God is amazing to me in His “big” ways. But He’s more amazing to me right now in His small ones. I could tell you ten things off-hand that He’s done in very specific ways this morning. I woke feeling weak and fatigued. It’s not normal to feel “well” here, given that we’re around sickness all the time, but this was more unwell than normal. I told Him how tired I was and that I didn’t want to go to the Cottage. We talked about the bigger picture here and what He might be doing to help me recognize my comformalities and habits. Revealing and breaking places in me that have started to become/feel “controllable” and confining to my terms. What’s been incredible though, is to see how tenderly He’s walked me through this morning of tough conversations (and confrontations J).

It took me about twice as long to make the normally five-minute walk to Cottage. I heard singing from street, but didn’t realize till arriving at the house that it was the Mama’s, waking-up the 1’s. They do this every morning at 7:45am. Standing around the room—about ten of them—some with hands held high, some rocking a child, some on their knees and some just standing in awe. As I stood there with them, humming Luugandan worship with little Brian crawling up my feet and eventually arms, tears streamed down my face. What an unbelievable picture, I thought, of God waking His children. Never before have I been so appreciative of a first morning breath, or an initial connection of eyes. Every one of these children has massive physical and psychological (abandonment, abuse, poverty, malnourishment…) hurdles to come, but I can’t imagine a more fitted way to “wake their grounding” in ‘a hope that’s built on nothing less, than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.’ Brian mimicked the raised hands. One day soon, I pray he’ll know intimately what this mimicking is really all about.

I realized in these songs what a soothing response God was giving to my cries of fatigue. The women were singing just as much to me, as they were to the children. Odd as it sounds, most of the time here, I find that I relate more to the babies than anyone. I’ve spent most of my life making sure I fit-in, say the right thing, and perform to some aim of perfection. And I’d gotten really good at it, so much so that it was my “natural act” and I didn’t know anything else. I wouldn’t have known how ‘not’ to fit in, or ‘not’ to be to people what I knew they wanted me to. But through a long process, the Lord is pulling those energies from me. What’s been interesting hasn’t been a fight, per se, as much as the fact that once I finally found myself too tired to run anymore, I realized how tired I really was—and how much I was running…and hiding. Once I “stopped” and recognized it, the tiredness of 25-years becomes increasingly evident, but the truth is slowly uncovering me to a “me at rest.”

I’m not sure I could’ve entered Amani today—at least heart-wise—without this invitation from God. After waking and massaging my little preemies, I went outside to my Tuesday assignment of “laundry.” You wouldn’t believe the amount of laundry sixty babies can accomplish. Between day clothes and PJ’s, diapers, towels, liners and undies, the row of drying lines is quite a site. And that’s not even mentioning washing and folding, plus the four-a-day repeat.

There’s not much talking during laundry—mostly just monotonous movements, which on this day at least, was just what I needed. There was one point when the rain clouds were entering and we were waiting for a load to finish drying. As a handful of women stood there and bantered back and forth, I sat solemnly and sadly staring out at the distant waters. It was a good ten minutes before I realized my disconnection, and in that moment I was so grateful to have had it. To have been “let” to have it. In the West, especially, it seems, it’s hard for us to consider sadness on a similar scale emotionally with happiness. We’re quick to say, “Aw, honey, what is wrong?” but for whatever reasons, never say, “Aw, honey, what is right?” We’re quick to correlate sadness with something bad, and happiness as the norm.

What struck me, though, in this situation, was that the Ugandan women didn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary in my distance. I think my ten minutes could’ve gone two hours and they wouldn’t have interrupted, let alone assumed anything as out of the ordinary. I’m realizing that these believing African women consider sadness a part of the day, just as much and maybe more expectedly, even, than happiness. Don’t get me wrong, a joy sustains them like none I’ve ever seen, but sadness prevails, even in their joy. They see nothing wrong with it. They don’t fear, mask, or run from it. They know it as the reality of a world gone astray. And they also know it as a gift under God’s spectrum of design. I bet if I were to ask them, which I have in a more generalized sense, they’d avoid disturbing sadness just as quickly as they’d avoid disturbing happiness. Why? For both, they’ve seen, are bridges God will use to get our attention. Neither emotion (and none to that matter) is the end. Rather, each is a beginning to recognizing our need, desire and intended dependence on God.

I realized a roadblock here, in that without a perspective considering life after this one, sadness doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit in a world that ‘should be good.’ And it must be avoided, or changed, or challenged at all costs. Father, I long for a bigger perspective today and one that lives by faith in the reality of Eternity, more so than that which emotes and fluctuates momentarily. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, because the kingdom of heaven is theirs. Blessed are those who mourn, because they will be comforted. Blessed are the gentle, because they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousnes