My deepest core conviction is that there is and will always
continue to be beauty in darkness and brokenness. I think the thing that has
influenced this the most was my upbringing in West Africa.
I
remember at the age of thirteen stepping off of that plane and feeling a deep
heaviness from the thick, humid air of Lomé, Togo. We hopped in a
dirt-covered land rover and headed off towards our new home—the M/V Africa
Mercy. Culture shock was an understatement.
I looked out the window and one of the first memories I have was looking at the
drainage system that ran down the sidewalks on both sides of the street. The
trash piled high and the water flowed thin. The next view that has engraved itself in my memory was the glass windows of a towering hotel. I looked out and all I could see was my own reflection. Sweaty and tired, I glanced back at myself, protected by the shell of the landrover. That seemingly insignificant moment was the beginning of a deeper awareness of the sheltered life that I had lived up until that point.
Within the first ten minutes of our
drive I was confronted with the extreme poverty that plagues West Africa. We
stopped in traffic, and without missing a beat, a child of about seven,
half-covered with scraps of torn clothing, ran towards us. He put his fingers
together and tapped his lips with the tips of his fingers. Though there was a barrier of
language between us, it was no secret what he was looking for. Food and
water. The most basic human needs that, up until that point, I had unlimited
access to.
At
thirteen I had to face the reality that my world was no longer contained to
our small countryside home in England. After two years had passed, I worked
in the hospital for a week for work experience. I met a thirty-year old lady named Chantelle who was on our hospital ship to have plastic surgery in order to replace the burned skin that covered her neck, torso and arms. She had to have skin
grafts taken from her legs to replace the scarred skin. Unfortunately, her
legs weren’t healing and the rest of her body was rejecting the skin graft because of the destruction of AIDS that inhibited skin
growth. I remember when her bandages were being changed, her teeth
clenched and subtle cries ached for healing; but still, she braved the pain, knowing that the pain was only necessary for healing to come. I found my journal entry at the
time, which read: “Her clearly troubled face seemed to emit a joy that seemed
to make the worries of the world dissipate. When she laughed, the brokenness of
a lifetime of pain was forgotten. In those eyes I learned the true meaning of
being joyful always. Lying in that hospital bed, I have never seen anything more
radiant."
I went on my school retreat and returned to my mother’s
solemn words that Chantelle had passed away during the week. She asked to feel the
breeze of West Africa once more, and it was in her bed in that moment that she
breathed her last. My mother relayed the words of the nurses--that she passed
away with a spirit of peace. But in my downcast spirit, I still had to ask the
question: if the Lord loved her, how could this happen?
These are just two of my experiences
in West Africa that radically changed my entire world. I arrived in West Africa
believing in a God who provides for and heals those who do “right”. Now, I refuse to
believe in a God who strictly rewards those who do the “right” thing, and
curses those who don’t.
I
think my love of photography and art developed during my time in West Africa.
The desire to call out the beauty in the broken almost felt like a challenge
that I was charged to face, and photography felt like the easiest way for me to
begin doing this. As I started to take photos, I began to genuinely fall in
love with West Africa, the culture, the landscape, the people.
I’m
still not sure I am able to comprehend the brokenness that I have seen in line
with the belief that the Lord is all-good, all-powerful and all-loving—but I
know that it is a challenge worthy of my intelligence, as Leonard Oakland would
say. Though the world is wrought with darkness and brokenness, there is a light
that has the power to break through. I'm by no means saying there is beauty in starvation or dehydration, but there is beauty in
the life of every human and every human story. Maybe the beauty is not in the
brokenness, per se, but the hope that remains even in the darkest of moments.
There is hope in the eyes of the child who sees the wealthy and
sees a way out of their prison of hunger and dehydration. There is hope in the
eyes of one who has found peace with their earthly suffering, knowing that
there is a life beyond, held in the hands of a Father who promises no more tears or suffering. There will always be beauty in the brokenness and darkness of the world, for hope is stronger than the greatest sufferings that we as humans have to face.
