Bubbles of Sky

My heart hammering to the racing crescendo of jet engines thrusting our little vessel into the yawning blue, our aircraft suddenly shrivels. Once proud and haughty; it pawed at the runway; clamouring for its release. Yet within moments, the gaping sheet of sky strips it of all significance. A meaningless bubble; it weaves meekly through battleship clouds.

The aircraft’s fragile transformation reflects my own mental transition over the passing weeks, and the pervading sense of peace that has started swirling through my mind with increasing intensity. I frequently stop myself; surprised, and ferret around for a spike of anxiety to bring me back to normality. Yet somehow, the gnawing fear feels distant: a shadow of its former self. The acceptance that I have never been less in control of my life; my day-to-day agenda; my food, family, socialising, health; relationships: brings with it a lethargic tranquillity. Any attempt to try to control the next four months of my life in Dakar whilst floating in my airborne bubble seems laughable. I can currently predict what may happen this evening and tomorrow morning. Hopefully tonight a gentleman will pick me up from the airport and take me to the school where I will be living and teaching part time from October. Hopefully tomorrow I will barter a taxi into town where I will meet another gentleman who will give me a whistle-stop tour of West-African city living. After that, I take it from there. One day at a time.

The realisation that I do not have to be in control comes as an aching relief. Even two months ago, the word “Dakar” brought up waves of blind panic; as the enormity of the future felt overwhelming and impossible. Giving up control, step by step; day by day, is only solution that I know of that frees me from a life that is dictated by my current emotions and circumstance. As a Christian, I am becoming increasingly able to take Jesus at his word when he tells me that the comfiest place for my self-worth, identity and future, is in his hands.

My previous attempts of existing solo have been rather life-limiting. My mental health breakdown last Christmas resulted that in a single week I dropped my phone down the library stairs for the second time, I left my laptop in the disabled toilet, I lost my parents’ house keys, my best friend’s house key, and I left my own house key in the lock of my brand-new bike.  I missed out on a New Year’s celebration with friends in London because my anxiety meant that I could not board the train. Amazingly, no one stole my laptop or bike, as I would not have had the money to replace them or ability to recall the lost information.

My capacity for accidents and blistering mistakes only seems to increase whilst abroad, yet God’s ability to mop up my mess always exceeds it.  Whilst living in Togo two years ago,[1] I was in a motorbike accident on the way home from work, wearing only flimsy cotton and a cheap helmet. Incredibly, the bike sliced towards the car at an angle that ensured that I walked away with only scrapes and a swollen wrist. A fellow volunteer was a trained physiotherapist, and happily oversaw my recovery free of charge.

Whilst travelling in Benin, I kept up the terrible habit of leaving my bedroom door key in the lock outside my door overnight. In Togo I was safe with a family; in Ouidah I was on my own in an isolated shack on the beach. During my second night, a man opened my door wondering why there was a light on in an unlocked hut. He found me alone, on my bed, in my underwear. The resulting wave of fear was so intense that I needed to vomit. I am now able to relate emotionally to anyone who has had consent ripped from them. Yet because of this man’s self-control and integrity, he turned away and shut my door behind him. As a result of his choice, I have never had to experience the hideous consequences of stolen consent; an innocence unavailable to obscene numbers of men and women worldwide. I had never felt so petrified, yet so protected, as in that moment.

One week later, after having explored a national park in rural Ghana, I decided on a whim to accept a man’s offer of a dirt-cheap lift back to Accra; a five-hour drive away. With no phone and no-one aware of my whereabouts, it did not take long for me to realise the recklessness of my decision. However, when the car broke down an hour later, the only available garage had the words “Psalm 121” written over the door frame; God’s promise to protect travellers.[2] Six unforgiving hours later, the driver dropped me at my hostel, which had not quite closed for the night. This was another man of integrity; another stranger who kept exactly to his word.

Crossing back from Ghana to Togo; the afternoon before my flight to the UK, I miscalculated the amount of money that I would need to travel back to the border. After bartering my bus fare with a money lender who looked as though he could stab me with his eyeballs, I thought I had found a solution.  However, upon arrival five hours later, in a considerable state of stress due to speed at which the gridlocked traffic had propelled us towards 10pm border closing time, I discovered that I had completely miscalculated. There was still another fee to pay before I could cross. I panicked. Strangers offered to smuggle me through the border under a tarpaulin; others recommended that I sleep next to them out in the open. Considering my ordeal in Ouidah one week previously, nothing could be less desirable. Quietly, the Togolese women sitting next to me on the bus mentioned that her relative worked as a guard at the border and was working that night. Not only that, this gentleman was prepared to risk his reputation as a guard and rush me past his enraged colleagues and across the border.

Facing Dakar, I hope that I am equipped with increased wisdom and maturity. Yet I cannot guarantee that my capability for making enormous mistakes has in any way decreased. Time seems to suggest the opposite. However, when I stop striving to scrape the world onto my shoulders, and instead clasp the patient hand brushing mine, life takes a very different trajectory. Even now; with the cloud-canopy below me unveiling ruddy swatches of Sahara, the peace remains constant. I can lounge in my bubble of sky; completely and utterly secure. Whatever the circumstances that will greet me when the plane finally brushes the earth, my peace will remain, because I am exactly where God wants me to be. There is never an assurance that life will be in any way cosy and comfortable.  However, my experiences affirm that choosing to rest in the safest arms ever to cradle me means that I can live a life that far exceeds my capacity to exist alone.

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[1] I wrote about it in annagintogo.blogspot.com

[2] I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
    where does my help come from?
 My help comes from the Lord,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
    he who watches over you will not slumber;
 indeed, he who watches over Israel
    will neither slumber nor sleep.

 The Lord watches over you—
    the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
    nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—
    he will watch over your life;
 the Lord will watch over your coming and going
    both now and forevermore.