I wonder if you remember the scene in ‘The Notebook,’ where Noah’s alzheimer’ed wife “wakes-up” for just a few short minutes? I had a professor last semester who compared this awakening to God’s pursuit of us. He explained how we’re dementia-laden most hours of our life, but it’s these short moments of awakening that make everything else worth it. I had one of those moments today, and wanted to stay in it forever.

I was cuddling with Adam all morning and he was beyond adorable. I took him swinging, and then we played in the grass and laughed at each other puffing-out our cheeks (oh…and alongside his big brown-eyes…). We played “Airplane” with his banana and avocado lunch, goofed-off a little more, and then both crashed—me on my back and him facedown on my stomach. It was at this point my dementia returned. Mama Lois walked in with his morning blood results.

Adam has Tuberculosis.

At that point I was just sad, but as the day has progressed and the news internalized, I’ve gotten angry. “God, could you please give this kid a break? Worms, Pneumonia, Flu Pneumonia again and now TB, on top of HIV!? He’s six months old. What are you doing? Is this some kind of sick joke? You knew this was going to be his prognosis all along, so why did you even make him? Why did you let him be born? What is the point of his life? Adam was born with a death sentence. Well I guess we all were, but he was born with an earlier one. What joy is in that? What life? Was he born for me—so that I could experience a morning of aliveness on his behalf? If so, that’s ludicrous. Or maybe it was him that was alive this morning? But what about babies who don’t even get that? Uhh, I’d rather work through this before bed, Lord, but You’ve set me off too much this time. Not like You don’t already know my thoughts here, but just so You hear them loud and clear, I’m mad at You right now. Really confused and really mad.”

***
Losing to Gain.

Control always strikes me as one of the most bizarre and paradoxical notions of our make-up. If we believe in a God, let alone a God who would create us, what makes us get-off thinking ‘we’ are in control of anything, be it our success, failure, future, facial features, prognosis, or last breath? At most points in my life I would’ve been way too addicted to any number of things to attempt a summer like this. Whether it was my body (wouldn’t have allowed this duration without “working-out”…or what if I gain weight? African women notoriously carry more weight…in fact, it’s rare to see a “thin” woman by American standards), food-choices (what if they make me eat stuff I’m not used to, or don’t like, or isn’t good for me??…), beliefs, progress, health, soy-lattes, schedule…I was way too addicted to my self to pull away from ‘my’ terms and conditions for living. Anyway, not many more thoughts here—just encouraged that God is slowly loosening some of my control issues. He’s slowly teaching me to lose control, in order to actually gain it, I think.

***
Random.

*Props to Celene Dion. She gets played at every function, from funerals and weddings, to every day festivities. President Museveni was in Jinja today to kick-off an environmental campaign and low and behold, she opened and closed the event.

*Mama Lucy and I were changing Isaiah today (the 4lb’er) and making fun of his small/absent “cobena.” He’s the smallest, cutest, most butt-less boy I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I think he heard us. As we were laughing at him, lifting his bony legs in the air, he pooped. And then peed. We cracked-up.

*The bank teller asked me what disease I had. I wasn’t clear on his question, so asked him to clarify. He started pointing to my arms, and then face…“All the spots on you, what is that?” “Oh, I laughed. Freckles. It’s okay, they just come from the sun.” “Terrible,” he said, with a distraught look on his face, “how long will the disease last?” “It’s not a disease,” I said, “I’ve had them since I was young and they’ll be with me forever. “Oh my,” he said, “such tragedy. I hope you will be okay.” I realized at this point my explanations were irrelevant, so thanked him for my cash and headed outside with my disease.

*I received a telegram at the Baby Home today essentially requesting my hand in marriage. It was from a guy I apparently “met on the street last Sunday.” I have no recollection of this meeting, but it’s given us all a good laugh. I’m telling you, the guys here are nuts and so determined to get to America.

It’s very difficult to get space here. Wherever I am, there are always people around—at the house, at the Baby Cottage, in the shower, or on the streets. I honestly thought this would be more of a challenge than it has been, but nevertheless, it still just “hits” at times and I wish I could get out. A hit happened earlier this week and I decided to head down to Kampala to visit some friends (apparently I didn’t hear myself when I said, “There will be no more vehicular travel while in Uganda”).

My head and body were feeling a bit off on Tuesday, and I mentioned being more fatigued lately, but there’s no telling what such symptoms mean here, so I decided to go anyway. Walking to the taxi-park found me really tired and sweaty, but again, it was an exceptionally hot day and at this point I was just ready to get away. The three-hour bus ride swiftly moved me downhill. The sweating increased dramatically and my body started growing achy and feverish. Nearing Kampala, I realized there was no way I was suitable to connect with friends and decided to get a hotel for the night and head back to Jinja in the morning. My symptoms were worsening fast though and “getting a hotel” isn’t exactly a simple, or always safe, option here. So as awful and impossible as it seemed, I realized my only option was turning back around. The driver thought I was crazy, but as the passing hours moved me from sweating, to shivering and groaning, he realized what was going on. My body was abnormally sensitive to touch and I had a headache as big as Colorado. There were a few minutes when my neck got stiff, which frightened me of Meningitis, but thankfully the aches quickly spread, making it quite obvious I had Malaria.

Those hours seemed so long. As I pictured myself in his arms, I remember begging Jesus to make them shorter. Every so often I would sense his gentle whisper saying, “You’re close, hold on.” It’s a miracle I listened to this voice, as I thought the Africans had desensitized me to any belief regarding proximity or time duration. “Close” to them could mean we still have five hours. Anyway, this all seems blurry now, but somehow I made it back to Jinja and went immediately to the Clinic. I had absolutely no balance and very little coherence at this point, so told the boda-boda driver to go as slow as possible. I used to think this mode was romantic, and wondered if I convinced any onlookers during this trip—my arms clinched what they could of his shirt and my head fell limp on his back. It was no surprise that the Malaria results were positive and to be honest, I wasn’t as much scared, as I was thankful to be home and with treatment. If not treated quickly, this disease will kill you within days. Thankfully though, my symptoms had been obvious enough that nothing could’ve stopped me from going straight to blood tests. The medication gets you out of the red zone pretty rapidly, but the unfortunate part is that the parasites still have to run their course, which maps out a somewhat predictable five-day process.

