Burgled at MidDay

by Doug Roland

I've been the victim of a break-in twice, the last time was in 1969. So every 43 years +/- isn't bad. Still, Just as in 1969, you feel violated.

Monday was the first day back in class. Our first group went off to Field Education. Only a few minutes later we went home to change clothes and found that several things we used, enjoyed and cared for were missing.

Cheri noticed a broken security bar. As we looked around, we could tell that something we all fear had happened. A sickening feeling surrounded us.

The thefts were similar in some ways - an emphasis on technology and jewelry. In 1969, it was my first TV, a Zenith table model, black and white, and my college fraternity pin. Monday, it was a hand held Garmin, a camera, two new Kindle Touch readers, a boom box, Flip video camera, new Nikon binoculars, and two very good backpacks. Finally, he (we think he was alone) swiped both of our tennis shoes, each about ready to fall apart. The drawers had been searched for jewelry but Cheri brought very little to begin with. One thing he missed was a very fine cross an necklace I bought for her on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. We can be thankful for that. They also didn't seem to bother with the kitchen and a very nice and expensive set of knives was overlooked.

The cops came quickly, two were rapid response officers, two more were investigators. We had a case number within an hour. Two more came today. We are told that the fingerprint guys would come soon. They were very professional.

It's just stuff, you tell yourself, but you don't really believe it. You say you can forgive the robber, but would you? It's difficult not just because he messed with our stuff but also because it is an affront to us as social beings, a tiny slit in the fabric that holds us together. It's one of the original ten sins. That doesn't mean we should not forgive him. So, let's say we do forgive him wherever he is, that doesn't prevent us from grieving for a loss. In fact the two are often connected - forgiveness and grief.

I can live without worn out tennis shoes. But the other things are important. That TV was my first purchase with my first paycheck as a teacher. The pin was a reminder that I served as president of a large fraternity at Indiana. As to the recent theft, our son, Nat, expressed it well.

"The burglars got just about all of your "tools" for enjoyment of life outside of work."

He and our daughter-in-law had just given us the Kindles for Christmas. We've been reading a lot, and I can see so much better. I just spotted a species of eagle we had not seen before, using the binoculars. The Garmin was a gift from them in 2010 to help us get around in a strange land. It saved us many times. We had just used our backpacks the day before for a wonderful hike to see cave drawings from the ancient San people. Fortunately, I had loaded all the photographs on to the computer. We can be thankful for that.

We had just moved in before going home for Christmas. We knew there was no alarm system and was riskier than the first house. As well, our insurance was based, in part, on the security of the first house and not the second. I had forgotten to advise them of the address change, so I do not expect to get much from the insurance company.

I can of course happen anywhere, any time, but it's never easy. It leaves us a little empty.

ACT TWO

by Doug Roland

As we prepared for our return to South Africa after the long holiday, I felt a sense of unease. It was different than, but probably influenced by, a very nasty cold. During the 25 hours sitting in cars and airplanes, I couldn't figure out whether I was saddened by leaving home, indifferent to returning or just plain sick. Clarity was waiting in the inbox, waiting for us to get to accessible wi-fi.

Cheri's college roommate, Carolyn, moved to Australia in the early 70's and made her life there. She knows us well and has shared with us her experiences in returning "home" to Ohio from time to time. She too had felt a certain discomfort. Her e-mail summarized it well:

"Being an ‘expat’ you end up not really belonging anywhere. Everyone in Tampa would be doing much the same things they were doing when you left 18 months ago, talking about things that happened as if you had been there and you were – in spirit- but your reality was 100+ seminarians and colleagues on the other side of the world."

We had been detached from our homeland for a year and a half. Lives carry on without us. While we were showered with greetings, hugs, questions, and generous help during our stay, the stubborn fact is that "home" was actually back in South Africa. It is the place where we now live, where we labor in the fields, play, laugh and sleep. You simply cannot live in two places at once.

Before we left home in 2010, people told us and we told ourselves that with modern technology, e-mail, Facebook, Skype and other marvels, could keep us up to date. They do, but that doesn't change the reality. It's not the same as being in the room together. It's a "virtual home" but it's not where you live.

In the prior post, the temptation to "slip back into the culture" was something I recognized, but failed to see that the recognition confirmed that we live in South Africa and not in our homeland.

There is a real and compelling difference between home and living. The theme of getting back home is found everywhere, from E.T. to Thomas Wolfe ("You Can't Go Home Again") to the old spiritual, "Goin' Home." We yearn for "home" but not necessarily where we live.

Doing what we do (leaving home to live and serve elsewhere) shakes off dust gathered for decades and exposes us to a possible life-change. Now we don't get to have a "do-over" in life, but we have accumulated a body of knowledge and skills over the years. These are our kit-bags. We all have them. Our testimony is that these little bags can be used both to help others and to reshape and/or renew our own lives. It's the not-so-simple decision to "bite the bullet", or, in a spiritual context, say, "Here I am Lord. Use me." The rest will take care of itself.

This is where we are as we enter the second half of our journey. If I peek at the future to the day we return and re-establish our home, I wonder what it will be like to live again with the intensity of the fast-paced life of our homeland. I'll speculate and say that we'll be fine. We will be "home" again, but we will be changed. Our kit-bags will be spilling over. There may be something new for us then.

In the meantime, it's on to Act Two.