Recently, I took vacation to Belgium 1.
to enjoy the beauty of cold weather and the Western world and 2. to
spend some time with a teammate and one of my favorite people before
she went back to America. The visit was a much-needed break from the
everyday of life in Sub-Saharan Africa. Especially this time of year
(Harmattan), it was a real treat not to have to swaddle my face so as
to avoid inhaling the Sahara.
Just think of Harmattan as
the wicked step-brother of El Niño.
Anyways, to Brussels and Bruges we
went. My teammate and I enjoyed a few days of walking around in the
cold, seeing beautifully old buildings, perusing antique shops, and
having our fair share of adventures. After we finished our escapades
and parted ways, I still had one 24+hr layover in Istanbul before
returning to my African home. I had always wanted to visit Turkey,
and now, thanks to a lack of flights in/out of West Africa, I could!
It was all planned: I would arrive at
night, benefit from one of Turkish Air's complimentary hotels so I'd
be well-rested, explore as much of the city as possible, and
return the next day. It would be perfect... or so I thought.
When I landed, I quickly proceeded to
the hotel voucher desk, made it through the line, greeted the clerk
with a wide smile, and asked about my hotel arrangements. It's
amazing how quickly smiles can fade. Turkish Air had no place for me
to stay, and due to a technicality, would not find one for me.
Tired, frustrated with the debate, and
extremely disappointed, I squinted across the counter through bleary
eyes. The only compassion I could muster from the clerk was a puzzled
look and a cup of cold water.
That made me even more frustrated.
Surely, I could make them care. I would make them feel sorry for
stranding me in a Turkish airport with nowhere to go. Certainly, they
wouldn't treat someone they actually cared about this way. I just
needed to make them care.
So, I pulled chairs together,
barricaded myself by the office door, and hoped to rally some
support. Here, the workers and all my fellow travelers would have to
face me as they exited. Maybe, the solidarity of our travels together
would inspire someone else to take up my case. Maybe, the workers
would regret having stranded me for the night with so little thought.
Either way, someone would know I was a human being and would care.
No such luck. Most probably didn't know
why I was there, the rest didn't care. After an hour of being
ignored, one clerk asked if I would be joining a group. Thinking this
was my chance to repeal my case, I explained the situation. However,
when I finished my story again with dramatic frustration welling up
in my eyes, the clerk just shrugged and walked away.
I was not his problem today.
In my ten or so hours to kill before
dawn, I got to thinking. I remembered my homeless friends in Athens
and their stories, how they acclimated to being ignored. I remembered Burkinabé friends and families, how they learn to shrug
off crises because they should say "there is peace." I remembered the difference it makes in my own
soul when I really care about the situation of another human being. I
thought of how good it is to be affected by another's story.
In light of this tiny inconvenience, my
pity party was short-lived: How often do I do much worse to fellow
human beings, the bearers of the image of God? Do I ignore their
stories when I know something is wrong? Do I care how they arrived in whatever troubles they face?
Do I care to hear their triumphs and joys? Or do they not concern me
because they don't directly concern me? Lord, forbid that to be my attitude!
No, I can't reasonably hear every person's story, but I can try. I
can ask. Moreover, I can actually listen if I do get the
chance to hear.
In the end, my problem was really no
big deal, and it was good to face that. Sure, I didn't sleep, but it
was well worth it. Remembering to actually look around and see my
fellow man is totally worth a sleepless and introspective night spent
alone in a terminal.