Malaria feels like having the Flu and being asked to run the last .2 miles of a 26.2-mile marathon. Your body aches in erratic locations and durations and things like putting on a shirt can take five minutes due to weakness and skin sensitivity. Its process is quite interesting (I wouldn’t have used that word a couple days ago). Precautions like anti-malarial pills, or mosquito nets are taken, but you can never be fully immune. The mosquito bites and leaves parasites that lie dormant in your blood for eight to twenty days, and once infected, the disease never departs. That said, I’ll no longer be able to give blood and will require of some follow-up testing once I get back to the States.
Oddly enough though, if you’re gonna get Malaria, Africa is the place to do it. It’s so common here, especially in areas near a waterfront, that treatment is on hand at every hospital and clinic, which would be a different story in America. Nonetheless, it’s been serious enough to keep me bed-ridden for a few days, with nights mixing fevers and headaches with pretty gnarly bouts of soreness and shivering. I’ve kept an appetite (one of the meds actually gives you the munchies…too bad it doesn’t kick-in the other effects, as well) and only been nauseous due to levels of pain.

Crazy as it sounds, if I had to pick a context to get Malaria, this would’ve been it. Well, okay, my first option would be in the Pocono Mountains with Dad, Mom, Courtney and Ian by my side, but a close second would be a house of twenty people, many of whom are pre-med and nursing students. I’ve not been able to get through a night, let alone hour, without someone checking on me. My roommates have held, hand fed and prayed over me in hours of weakness. Not surprisingly, this falls right on schedule with God’s attempts to teach me about ‘being served’ lately. He knows that if it’s up to me, my pride, stubbornness and fear, I guess, won’t let it happen, so continues to take me to extremes where ‘letting’ it happen isn’t an option; it’s a necessity. Beth Moore says when we ask God for humility, He’s more than happy to bring it. The problem is, there’s always “stuff” to be knocked out in order for this it to arrive. And we can either keep standing and force that He swings and hits us, before hitting the stuff, or we can choose to kneel down in surrender, allowing Him to just knock out the stuff. Apparently I like to insist on standing. Whatever the case, it’s been a gift to be served this week and a gift to have no space.

You might think serving orphaned babies in Africa would make you feel better about yourself. Maybe even give you a “free pass” for the next year’s worth of “service.” I’ve not found that the case. Rather, I’ve found that as the silt settles in my ever going stream of life, and the noises quiet in my every going stream of living, I’m seeing more clearly the realities of my life, my living. I’m seeing more clearly the realities of me. And in case you’re curious, it’s not usually something to write home about.

*I’ve seen my motivations more readily. When you wake in the morning and the ‘only’ thing you ‘have’ to do is spend time with pint-sized angels, and you don’t want to, you start dialing Houston.
*I’ve seen how caring for ‘me’ wins-out when up against danger, fatigue, greed, or desire, in terms of caring for ‘you.’ I’ve seen that in a mass of people, I’m in it for my survival, not yours.
*I’ve seen how not seeing a mirror is suitable on some days, but makes me want to see, analyze and (most likely) criticize myself even more.
*I’ve seen how much guilt I carry. I woke this morning feeling guilty about a B+ last semester. “I don’t get B+’s; I get A’s.” For one, that was two months ago, Abbie. For 2) It’s a grade, and you need to get over it. And for 3) You better get over it fast, cause you’re starting to feel guilty about feeling the guilt in the first place. Guilt pervades my days more than I like to admit. Whether I’ve done/said/eaten/worked/spent/thought/tried/lied/excused/served/escaped/heard/hid or handled too much or too little, I’ll find a way to feel guilty about it—not intentionally, per se, but subconsciously. It’s like there’s this dermis of guilt waiting for any fresh, or fermenting, pustule to begin patronizing me with. When I buy into guilt, I buy into culture. And when I buy into culture, the Cross will never be enough. There’s always another rung, a newer standard, or a reasonable rational as to why I should, or shouldn’t, ____. Guilt says to Jesus, “I don’t get what you meant by, “It is finished…You are free…There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus…etc. Would you mind reenacting the Cross experience?”
*I’ve seen how “on-paper,” attempting a “good Christian life” of serving, going to church, reading the Bible, or what have you, must be uncovering before they can be freeing—and I don’t know about your morning rituals, but when I have to come out from the covers in the morning, it’s usually not the most comfortable, or enjoyable, aspect of my day. Disciplines, rituals, serving, attendances, or what have you, will never be satisfying in and of themselves, and rather, often bring guilt and added neediness to do more. They are just the means. The person of God and the trust of His gentle and good uncovering must be my end. Or I will never be satisfied.

Leo Tolstoy said, “Man’s whole life is a continual contradiction of what he knows to be his duty.” My duty here is no different than my duty “at home,” there, or anywhere. And it would be a gross understatement to say the poverty here is necessarily beyond compare from the States, India, or even my backyard. Let me qualify that by saying the reference to poverty there is not just outward. Rather, and more so, even, I’m referencing inward poverties. Poverties of the human being, not just the human. Jesus said, “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life because of Me will find it. What will it benefit a man if he gains the whole world yet loses his life? Or what will a man get in exchange for his life?” Here’s what I’m starting to see—losing my life “for the world” is just as fruitless as losing my life period. It’s just as meaningless as toiling after temporal things for all my days on earth, only to reach the end and ask, “What is it that I really did, for even my greatest legacy fails on its/his/her best day. Will anything I did ‘actually’ last?”

The answer for me this morning is “no,” unless that anything takes backdrop against an eternal provision of Christ, himself. What would that look like though? Maybe John 15.3-5? —“You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you (forgiven, loved, justified, …). Remain in Me, and I in you. Just as a branch is unable to produce fruit by itself unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in Me. I am the vine; you are the branches. The one who remains in Me and I in him produces much fruit, because ‘you can do nothing without me.’” Or Philippians 2.13? —“So then, my dear friends, just as you have always obeyed, not only in my presence, but now even more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. For ‘it is God’ who is working in you, enabling you both to will and to act for His good purpose.” Or maybe 2 Corinthians 4.17-18? —“Therefore we do not give up; even though our outer person is being destroyed, our inner person is being renewed day by day. For our momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory. So we do not focus on what is seen, but on what is unseen; for what is seen is temporary, but is unseen is eternal.” (continued)

I remember realizing in Gulu that something I might find dangerous, or even deadly, isn’t necessarily the case for someone else. But due to that being someone else’s “normal,” they may not know to inform me of its risk. The more I read about Northern Uganda, the more I see listings of Gulu, Kitcum, Pades and Sorotie being the worst and most dangerous areas in the entire country—and these are the exact districts we visited. Had I known these gross dangers, I likely wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have gone “home” with Mama Grace and Mama Santa, for fear that doing so might inhibit me from ever again seeing mine. This challenges my view of unity though. How can we move toward a harmony of sorts when we aren’t able, willing, or unafraid enough to partake in one’s “normal,” “home,” or heritage, let alone even decipher what those meanings are?

