Thabang. This is the name that I was “given” at the Botswana border. The woman that stamped my passport wrote it down on a paper and handed it to me saying that it was my name in Setswana, the local language. Yesterday I asked a man that I met on the bus what it meant and he said, “It means happiness. Being happy. This is what Thabang means.” The children here all call me Thabang, because I shared the story of the border crossing with them hoping to find out from them what it meant. When people here call my name they are liteally calling happiness to them. How interesting is that?
One thing I came to realize from the responses to my last blog is this: most people that are going to read this are people that I do not know, or at least have very minimal interaction with. I like that. As I write this I find that fact to be empowering, because in a way it gives me an unprecidented freedom to be candid and brutally honest. So, lets exercise that freedom a bit, shall we?
When I applied for this trip they asked on the application what I could foresee being my biggest obstacle on the field. I wrote honestly that my biggest obstacle would be my depression. That sneaking beast that so many people know intimately and, for most of us, very privately. It is a monster that I have had to face since I was twelve years old. For nearly a decade now, I have become all too familiar with the way it feels, the way it sounds, the opressive presence that it is in every breath. It is nothing more than evil that creeps it’s way into my bones and has made a home there despite my best efforts and most exhaustive prayers. It is the darkness that hides among the rafters of this temple of God I know myself to be and allows all my demons and insecurities a place to hide and to whisper from. It is an affliction that God has not seen fit to rescue me from, and oh, do I need rescuing. Too dramatic? Too theatrical? I don’t think so.
I started reading through Psalms at the beginning of this Race. There is a theme that I have noticed. The first two thirds of a psalm, specifically those written by David, are fairly similar to the paragraph above. Dark and dramatic. David is not shy about telling God all of his enemies are conspiring to kill him. They are rising against him and baring down on him. He shouts pleas to God, entreating Him to intervene! David is honest about his pain. David is honest about his fears. The first two thirds of some of his psalms are usually dark, empty of hope, often even wondering where God could posibly be in the midst of his very present and palpible darkness. The first two thirds of those psalms often sound like… depression. These are the verses to which I relate all too well some days, and while I always finish the psalms reading how David praises God in the end and trusts the Lord to deliver him, I am not there yet myself.
I have had the pleasure to listen to a few people give testimonies while I have been on my trip. Something that I knew to be the case back home but did not expect to follow into this “Race Culture” is the way most people will pause for a fraction of a second and drop their voices slightly when they say the word “depression” for the first time in their testimony. It is a dirty word. A foul thing, right? Well, yeah it is. That has given the majority of the population, believers and unbelievers alike, the feeling that it is not something to be discussed openly or talked about. Leave that for the therapy sessions and close friends. A stigma. However, as I said earlier, most of you reading this propably don’t interact with me much, if at all, so with that in mind I’m talking to you about the things best left for therapists and best friends because I’m quite bored of the stigma.
Last night my teammate Josie asked if I was doing ok. “I don’t know” was my honest reply. We stepped outside and talked about how I felt and I told her about this depression that I am living in. I didn’t leave it behind when I flew the coop. It is not neatly packed in the bottom of my closet back home. It is here with me now, as I type even. Lingering in my ear, whispering. Turning my bones to lead every morning and at the same time daring me to try to lift myself up with a cruel smile. After our talk she prayed over me and when she finished I looked at her with tears streaming down my face. Now that I think about it, I wish the children here in the village had seen Thabang in that moment. “Happiness” did not look so happy. I don’t say this to be cynical, but only because, as I said before, I am so bored with the stigma. I’m so exhausted with simply surviving.
The fact of the matter is, I am living my life right now in the first two thirds of a psalm. It is dark and painful. I also know that I am not the only one. I know that there are some reading this, maybe some that are on the Race themselves, that know exactly what I am writing about and can almost feel their own fingers typing these words. I see you. I feel for you. I am still waiting on the last few verses of this psalm. The rescue part, where God comes and silences these voices and revives this death within my spirit. It is coming. For now, though, I continue to wake up, go to ministry, lean into my team (they are such a blessing and I count on them to help me through this which they do without fail) and I wait on the Lord. And THAT IS OK. It is ok to not be ok.
