As our time together comes to a close, my memory skims the wavering dark surface of the things that you have taught me. I came to you shivering from the cold, dirty air of Romania, and as my eyes adjusted to your effervescent colors, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for your beauty. You injected joy into my weary body, and I thought that was a promise of an easy country. How wrong I was. You contained the hardest 3 months of my life. You were the place of goodbyes, the place of abandonment, the place of unfulfilled expectations and tarnished hopes. You were the place where I discovered the depth of heartbreak, how loving people can end with them leaving, and how helping people can actually hurt them. It’s not your fault, Dominican Republic, you were commissioned by my Father to challenge me. I remember the first few days, when I asked Him to humble me, to conform me into His image. That prayer was my fault, I didn’t understand that to ask for humility is to be humbled beyond recognition and to lose things you didn’t realize were more important to you than God.
Today I said goodbye to children at the Haitian school that I taught at for 2 1/2 months. I held their tiny sticky fingers and kissed their chocolate brown foreheads. You have not welcomed these children or their parents who have come to you from your neighboring country. They came asking for acceptance and freedom and were met with discrimination and poverty. It is demonic, that people are reduced to hunger and prejudice. I am begging you, Dominican Republic, that you would change for their sake, because they are loved beyond what you can imagine. I will leave and they will probably forget me, the white girl who was a blip in their education, who gave them play-doh and told them that Jesus loved them. I hope that even though they will grow up in a world that does not favor them, they will never know a day where they are not aware of the ardency of God’s love for them, that they will remember nothing about me but 3 words I once said, “Jesus loves you.”
Yesterday I said goodbye to a family that I had been visiting since the first week. Throughout the visits, I remembered to ask where they came from and what their lives were like, I remembered to play with their children and allow them to dig their hands into my hair. One time they fed me, chopped vegetables and cooked beans, iron over coals, steam rising from a mountain of food piled onto a on a styrofoam plate. But only yesterday did I remember to share with them myself, why I was here and Who I was here for. Only yesterday did I pull out my Bible and beg for them to know the Lord, only yesterday did I share the deepest parts of my story, hoping that somehow they would see my Father through it. Never again will I enter that gate, embrace their babies, or laugh at the choiceness of a joke. One day perhaps I will see them again, in a world that isn’t marred by the bitter goodbyes that that our mouths are forced to utter. “Will you come again?” They ask, “No, probably not,” I say sadly as I watch their faces fall, because lying to them would be worse than the harshest truth. No, Dominican Republic, I will probably not come to you again, but I pray that I will meet your people again, in heaven. We will meet again under the light of our Creator.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to the church. The church that doesn’t look like a church, that lives above a motorcycle garage, that can be heard all the way down the street since the sound of its worshippers is deafening. Weekly we would hike up those uneven steps, ducking our heads so that we don’t hit them on metal grates, and emerge confronted by thunderous praise. We could not understand a word, but smiles always surrounded us, the 19 white Americans who dared to attend a Haitian service. Thank you Dominican Republic for this church, for while you persecute these Haitians because of their skin color and the language that they speak, your mistreatment has made them resilient. What you meant for destruction only added to the richness of their worship. They are strong because of you. They are strong because you forced them to rely on God.
Dear Dominican Republic, I say goodbye to you very soon. I can’t pretend I am not not ready to leave you, I can’t pretend I am not not relieved that you are my last goodbye for a while. Your earth has been watered by my tears, your streets have been tread by my weary feet. The people you have rejected, I have been honored to love, and and the darkness you meant for us has been turned into light. I leave nothing behind for you, since I will be taking with me the lessons I have learned and the memories of the people I have loved. Maybe one day I will return, watch your sunsets, sip your coffee, or speak with your people, but most likely, we will never cross paths again. So adios, Dominican Republic, you were not good to me, but you were used for the purpose of goodness, and that is sufficient for me to leave without a stain of bitterness on my memory of you.
Sincerely,
Ruthie