The orphanage I work at is directed by an American, staffed by Ugandans and voluntarily-staffed by folks from around the world. As you can imagine, this causes a few rifts. Topics run the gamut, from opinions regarding throw-away diapers vs. cloth ones, prayer, rearing techniques, worldview, type of skin, hair, or body odor, nutritional beliefs, etc. Today we had a staff meeting and were told we needed to “dress the kids to look less like orphans.” The translation here is that Ugandan style doesn’t pay much attention to matching as we know it (like pink stripes are intentionally put with red polka-dots…to ‘them’ that’s “matching”) and from now on we are to dress them so they “match.” I realized in this meeting there’s a massive difference between an American orphanage in Uganda, versus a Ugandan orphanage run by Americans. And again, I was caused to wonder whether unity here is possible? Or worth it?

I was separating oil in a “g” (ground)-nut-butter jar this afternoon (mix between soy and peanut) and got a little closer to my theory. Oil will not separate unless you help it, and even when you do, its chemical make-up won’t allow it to stay. With causations too many to count, differences do not mix naturally. And again, even when mixed, they will unmix. Similarly, I think, man cannot stay unified no matter how hard we try. We are too complex. Too unbalanced. And too unique. And I think that’s okay. It just means the reality of “unifying” is a lot bigger commitment than an event, bracelet, or evening to raise money for awareness. Like a lifelong one. The challenging part, I guess, is realizing the commitment isn’t easy and it will never be done. The jar always has space for stirring—in a marriage, friendship, work, church, or playground. Heck, we can’t even help that our own flesh and spirit will fight with themselves to the grave. If we can’t unify our own personhood, what can we? And is this can we worth it? It seems too tiresome to keep asking your way, and then humbly ask your ear to share mine. Or too risky to enter your world, and then knowingly invite you to interrupt mine…each knowing full well that a “next stir” will be just around the corner.

I don’t know if it’s worth it. I’ve seen glimpses at times, in a relationship here, or a Church Body there, and these are no less than miraculous. But they seem so few and far between. And even those betweens take such sacrifice and work. Most parts of unity feel like infinity today. And I think they are. Apart from Christ, I think they are impossible. In a tender conversation with his Father, Jesus prayed, “My prayer is not for the world, but for those You have given me, because they belong to You. And all of them, since they are mine, belong to You; and You have given them back to me, so they are my glory! Now I am departing the world; I am leaving them behind and coming to You. Holy Father, keep them and care for them—all those you have given me—so that they will be united just as we are” (John 17.11). This is an astounding correspondence, of which I have the slightest understanding of its meaning. I guess the part I am understanding is that as infinite as it seems, and maybe ‘is’ for my limited mind to comprehend, God prioritizes unity. Possibly more so than anything else in heaven or on earth. And I’m finding the Trinity to be my most tangible (and unfathomable) proof.

(It’s too timely, and boring for some, but if anyone finds interest in a few related references, here you go. Bottom line, God is clearly into unity. Romans 12.9-16…. unity includes bearing one another’s joys and burdens, 1 Corinthians 1.10…believers must seek unity in all essentials, Ephesians 4.3-13…there can be great unity even among diversity, Philippians 1.3-11…the love Christ commanded should create unity among believers, Philippians2.1-2…unity ought to be a distinctive mark among Christians.)

Dallas Willard says, “Once we see what people are prepared to do, the wonder ceases to be that they occasionally do gross evils and becomes that they do not do them more often. We become deeply thankful that something is restraining us, keeping us from fully doing what lies in our hearts…This sharp, heartbreaking realization of our condition silences all argument and hair-splitting rationalization” (The Spirit of the Disciplines, p. 227). Ironically, following Jesus seems to begin when I stop trying to make it begin. When I start finding the will to admit my will as jacked-up and only Thy will as actually prevailing. Furthermore, when I start being okay with this jacked-up’edness and not wearing its guilt as my fault, or yours, but as the product of a fallen world and preliminary start-point for a wound in need of a Savior. Maybe the Christian life starts to exist when I’m willing to surrender to the fact that I can’t do it.

(Post-script: Swear to God, after writing these thoughts this morning, I went to Mama Lois’s church and the Pastor taught on John 15, referencing the vine, branches and what it means to “abide in God.” He explained it like an orange, with the sweetness being inside the fruit, but how often we linger in, or even outside, the skin. We’re scared to go through the process of peeling and being peeled back by God, unknowing of the fact that true life waits inside. I liked this picture. And with Precious asleep on my lap at this point, I felt like I understood abiding in the Vine for the first time. Embracing the rest of my Maker’s arms is the greatest call and communion I will and was designed to reach. Knowing my position as God’s daughter is to know me, to know Him and to know Life everlasting.)

My ponderances are bent toward wealth tonight. Wealth in poverty and poverty in wealth. It stuck me that wealth can be just as much and maybe even more dangerous than poverty. That may sound ironic, or absurd, given the deficiencies I’m entrenched in, but in fact, I think it’s these very contexts that cause me to believe these peculiar thoughts might just have some truth to them.

Every night I stroll by the Nile and watch the sunset. (Parts of this are as picturesque as they sound…most aren’t). I’m always amazed at how different my thought-scenery is, given an almost identical scheduling, path and duration. Tonight I enjoyed the accompaniment of Hagar’s Nimrod piece on repeat, which can’t help but add a shot of contemplative caffeine with every new listening. I went to the LA Symphony in the Spring and fell in love with this piece. I’ve probably listened to it 100 times and it still astounds me. Anyway, I’ll often spend this time praying and tonight myself doing so for friends and family back home. A lot of my requests centered on God revealing things and requesting an openness from the person to truly be open to God’s will in a particular area.” Essentially, I realized I was praying for rich people (don’t let me escape from this requests) to see their poverty. For wealthy hands, circumstances and personas, to see denials and thus discoveries of a poor heart. A naked heart. And a bounty of actual wealth in the facing of this naked poverty. I prayed against brokenness masked in togetherness. Spiritual need, justified as trials treated as “just life.” Guilt, hurt, or desire, masked by control, discipline, or fear. You get the point…I found my prayers asking for an openness toward a plethora of wealthy looking mirages.

