Random.
*They cut the grass here by hand. That would be awful.
*I had a dream last night about going out to dinner with friends back home. Something about it woke me and I was terrified. And nauseated. All the noise, all the smells, all the choices, all the laughter. The wealth of seen life was too much to bear. Culture shock coming here seems minimal compared to that which awaits. I’ve been abroad on numerous occasions and for numerous lengths of time, but this trip is different. Something more lasting is being shocked inside of me.
*Average age of death here ranges from forty to fifty.
*Guys hold hands with each other here. And girls don’t. They pee wherever the want to, as well. Girls don’t do that either.
*I caught a girl picking food out of our trash compost today. Not sure how long she’d been there, but when I found her, she was licking the rim of an ant-infested tuna can. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. She was probably nine and had a torn-lace dress and blistered feet. When I opened the back-door and said, “Hi sweetheart, are you okay?” she smiled widely back and said. “Hi, Auntie. Fine.” No outward guilt. No reticent hiding. Just a natural need being met and an innocent girl summoned to meet it.

Lonely.

It’s been a long few days. The power has been out and it’s been unseasonably rainy and cold. Uganda doesn’t get cold, so the concept of blankets, or more bedding than a sheet, is unheard of. Laundry can’t be dried, so liners and thus clean diapers are at a minimum. The babies are sicker than normal and everyone at the house is, too. I’ve never wanted the gift of sun like I do today.

We had a time of worship together tonight at the volunteer house. Amani is a Christian run organization and small things and actions around the house make you realize most volunteers are Christ-followers. Random Christian books are found lying around and you’ll often see people journaling or reading a Bible. Our house ranges in age from 18-30 (I think I’m the oldest right now, at 26), with homelands from Alabama to Canada, Germany to Denmark and even a girl from Kenya right now.

It’s an interesting vibe though—there’s not a push, or intentionality, for building community or friendships within the house. It’s a group of exceptionally independent and selfless people, I would say, so the agenda in coming was clearly not each other, but serving. Relationships happen naturally, given experiences at the orphanage, or meals and spontaneous time at the house in evenings, or days off. But in a refreshing way, nobody’s dependent on another. Nobody tends toward neediness, which again, is very refreshing. Tonight I’m needy though. I want my friends back home.

There is always something incomparable about worship songs in a group setting, but this night I felt quite emotionless. Again, refreshed and safe under a canopy of sacredness, but exceptionally lonely, too. Words and truths were being sung from my mouth, but my heart wasn’t believing them. God wasn’t enough for me tonight. I wanted my friends, too.

The past nine months have dealt me some of the richest and most real relationships that I’ve ever known. We’ve walked through filth and bliss, and stood through growth and falling. These friends—this Church—led me to start living in a lot of ways. And I miss them tonight and wish I was with them, or that they were here with me.

***
Need.

Loving people in America can be next to impossible. Most are relatively polished on the outside and wear the script pardoning them from any hint of need. If you can break past the flimsy wall, or break through to more than a ten-minute conversation (which probably errs on the long-side of the average), you’ll find a need, a plea, or a desirous heart. But due to fear, business, wealth, or the likes, it’s a rare person who’s willing to expose this side. “It feels weak…It’s not worth it (essentially translating to “I’m not worth it)…But how can I complain; what about the starving kids in Africa?…But what would people think if they knew what I was thinking? What would people say?…”

So we hide. We hide our thirsts, inabilities and insecurities. We mask the truth so that people ‘think’ we’re fine, or think we’re functioning fine. We ride days slow enough to be credited as “present,” but quick enough to avoid being seen. We’re scared to admit we’re not happy, as if something is wrong with it—or with us.

But I realized, or remembered, today that it’s far more meaningful, and actual, to serve people who know their need. Who aren’t afraid to say they’re not perfect, let alone good. Who aren’t afraid to humble themselves to a state of being wrong, or not always having an answer. And to admit that maybe there’s not one.

Africa has great need. And they know it.

Bono’s foreword in “The End of Poverty,” by Jeffery Sachs, said: “Deep down, if we really accept that their lives—African lives—are equal to ours, we would all be doing more to put the fire out… We ‘can’ be the generation that no longer accepts that an accident of latitude determines whether a child lives or dies—but ‘will’ we be that generation? Will we in the West realize our potential or will we sleep in the comfort of our affluence with apathy and indifference murmuring softly in our ears? Fifteen thousand Africans die each day of preventable, treatable diseases—AIDS, malaria, TB—for lack of drugs we take for granted. Mothers, fathers, teachers, farmers, nurses, mechanics, children. This is Africa’s crisis. That it’s not on the nightly news, that we do not treat this as an emergency—that’s ‘our’ crisis.”

(P.S. This book is a phenomenal read and if you just want a taster, see July’s Vanity Fair).