced myself for more waddle running. On my way out, the men invited me to their Christmas party. In April.

The rain stayed light and I passed several students walking home. “Run,” I giggled to them. I finally reached my house and traded the muddy clothes for clean ones. All I could hear was the soft pound of rain and I decided it was the perfect time for yoga.

A washing of the heat. A giggle and generosity from neighbors. A reminder that no matter how hot it gets, relief always comes, even if you have to wait a bit. It will come.

A pair of boys and another set of men gather around the bursting fire. They aren’t related, but they are because this is a village and more counts for family than blood. A black kettle, not unlike a witch’s caldron, sits atop of the flame cooking the group’s supper while the boys stick pieces of corn next to the thrashes of orange to flame broil their appetizer. My host father and his shepherd and herd boys have returned from their usual trip to the fields, looking after crops and livestock. This is their beer and TV time before bed.

I slyly turn off my headlamp to participate in their bonfire from a few yards away. Most nights I am cramped up in my rondaval with a book, but tonight I decide to sip tea and read outside. I hope the stars come out so I can gaze and just to be next to a fire, one that doesn’t consist of my trash. Enjoying the night is my attempt to savor the moment instead of wishing it would pass.

Despite the heavy thoughts ping ponging in my head, it had been a good day. I nearly out ran the sun as it climbed over the mountains. When I got home, two visitors were waiting and we cooked up breakfast burritos before they ventured on to their next stop. Bathed and halfway decent, I attended a village meeting that convinced me all the faith I’ve invested in the idea to do something good here might just pan out.

But my thought pattern has a remarkable way of taking me from the good in now and drudging up darker emotions. Doubt and self-abuse showed up and the passion from the morning was drained. I wanted to write, but it felt lifeless, these old friends an even greater advantage. I tried to busy myself with domestic work, my host sister’s baby, a novel and even meditation, but these feelings were too heavy to lift.

I knew the men would create the nightly fire, like cowboys moving from camp to camp, and thought immersing myself into the right now could help.

I sipped tea and listened to them chat in Sesotho. Here, the fire is a tool to cook, to sustain one’s self, but I’ve always regarded the open flame as a way to bring friends together, over summer stars and cold beer. Because I have little control over my thoughts, they left the moment and drifted to memories of fires of past and the potential for fires when I can again sit comfortably next to the warmth and share a conversation with the others present.

The stars refuse to come out this night. Instead, thick clouds have masked their beauty, threatening a fit. The wind picks up and embers are thrown into the men’s face. They find a large piece of metal to block the wind while their food continues to simmer.

As the men tend to their fire, I retreat to my house and tend to mine. There will be no stars or answers tonight, but sometimes I don’t always need them.

It was the noise that woke me first.

The whishing.

I thought maybe it was rain and then the smell came next.

With panic, I grabbed my glasses and flashlight and scrambled out of bed. The noise, as I had suspected, was coming from my gas tank. The tube connecting my stove and tank fell off and my small house was being pumped with toxin.

My awakening, at 3:07 a.m., kept me from an eternal sleep. I realized then, when I woke up a few hours later and now how considerably lucky I was. For reasons I can’t understand, God pulled me out at the right moment.

Later in the day, I was crying in the principal’s office. I’ve been stressed with the same class since the beginning of school, often storming out of the class or returning home early and broken. As the students I am were engaged in yet another struggle, I asked them if they wanted me to go home. To me, it seemed like they took no value in my presence and wouldn’t care much if I didn’t show up the next day. All it would take is a single phone call and it would be over.

The other teachers, confronting the main perpetrators, reassured me that I am not the only one having issues with this class. They all do. Still, I wasn’t sure I could continue.

Earlier that morning, I told a few of my friends about what happened with the gas. After my breakdown, I found this message on my phone:

Then I returned to my friend and saw this message:

“God has showed me through your experience last night that He is showing you you have a purpose. He woke you up for a PURPOSE. To me this gas leak is a sign of the adversities you are facing right now in your life. He is telling me to tell you: He will wake you up (get you out o the situation in His due time). Right now he is grooming you for a bigger purpose. Stay one with Him and He will keep you covered through these tests and trials. Just know that God is covering you still and one day He will wake you up from the trials and tests and everything will be good!”

Tears, immediately.

My friends Lindsie and Mike, http://www.stormingjericho.org, are walking across the country and completely relying on God’s grace to overcome their hurdles. When they are hungry, they pray. When they are tired, they pray. Then God brings them food and rest. Their faith is incredible.

I realized today that it is my turn to let go and have complete faith. Some days are so hard and I am not sure I can take one more step, but I will keep going. One day God will awake me. He showed me today that he always will.

The guilt of a Peace Corps Volunteer

These are the conversations I have with myself on a daily basis. Where is the line between giving too much and not giving enough? I still don’t know.

—

It is 2 in the afternoon and I am hiding under my covers, trying to nap off the exhaustion of a long run. There are voices outside my window. My house is in the crossfire between the main house and the one for the herd boys, so the yells of orders and names often float through my windows.

But these voices feel close. When I open my door, I find three herd boys sitting on my porch. My porch, which belongs to me.

It really doesn’t. My space is inside and I suppose the awning could be considered communal.

–

They are disturbing me. Their voices, not loud, taunt me. I don’t understand them but I know what they say. We are in your space. We are in your space.

–

Relax, I tell myself. It is a hot day and this is a shady spot. You can’t control everything.

–

Why do they have to be here?

–

Relax.

–

I go to get water and shoot them dirty looks, hoping they would get the hint. The attempt is completely lost on them. They do not greet me. I mutter something about why are you sitting here.

–

You shouldn’t be so mean. React with kindness. Stop being such a bitch.

–

What if I wanted to sit out on the porch and listen to the radio? This is the only place I have that is mine, that is private. Why are they encroaching on it?

–

They are not in your house.

–

I wish someone in my family would see this and tell them to go away. My family knows that I like to be private.

–

My host father comes home. He joins them.

–

Relax. Be nice.