When I pray Africa, the orphanage, homeless, or “the poor,” on the other hand, I find no question in discerning their need. I find little hindrance, or hesitancy, to ask, knock, or receive of God’s provision regarding their life. Good and bad, pure and evil, needed and not needed don’t carry as much of a tension, or subliminal messaging here. Poverty, then, seems to aid in a true understanding of the Gospel, whereas wealth has the wretched ability to mute it. To explain our situation as well, independent, safe, healthy, good, rich, secure, guarded, sustained, happy, normal, compassionate, reasoned, balanced, popular, or covered (this was off the top of my head…I’m sure there’s a range of others to supplement this list). Or maybe more scary, wealth has the ability to think our situation ‘should’ be well, independent, safe, healthy, good, rich, secure, guarded, sustained, happy, normal, compassionate, reasoned, balanced, popular, or covered. When the reality is, it’s not. And we’re not.

I live in one of the wealthiest, “make-up-driven” hot spots in the world. L.A. is known for dreams, fame and fortune. But after a year under its residency, I’d be the first to say no matter how rich this city is in externalities, it takes quite a search to find a community, family, or individual who’s rich inwardly. (This goes for my hometown of Atlanta, too, but sadly I would say the struggle there falls more in the scene of local churches, than communities, to find glistenings of inward wealth). In general, people in LA function in isolation. They function by way of strengths, appearances and accentuated highs. But if you can edge through conversations of the next script, or newest diet, nine times out of ten (probably an understatement) you’ll find an empty soul. You’ll find a person who has learned to exist out of beauty that lasts only as long as the make-up does. And hear me say I’m speaking to the whole of first world, progressively thinking, cultures of wealth right now and simply using L.A. because a) I live there and b) in theory, at least, it’s the epitome of this conversation.

I am not saying that as the rich (if you are reading this in any fashion, you are considered of relative wealth), we should become poor. “While certain individuals may be given a specific call to poverty, in general, being poor is one of the poorest ways to help the poor. Further, I have yet to find anyone who was the better person simply for being poor,” (Dallas Willard, The Spirit of the Disciplines, p. 199). What I am saying, however, is that I think it’s a fair consideration to take a closer look at our wealth and the pockets of what that wealth is holding, hiding and allowing us to hide-out in. “As for the rich in this world, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on uncertain riches but only in God who richly furnishes us with everything to enjoy. They are to do good, to be rich in good deeds: liberal and generous, thus laying up for themselves a foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life which is life indeed.” 1 Timothy 6:17-19, RSV

“Father, I want to know Thee, but my cowardly heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou may enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no more night there. In Jesus’ name. Amen.” –A.W. Tozer (The Pursuit of God, closing prayer, end of chapter 2).

Random.

I wonder how you bend over to pick something up? In most of Asia women drop their butts to ground with their knees bent and bowed out. Here, they don’t bend an iota at the knees, but simply bend in half at the waist. Their hamstrings must be a mile long.

We have a small screen TV at the house that we’ll often crowd around to enjoy old Friends episodes, company over dinner, or dreading someone’s hair. This week we’ve been glued to the first season of 24. I’m in love with Jack Bauer.

Muslims put Christians to shame in the “discipline department” any day of the week. Birds wake me here with a matchless song every morning, but are usually second in the line of alarm clocks, with the first being 5am chants reverberating from the Temple about a mile away. Part of me is stunned at this practice of reverence, but most of me is saddened by the amount of fear, guilt and shame this practice trains. Every world religion has similarities, but something incomparably different about following Christ is its impossibility. It’s the one faith based on something other than the person of faith. It forces a laid down attempt to earn God’s favor, attention, or salvation by way of doing, serving, or being good/right/righteous. It requires an admittance of inadequacy and inability to face, or deserve, God in and of one’s own existence. Or persistence. And in “doing” (/not doing) all this, it attempts belief in a man named Jesus, who chose to bear the inadequacy and face the undeservedness himself—as the only one who actually ‘was’ deserving. I am so thankful for this difference this morning. I like to sleep in.

***

Crying-out.

“I would do just about anything to make her better. To make them better. It better. I would write a check, read a book, or get on a plane. I would smile bigger, study harder, teach them, send them water, wash their feet, become a doctor, provide them a lawyer, offer them a job, tell a coach of their skill, tell my God of their plight…but I know these aren’t enough. But I also know they’re a part. The road out of extreme poverty is complex, but also drivable, and I think that’s what’s most frustrating to me today. The fact that so much of it is preventable. The fact that these people are dying unnecessary deaths. Please tell me what to do, God. I cannot bear to see this suffering and know that so much of is due to our lives—to our unwillingness, selfishness and fear. To our lack of awareness, simplicity and desire. It’s not our fault, Lord, but it’s clearly fed by our addictions to the feast. If we could only break from our lives for one minute…allow You to break our hearts for one cause…and be willing to taste, delve and devour that end, as if we actually believed its Light was possible. I don’t want to hide from it anymore. I don’t want to minimize it to “overseas,” or over there, or over my head. It is the simple seeds that change a garden, Lord…keep planting and growing that knowledge in my heart. I want to be a part of this fight. I want to partner with You against these discrepancies. They are not right. They are not fair. They are not of You, Father. I want them to know You above what they see. I want me to know You above what I see. Make me stronger in the war against injustice. Make me more uncomfortable with a life to its own ends. Grant me a bigger perspective. Guard me from a life of complacency. Oh Holy Spirit, help me know what to do. Help me see the next step. Help me, God. Help me.”

My belief in Christ was additive until lately. Or maybe more like a preservative. It accentuated me with a lot of decorative ingredients, but clouded those you might consider the essentials. I loved the benefits of cleaning the “outside of my cup,” but never took note of the disturbances inside. God taught me a lot this year through the image of a flower. I realized how much I had come to depend, understand and even know my self as a product of my petals. So much so, in fact, that I’d lost sight (or never gained it in the first place) of an unchanging reality providing “the core” of any petal growth.

For me, becoming a follower of Christ “added” to who I already was, but opted for little to no loss, or recognition, of who I wasn’t. Furthermore, it was less about recognizing a centrality of “saving” from anything, per se, and more about explaining and expanding the me that I was accustomed to. The turn from my control, manipulation, will, or self-absorbtion was trumped by the turn toward worship, joy, passion and desires. And though necessary in their means and predestined timing, it’s now become obvious how these churchy/ministry'esque things started standing-out as defining “ends.” My faith was added on as an accessory, to many degrees, and never really came at a price. My “need” for God was less the cause of choosing Him than my desire. When I read a verse like, “If anyone wants to come with Me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow Me,” I assumed Jesus was talking to another era, or that our era was different and must function out of a different theology.

