On top of my wardrobe is
a red leather suitcase; it was my granddad's. It is now beyond use - the
leather worn, the zip stuck and the handle all squeaky. But it was with this
suitcase in my hand and an utterly ridiculous fedora on my head that I arrived
in Africa two and a half years ago, looking every bit the part. Today, two and
a half years older (and if the loss of the fedora is anything to go by, two and
a half years wiser), I wonder: what would I say to that younger Adam? Were I to
travel back and accost that bright-eyed fedora'ed explorer, what would I say?
If I could take the seat beside him on that Boeing 707 at Heathrow, Terminal 5,
as he waits apprehensively for the plane to jolt into life, what advice might I
give him in the few short hours before he steps out onto the tarmac and into
this new adventure?
With a little thought
I've settled upon these few snippets of advice, most of them learnt on the
other side of an embarrassing mistake, all of them the fruit of an experience
which never fails to remind me how much I have yet to learn.
#1. Lone wolfs are for
cowboy movies. Depend on people. Be immodestly vulnerable, and you'll give
others permission to be the same.
#2. Be a part of
creating real, authentic community. There are no easy steps for it, but a good
start is to always be the last person to leave the dinner table.
#3. Dwell deeply in the
Word of God. The Bible comes alive in an amazing way when you read it amidst
the poor and powerless.
#4. Culture shock is
real, and it hurts. A dose of chocolate, coffee, British films and a decent book
makes for a good pain-killer, but the only real remedy when it comes is talking to people. See item 1.
#5. Know that when
things are hardest God does his best work, both in and through you. Challenge
creates dependency, dependency fosters faith, and God knows that.
#6. Keep your head up,
literally. You never know what you'll miss if you walk with your eyes to the
ground.
#7. Never make
'spending time with God' an excuse for not spending time with people.
#8. You will think you
are 100% unequivocally unalterably undeniably sold out for the vision. But that
will be tested by disappointment and frustration. When your enthusiasm wavers,
stand firm; on the other side is something immeasurably more enduring and
worthwhile - Commitment.
#9. In time you will realise
just how unqualified, inexperienced and ill-fitted you are for this job. In
those moments remember that you did not choose to do this work for God, God
chose to do this work through you.
#10. Don't be a hero.
Drink bottled water, take your malaria pills and if you see a snake, don't
stamp it to death with your boot. That's ill-advised.
#11. Eventually the
people and the potholes will get you down. Don't feel guilty about it, but
don't let cynicism take root in your heart. Once it does, it's very hard to pull
out.
#12. You might as well
just get used to the staring.
#13. And finally:
Listen before you
speak.
Learn before you teach.
Love, long before you
try to lead.
And so here I am, back
in the cold dawn of September 6th 2011, stepping onto a Boeing 707 at Heathrow
airport, Terminal 5. In amidst the crowd of passengers I spot an animated young
mzungu waiting for the plane to take
off, his grandfather's suitcase stowed above him and an utterly unbefitting
fedora perched on his head. I look down at my list. I take it, tear it up slowly
and pocket the pieces.
Because of course, had
I the chance, I wouldn't tell him a single one of these things. I wouldn't
afford him a bypass for all those embarrassments, cultural faux pas's, mishaps,
mistakes and misfortunes that would litter his way. No. If I were to say
anything at all, it would probably be:
You will make mistakes. You'll eat an entire family's dinner
because you don't want to offend anyone by not finishing your food. You'll run
over a dog thinking that those people are waving at you, not telling you to
watch where you're driving. You'll accidentally curse at someone in a bid to
show off your mastery of the local language. You will make mistakes and that
without doubt. You can, if you choose, learn from them.
For whatever became of
that bright-eyed explorer, whatever he went on to discover about God, about the
world, about himself, cannot be weighed against the immeasurable value of the
discovery itself. The lesson learnt by owning your mistakes sticks deeper and
longer than any learnt by listening to the mistakes of others.
That is what I would
tell him. Or perhaps, had I the chance, I would simply walk past him to another
seat, watch as he cocks his fedora slightly to the side for effect, and allow
him to find out in his own time and way what a mistake that thing really is.
