That was the last thing I wanted.
To have tied up my deployment beautifully work-wise, and then have the pre-departure procedures explode in my face.
I’d clarified what was needed with the HR personnel, an older matron, only to be waved off. Finally, with my tests due the next day, I called to clarify, only to learn that the very thing I’d highlighted was dreadfully ignored.
“This is quite unprofessional,” I said.
“Are you calling me unprofessional?”
“I’m not, I’m saying the processes have let us down. Resulting in an unprofessional outcome.”
“You’re calling me unprofessional.”
Suffice to say, the conversation turned sour.
My heart sank. After a glorious wrap-up, would a pre-flight PCR screwup tar the entire trip? Heart heavy, I slept poorly that night.
The next day, I learnt from my team lead that she was not surprised at our exchange.
“I’d have use the same word- unprofessional.”
She added, “Not making excuses for her. But she’s an older widow- that’s her story.”
At that moment, I knew who my last silk shawl belonged to. Before I left Singapore, I’d packed two dozen gifts to share with new friends. I was down to my last gift.
There at the corridor, the matron stood. I resisted, but the Holy Spirit said, “Yield.”
What did it mean to me to lose my pride? What would it mean for her, however, to feel loved?
I thought of my other colleague, a beautiful woman with a gap-toothed smile who had gone out of her way to induct me into Eswatini. She had gone on leave and things were now different. I remember her warmth, the photo we took together when she traipsed all the way back to office from her leave just to see me, and gave thanks for her.
As the matron walked by me, I gave her my last silk shawl.
She looked up, taken aback, at once overwhelmed, speechless.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to, I want to,” I smiled.
I learnt that in life, what matters often is not whether we’re right or wrong, but the stories we carry, and how we help others carry theirs.
And that, my Lord whispered, was the right thing to do.