Martin Luther termed what I’m talking about a “Theology of Glory.” It’s the idea of the Western Church, essentially, that Christianity (I’m using that term intentionally) is about a better, easier and more enjoyable life. It preaches that, “Knowing Jesus as Lord and Savior,” means a happy, upward life where everything makes sense. Not only is it false doctrine, however, but dangerous doctrine. It negates the fallen nature of the world and thus negates the world’s ongoing need for the Cross. It minimizes a Father/child relationship of reliance and allows for structured, controlled and isolated bursts of “Christian living.” Author, Lynne Babb, explains that, “We inhabit a culture obsessed with liberty, but we habituate ourselves into bondage. We’ve forgotten what lack feels like and what liberty tastes like” (Fasting, page 10).

But how has this idea get so out of hand? Dallas Willard said, “The unrestrained hedonism of our own day comes historically from the 18th century idealization of happiness and is filtered through the 19th century English ideology of pleasure as ‘the’ good for people. Finally, it emerges in the form of our present “feel good” society—tragically pandered to by the popular culture and much of popular religion as well. Think about it. Isn’t the most generally applied standard of success for a religion service whether or not people feel good in it and after it? The preeminence of the “feel good” mentality in our world is what makes it impossible for many people now even to imagine what Paul and his contemporaries accepted as a fact of life. Our communities and our churches are thickly populated with people who are neurotic or paralyzed by the devotion and willing bondage to how they feel. Drug dependence and addiction is epidemic because of the cultural imperative to “feel good.” (The Spirit of the Disciplines, p. 99-100).

Something I appreciate and pre-grieve the loss of here is dependence on God. I cannot get through a day without falling to my knees, or reaching for the skies, in brutal pursuit of needing and wanting Him…asking of His provision, grateful for His Saving, confident in His friendship, begging of His perspective, crying-out for His strength, reveling in His creativity, or resting in His arms. It’s an organic faith that engages my core, inducing a far cry from days in America. It’s rare to “need” God on any given day in Los Angeles. It rare to require of His assistance, assurance, or encouragement through an average run of classes, work, conversation, or errands. I can do life there without him. And certainly I can choose to “add Him in” when I want, but in terms of desperation, or unquenchable dependence—those days are a gem in a haystack. It takes an actual ‘request of grace’ for me to actually see my need for Him.

I’m thinking this tragedy of arrogance could well define the greatest epidemic an individual could incur. The idea of not needing God must reflect Satan’s supreme hope. When we settle into doing life alone, we’ve tasted of his manipulative, soothing voice that says, “Did God ‘really’ say don’t eat from the tree…surely you won’t ‘really’ die in doing so…In fact, tasting of ‘this’ fruit will actually allow you to be ‘like’ Him” (Genesis 3.1-4). “God, help me. Help break me of my pride. I want to know my need for You, regardless of where I am, or what it will take, to covet this cost.”

A.G. Sertillanges said: “Retirement is the laboratory of the spirit; interior solitude and silence are its two wings. All great works are prepared in the desert, including the redemption of the world. The precursors, the followers, the Master Himself, all obeyed or have to obey one and the same law. Prophets, apostles, preachers, martyrs, pioneers of knowledge, inspired artists in every art, ordinary men and the Man-God, all pay tribute to loneliness, to the life of silence, to the night.” (The Intellectual Life (Westminister, MD: Christian Classics, 1980), 48).

Home Would be Easier.

For a lot of reasons. And they deserve easier tonight.
They’re tired of being dirty. Even on their cleanest day, they’re dirty.
They’re tired of everything around them being dirty. Smells were nauseating at first, but now the realization that everything smells bad makes them numb to it.
They’re tired of tears.
They’re tired of everything they want not being simple to get.
They’re tired of walking.
They’re tired of walking down the street and seeing men with guns.
They’re tired of poverty.
They’re tired of everything being inconvenient.
They’re tired of this being the familiar.
They’re tired of feeling sad.
They’re tired of not knowing.
Home would be easier. And I’m wanting them to have the easy life tonight.

***

Tears of Exile.

Mama Suzanne cried in front of me today. That’s the first time I’ve seen a Mama lose tearful emotion so candidly. She was asking about our trip to “Gulu.” I could sense the anticipation in her voice, but couldn’t sense whether I should give my “honest take,” or a more laced one. So I gave kind-of a mix.

It’s so hard to tell the how Ugandans feel sometimes. And especially with people of the faith, I’ve found that legalism is a big challenge here, so that people are hesitant to say how they ‘really’ feel, knowing they’re suppose to “forgive everyone, turn the other cheek, etc.” When you know them for a longer time, they’re more apt to open-up, but it’s still always justified with a hint, or large helping of Christianese-coating. Examples here might be a concern an opinion about the president (Museveni), or cultural taboos (like they’d never tell a white person to change clothes, but all Ugandans know and talk behind our backs about our unkemptness).

In this case Mama Suzanne listened intently to my recap and then sadly empathized at the state of life in the north and how horrific it is. Then she started crying harder, saying, “But that’s my home. It is where I long to be.” I did not know this was the case and assumed getting to Jinja was like getting to the Promised Land since the downfall of the north starting in the 80’s. Rather, she explained, “It is not escape; it is exile, for danger and needing job.” Exiled, I thought…that’s a really loaded word that I’ve never heard apart from the Old Testament. Something about the primitiveness of the last couple weeks finds me relating to Biblical content more so than usual.

When I asked Mama Suzanne if she will ever go back. She said, “Oh yes, I am waiting on God every day.” I asked if this was the same for most the other people here. She said, “Absolutely. Though it is terrible today, home is always home.”

