Letters Never Sent: Hurting

Ruth Van Reken on the time before her parents left her in the States as a teenager and they returned to Africa:

As the time for my parents’ return to Africa drew nearer, I began to withdraw from them again. My anger grew and then gave way to the familiar pain, so great there were no other emotions left under which to hide it. But when I tried to express that pain, I always bumped into the reasons for the pending separation, and that locked me up. It was God’s will that my parents return to Africa, and how could I argue with God? I sensed that my parents were hurting, too, more than they dared to show. Our private pains seemed to make it impossible for us to bear each other’s.

To her parents (but never sent):

Everything inside me was screaming, “No, no, no! It isn’t fair, God. Our family has already given you twenty years. You’ve taken and taken from us; can’t you let us quit now? We’ll serve You in the States.” But I couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell you what I was feeling so deeply. I was afraid if I told you, you’d think I was saying you can’t go back. I do understand your call. I even agree with it – that’s what makes me feel that I shouldn’t mind it so much. If I love God, as I think I do, and this is His will, then shouldn’t I be feeling happy?

But I wish someone would acknowledge the pain of what He is asking. Just once, I wish someone would give me a hug and say, “I understand. It’s okay to say that the right thing to do hurts. Go ahead and cry.” (But is it okay? I keep thinking that if I were just a little more spiritual, this wouldn’t be such a big deal.)

*****

My greatest burden was trying to be on the outside what I thought I was supposed to be, even though I didn’t feel that way inside. I didn’t want to let my parents, or Jesus, down. That’s a pretty heavy load for a little kid to carry.

*****

I keep driving myself to accomplish more. What am I trying to prove? Is it for me? For you? No matter what I achieve, it doesn’t make me feel more secure. I spend a lot of effort trying to shape what others think of me. My teeth are straight, I have contact lenses, my clothes are in style – but if someone says I’m pretty, I think they’re just being nice. Inside I’m still the M kid with the saddle shoes and the pink underwear. 

Things still crop up that make me feel stupid and naive, like conversations about china and silver. I can’t imagine paying fifty dollars for one place setting of dishes or ten dollars for a fork! But the others are so excited, and they want my approval. I paste on a smile and nod enthusiastically, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I blurt out something like, “How could you want to buy something so expensive? Think how you’d feel if you broke a plate or lost a teaspoon!” 
Everyone turns and stares at me in shock, as though I just dropped in from outer space. It’s eighth grade all over again, when I admitted that I watched cartoons. No one else here grew up with cement floors, non-flush toilet receptacles that were emptied every day by a trap door to the outside, or lizards running through their homes. Will the feeling that I come from a different world ever completely die?