The deeds of darkness

I pulled my bike through the back door of the hostel into the garden to park it. There was someone sitting under the overhang in "smoker's corner" but the light wasn't turned on and it was completely dark out. It was Lida. "Hey," I said. "Hey," she said in her mellow African voice. Lida has two voices- mellow or really worked up. As I approached her, all I could think of was "the deeds of darkness" and how they want to stay in the dark. "Do you want me to turn the light on for you?" I asked. "No," she said. I sat down across from her. Lida is an African lady who lives in Germany and is trying to move to Amsterdam. She is very smart- speaks English and German very well. She is probably about 40 and has so much pain. She hates the German people, and if you will listen to her, she will tell you how much she hates them and how badly they have treated her. She has come to Amsterdam for a new start and raves about how wonderful this city is, how different. She has stayed with us for two weeks and all of us have talked with her at different times- shared the gospel in many ways.
She quietly rolls her cigarette up in the dark. "I'm just tired, you know? I'm tired of it." she says. I just nod. This is a familiar conversation. She flicks her lighter and as I see her face in the glow, it just grieves me. When you talk to Lida, she sees so quickly the fault in other people and cannot see her own fault. I talked with her a few nights ago about grace and how, even when Christians, or just people in general fail us, if we realize that we mess up too, we need that grace. She says that she is an open book, honest, trying to live well and surrounded by people who do not live that way. I tell her that everyone has secrets in their hearts that even they don't understand.
She has a new outlook since she came here. You can see that the things that have been told to her have taken some root. She realizes blind spots in her own perspective that she wouldn't have admitted before. There's so much to give up though, if she was to follow Christ. She seems to want to settle for doing well enough on her own.
A thin, sour smell comes from her dark corner. There is pot mixed into her cigarette. With it I feel my nose curl up like it's been stung- my heart also. I think about all the conversations and patient times the staff has spent with Lida and I wonder at this moment, how much she has understood. Has she been stoned for 2 weeks and I didn't even know? Anger bubbles up in me. All of a sudden the sour story wrapped up under this puff of smoke doesn't hold as much weight for me. I feel a boldness, but really it is an anger. I feel like I am talking to an adult who is not an adult.
Pot is not allowed in the garden. I don't know what to do. I decide to ask Lida if she wants to take a walk with me. I can be with her outside. She says no, she is so tired, shopping all day, getting ready to go back to Hanover. I say I'm going to go take a walk anyway. And in my heart I was really running away. It is so hard to have compassion for people who choose their own prison (though I do the same). It is so much easier to walk into the next room and ignore the pain and the medications people choose. Pray for my heart here in this area.
As I worked in the kitchen that evening, smoke drifted through the garden window. It was so hot in the kitchen, but I just wanted to shut the window. I just wanted to pretend it wasn't there. I just wanted to run.
"Anna," I hear the Lord whisper, "Leave the window open."