I’ve never realized how dangerous it is to fall in love. My heart has only been broken once, but I can feel a new break-up coming—this one from babies. I’ve been here a little over a month and have a little over a month to go. Either one can seem like an eon, or a second, depending on the moment. Matthew smiled for the first time today, and it happened to be while I was feeding him. He has a dimple the size of a crater on one side. It’s adorable. The room seems calmer this week, with Hunter having moved-up and Jude having left with her foster parents. I had the chance to spend time with each baby today, taking them outside, talking over their deepest curiosities and discovering hands, tongues and feet that had yet to find existence. I spent a lot of time just staring at them—staring at the handiwork of some Designer far beyond my comprehension. Who dreams up the slit of an eye, or thinks to create pores, cuticles, or the curves of an eyelash? And these are but the outsides…

I’ve just returned with Adam from the Clinic again. His temperature has yet to stabilize since he arrived a couple months ago. It ranges from 96 to 103 throughout the day. And although he eats like a horse, his weight isn’t budging and his hair is slowly turning blond, a sign of malabsorbtion. Precious was taken to Kampala to retest for HIV yesterday. We put her in a sequined red dress with matching shoes, and she was ecstatic. Thank God she didn’t know the reason or the results. They were positive. I know it’s not good to have favorites, but Adam and Precious are the ones who make me lie awake at night. She’s the squirmiest bundle of joy I’ve ever seen and he’s as handsome of a six-month-old as they come. It kills me that both will likely have AIDS before they can count to ten. Little Isaiah was taken out of the incubator and officially moved to the preemie room. He remains healthy and his skin continues to darken (did you know “black” babies are born white?). We’ll hopefully celebrate his 4lb mark by the weeks end. Grace will probably move to “Baby-One” next week. She’s sitting well and starting to talk—still prefers bouts of laughter for communication though. I can’t believe the amount of personality these babies have. Their cries are different; their voices are different; even the angle they prefer to be held when burped is different. Who must God be to create every aspect of every living being to be unique? And who must we be to fight against our aspects, or downplay the miracle of our uniqueness? Both are unfathomable to me.

***

Random.

*Stocked with hair-gel, comb and scissors, the salon visited Preemies today. A room full of afro’ed babies had us all in smiles. Mama Lucy taught me how to style “black hair,” which I must say is quite different than white. She complained about her hair always being frizzy and how she wants it like mine. I told her mine was really flat and I thought some frizz would be fun. We decided maybe we should try and switch.

*Mama Grace told me all black people can see in the dark. This is yet to be confirmed though. What is confirmed is that people who live in hut villages can see a heck-of-a-lot better than I can in pitch black.

*One of my housemates, Stella, is a grown orphan from a nearby town. She’s eighteen and will start nursing school in the fall, but is enjoying an internship here for the summer. Oftentimes we’ll use Stella to bounce off ignorant questions about taboos and culture—and she gets a kick out of it. We were asking her the other day why shorts are such a no-go here and why long skirts, even, are considered more appropriate than pants? She explained that different from the west, breasts aren’t anything special around here (you know we North Americans were wide-eyed at this point). Women whip them out to feed, just like they’d whip out a bottle, or tube of lipstick. “But thighs,” she explained, “are the novelty.” They’re the breasts of the west, it seems.

*I saw a two-year-old digging with a machete beside her grandmother this morning. Some sites never get normalized.

*I’ve been exceptionally tired this week. That is the only symptom, which is good, but I can sleep a ten-hour night and then need to take a nap, or even two, throughout the day. All of us (whites) who traveled last weekend share this fatigue, so it could be a number of things, including something as plain, but profound, as emotional exhaustion. We’ll get “de-wormed” today and also get tested for Malaria, just to be safe.

(This entry covers the next four posts)

To be honest, our trip was really miserable. I’ve never feared for my life so much, or for such a duration. There were six of traveling, including Mama Santa, “from Gulu,” Mama Grace, “from Sorotie,” and three housemates, Tyler, Ruthie and Anna. Our hope for the weekend was to love these Mamas by really engaging with their lives and submitting to their lifestyles. I realize a little more now the loftiness of these goals. We went north to the border of Sudan and west down the Kenyan border. Our two proposed destinations of Gulu and Sorodi were met, but then expanded upon. In Ugandan, “I live in Gulu” can apparently mean three hours from Gulu, and “outside Sorodie” can mean the same. And transport here is awful. Enough so that unless God makes it unswervingly clear, I will do no more vehicular travel while in Uganda.

Though separated by only a few hundred miles, Santa and Grace’s upbringings were completely different—from each other’s and from ours. We weren’t aware of this and given language barriers and the fact that it’s their normal life, they didn’t know to prepare us. Our first trek was from Jinja to Gulu—a debut exposure to Ugandan buses. Imagine off-roading on a school bus and you’re getting warm. It was about eight hours and we were fortunate to have seats and get hints of a free safari for some miles. The bus “system” here is such that you wait until the vehicle going to your location is filled in every nook and cranny and then it leaves. There’s no time chart, schedule, or numbered capacity. This made me remember my last American transport, leaving from a hotel in D.C. The driver was emphatic about filling only the number of seats he had belted. This was annoying that early morning, as it took two trips before I could get on a shuttle. Today the policies sound amazing. In order to get by here, it’s a survival of the fittest economy. Everything is done to fill every space possible, regardless of the consequence. Anyway, at some point, we pulled over on the dirt, pot-holed road once for a bathroom/bush break. Random stops would offer maize, soda, or meat sticks through the window. When these remains were thrown-out, baboons would willingly charge the bus to retrieve them. At one point something started scratching my foot and I screamed. Turned out it was a live chicken.

We arrived in Gulu about 5pm, tired from sitting and grateful to be safe in Mama Santa’s hometown. We realized at the taxi park, however, that she actually lived “in a village near Gulu” so we’d need to ride another bus. Though similarly bumpy and flirtatious toward tipping, God lent one of the most marvelous sunsets I’ve ever seen. You could actually look at the orange ball dipping into the horizon, as its remnant flares splashed the sky. Some three hours later, we realized how close we were to the Sudanese border. Tyler joked at this point that we were gonna be taken home in body bags. Looking back, the joking no longer seems far off.

Kitgum was a really fascinating village. Its proximity to the northern border has made it greatly affected by Rebel invasions. Soldiers are everywhere and HIV/AIDS is more widespread here than anywhere in Uganda. This is mostly war-related, due to rape, loose blood and unsolicited sex for money and food. We stayed at an IDP Camp, a place for displaced Ugandans due to the war (a Refugee Camp would differ in that its displaced persons from another country). An unexpected, but primary purpose they’ve also been forced toward is coverage for “night travelers.” This includes the millions of children who live in the bush and due to Rebel invasions, were forced to work all day and make what sometimes entailed a ten-mile journey to the Camps to sleep, and then return to work in the morning. The camp we visited was about the size of a tennis court and hosted approximately 2000 children a night.

Tonight I want to distract. Diconnect. Tonight I’m lonely. Normally this might be specified in loneliness and longing for a husband, or partner in life, but tonight it’s less specific, I miss my friends. I’m missing people who know me, and I know them. Missing easy internet access, missing electricity, just missing whatever…I’m in a bratty mood. At home I could distract with about twenty things at this point. Instantly. I could call a friend. Go online. Go surfing. Get a massage. See a movie. Go to the beach, Barnes and Noble, my bed, or a restaurant. Watch Grey’s Anatomy. Call my family. Go hiking. Paint. Go to Starbucks, the gym, a play, concert, or the library. I could go to yoga, get a pedicure, sit by the fire, or microwave my dinner. Here I can’t do any of these. One of my prayers coming into the summer was space to serve quietly and experience much aloneness with the Lord. Saying you want to be alone with God for the summer seems like a big statement though. I think either a) It takes a ton of time and discipline to build endurance for, or b) You really don’t mean it…you’ve just been scarred and are likely tired from relationships, and God is doing a slow, but healing work, redefining your understandings of solitude, community and communion with Him. I think I’m a little of both. And I’m increasingly aware that both are really challenging.

After many remote trails and paths, we came upon Mama Grace’s home, which consisted of about six huts and housed her family of about forty. It was really tidy and quite beautiful. Grace’s husband was killed by the Rebels a few years ago. She left her kids behind and moved to Jinja to make money for their schooling. When Grace introduced her firstborn son, I asked why she named him Immanuel, which means “God with us?” She explained that she was home alone during his birth and her only help was God. I realized in this moment that love endures deep sacrifice and very, very blind faith.

Upon arrival, we were seated for everyone to stare at us. About thirty minutes later, a meal was served (to only us), which at least permitted a changed focus toward rolling food in our fingers versus a crowd of alien eyes. No clapping, laughing, engaging, or talking. There are over 500 languages in Uganda alone, so any Luugandan we’d picked-up was useless at this point. We watched another beautiful sunset this night. Mama Grace asked if we had a sun in America? I realized in this moment that love doesn’t always speak my language, or find residence in my worldview.

We slept in the hut. I didn’t sleep at all. Six of us, including Ruthie, Anna, Grace, Grace’s sister, her baby and me, spooned on the ground with a sheet (Tyler slept in an accompanying hut with Grace’s dad…her mom and children slept in another). Gnats had a hay-day, rats were crawling over us and Lord knows what was perusing the fields around us. It rained for about an hour and spit on us through the straw roof. I was sweating at one point, but wouldn’t dare undo the sheet—it was my smallest wall of protection. “God, what is this? Where am I? Is this life for them? I can’t do this. This is the pitchest black I’ve ever been in and I want out. Please get me out, Dad. I’m scared.” At about 3am the three Americans were awake and needed to use the “bathroom” (a hole behind a row of crops…all four of these days lacked running water, toilet-paper, electricity, or anything close to civilization). The moon was quiet and the stars were shaded by clouds, so there was no way we’d find it alone. Mama Grace wasn’t sleeping due to concern for us. “I wonder if it is the rats disturbing you?” she whispered. “Maybe you are not used to them where you live?” “No,” we cried/giggled back, as she took our hands and led us to the hole. I realized this night that love moves beyond comfortability and I didn’t like it.

I asked God to please raise the sun earlier than normal the next morning. I don’t think He heard me, but nevertheless, was praising Him at the first sign of light. It was fun, too, to interact with Grace’s mom grinding nuts, retrieving eggs and sweeping the grounds with a tied wad of hay. Her brothers were studying the Bible and in the minimal communication that we shared, I asked if I could join. One of them had an English Bible, so I was able to loosely follow along with them in John 8. This is the story where Jesus is in a Temple, where a room of religious people were accusing an adulteress woman and taunting him to verify her stoning. Jesus kneels to the ground and writes something in the dirt with his finger, saying, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her.” The entire room emptied, except for Jesus and the woman. “Woman, where are they?” he asked. “Has no one condemned you?” “No one, Lord,” she answered. “Neither do I condemn you.” Jesus said. I wanted to ask Grace’s brothers what they thought he might’ve written in the sand. After about thirty minutes of missed understanding, I sought Grace’s help to interpret and realized the problem wasn’t a lack of understanding, but a lack of learning skills. These men didn’t have the education to think critically. They had never known the freedom of reading between the lines, wondering, questioning, or dreaming with God. When we eventually moved toward this point, we had a really special time sharing ideas like “forgiveness,” or “in Me, you are free.” Love must transcend knowledge and understanding. Maybe Jesus was serious when he said the faith of a child, or mustard seed, can move a mountain.

After voicing good-byes (which included a reintroduction of all the birth orders), we trekked to the road and waved down a bus. Once again, I found myself praying on this ride like never before. Fear and closeness to death had never confronted me as they did this weekend. New conversations of death, then, were forced to be traced. “What will it look like? How will it feel? What am I scared of? Am I ready?” Christ followers make light of death as if it’s an easy pass, but this weekend brought me face to face with the uneasiness of this actuality. I became starkly aware of many attachments to my here and now and many places where I ‘said’ I trusted God, but clearly didn’t. “What about my family? What about getting married? What about my rent, schooling, or conversation to be had with x, y, or z?”

Our first few hours were crammed like the first day’s ride, only this time we were standing. The conductor kept pushing us backwards till we were facing forward like a row of dominoes. Grace had taken this route a number of times, but had no concept of how long it would be. “Could be four hours, or could be fourteen. Depends on the driver” (and number of cows, ditches and who knows what, you run into, I guess). It took us ten hours. My iPod tried to sing me into the comforts of worship, but it felt impossible. How could I worship God in this environment? Everyone was sweaty and sick and crammed to a disgusting degree. Babies screamed and the windows only lent a louder scream. Poverty and death enveloped me. Once again I thought we were going to die—the tipping and bumping and crowdedness was unbearable. “I can’t go on, God. I want out. Help me.”

The war has definitely settled down a lot and seems to be making a turn. The major shrapnel now consists of IDP camps and children’s return to their villages (both child soldiers and night travelers). Unknown to us, turns out Santa’s father is actually the Bishop of Kitgum, so playing a massive role in “Peace Talks” taking place in and around Uganda. He stayed-up late telling us stories about visits with Tony Blair and Desmond Tutu. It’s crazy though, the man still lives in a hut and has no concept, it seems, of how renowned his role is on a global scale.

The next morning ten of us crammed in a car and rode two-hours to Santa’s village. It was more impoverished than anything I’ve ever seen, and Santa was happy to be home. This village had never seen white people, so didn’t even know to beg from us. They just stared. It was horrific. Every person was severely malnourished. Every hut was infested with maggots, rats and feces. The babies had flies in their eyes, but didn’t flinch. We stayed in the village for the day, resting in huts and visiting nearby lands where family members are buried. We cooked for much of the afternoon and enjoyed a hut-based dinner. Our original plan was to sleep there, but Anna started coming down with Malaria symptoms and we wanted to at least be in range of a hospital, so headed back to Camp. I now realize this was God’s provision.

We rose with the sun, milked the cows and enjoyed a nice breakfast together. Before leaving, six bishops arrived from around Uganda. Bishop Benjamin was facilitating a ceremony from them, providing new motorcycles granted by the Anglican World Council. These men are all in their sixties and often in charge of distant villages that have no road access. That said, these tools will be a huge (and hysterical!) blessing to many sick and needy people. I’m not sure I’ve seen a funnier site than six Ugandan Priests, in full garb, sitting clueless on a shiny, red motorcycle with matching helmets that said “Studd” (yes, with two d’s).

There wasn’t a direct road to Sorotie, so we needed to travel to Lira and then catch a bus from there. Roads here are rural as can be, and for the most part, connect to neighboring towns with only one, one-way, dirt road. You can see, then, why passing or being passed is so scary. And you’re constantly dipping into slopes for cows, walkers with logs on their heads, bikes with three children and a baby, or a range of other options. Our connection from Kitgum lacked any bus, or taxi transport, so our only way out was on top of a truck. It was sized between a semi and minivan and with twenty of us scrunched on top. I was leaning against Mama Grace with my legs hanging off the side. I taught her “Lean On Me,” which at least got us a good laugh. Laughing turned sour though when we hit a muddy ditch, got stuck and slowly tipped over. I was on the edge, so it was relatively easy to jump off—for others it wasn’t so. After about thirty minutes we were back on the road. Soon after, a van passed that tipped us pretty far and pretty fast. So much so that a man fell off. As I looked back and saw him rolling and screaming in the road, I thought we’d lost him. It was one of the worst sites I’ve ever seen. And to ice it, the Africans on the roof weren’t taken back. This was their norm. We were about 150 miles from any town or hint of medical care, so the man was lifted back in, bleeding freely from a huge gash on his head and dislocated at his right leg and wrist. The next three hours were spent asking God to setting my stomach and help me understand what in the world was going on. Literally. I remembered at this point our goal for coming. “Was this love,” I asked God? “Was this what it took to ‘really’ peer first-hand into another’s life? And if so, was this worth it?” I didn’t want to love anymore. It was too hard to too beyond my comprehension.

From Lira, we took a four-hour van to Sorotie. It was the worst road I’ve ever been on. Thank God, I felt safe, due to a probably 10mph average, but there wasn’t more than a ten second span where we weren’t swerving to miss (partially at least) a pothole. We busted tires at two points, but these were the least of my sweaty, frustrated, uncomfortable concern. I had a man with a chicken sitting on my lap for about two hours. I was numb to reality. The bus dropped us off on the side of a small dirt road. Four boda-bodas picked us up (which if you remember, days before scared me; now they felt like a stretch hummer limousine) and rode us inward to the bush about ten miles. Turned-out our drivers were Mama Grace’s “first and third born,” which we didn’t know until the road ended and they escorted us further by foot. Culturally, there are about a hundred things I witnessed this weekend that floored and confused me—this being one. Though she hadn’t seen her family in three years, there were no embraces, or catching-up, and yet it's obvious in other ways how proud she is of her family and children. God is redefining my understandings of what pride, love and sacrifice look like. Right now I have no idea. Well, I have a western idea, but that’s really different from the remainder (and most) of the world. These words define something a lot less scripted than what I thought. Love, for instance, seems far more than a feeling, but more than just a choice. It doesn’t always agree and doesn’t ever evade. And it somehow responds without necessarily receiving and receives without necessarily responding. The weightiness of love is incomprehensible to me today.

At one point the voices of Shane and Shane were singing a mantra-like chorus of, “Be near, O God, be near.” I couldn’t figure out how this was possible and repeated it a couple times, pleading for His help to know nearness, when feeling but mere distance. I was standing sandwiched between three people at this point, with increasing aggravation at the half-asleep man to my side, bobbing his sweaty old head on my arm at every curve. I kept pushing him off, sickened and weary. At some point in these minutes, it became clear that this man was the nearness of God trying to meet me. In the utmost of simple tasks, I let him rest his head on my arm. When he woke some time later, he spoke enough English to look at me with deep compassion and say, “Oh woman, I am so sorry. I do not mean to cause you bother. I have traveled from 3am and am too tired to stand my head.” “Sir,” I replied, with an inward sympathy that overwhelmed me, “it is the least I can do. Please rest your head on my arm.” When he got off the bus about an hour later, he shook my hand and with a rich sincerity said, “Safe travels, my friend.” Stiff, tired and still shaky with fear, I realized this day that love and knowing the nearness of God’s love share themselves in illogical and uncanny ways. At times they will be exhausting and in many territories, take interruption to my space.

Our final connection required a motorcycle. After having a foot run over by one in Europe, I vowed to never ride one again, but out of desperation the broken vow felt minimal. I just wanted to be home. We returned to the house filthy, having not showered or changed clothes in four days. Arriving in Jinja felt like a five-star hotel. To feel safe for a full night’s sleep, not wondering when the next rat would dance over my legs, or heart would skip hours of rhythmic beat for fear of not making it to the next second, was indescribable. A mosquito net, running water, toilet and roof over my head were luxuries.

These days have clearly offered a lot regarding the complexity of true love and true interaction with another culture and heart. I want to say this translates into a “process” of learning about love, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s about realizing there is no proper, or sensical, process to love. Love lacks a set plan, proposal, or agenda. You can’t read a book about its depth, or expose a map covering its height. There is not a shape to sacrifice, or a defining of sacrifice’s risk. Love knows no bounds or boundaries and yet bears boundless consequences. It isn’t always fun. It is less about feeling, I think, and more about action and choice. Or maybe about willingness. Willingness to discern God’s unconditional will on a conditional basis—that basis being a fallen world, held by an unfallen God. Sara Groves sings that “Loving a person just the way he is, that’s no small thing—it’s the whole thing” and I think she’s right, but I think that rightness means “to love” must be the hardest concept we could ever grasp. Or learn to not grasp, realizing its possibility as only capable through a strength detached from our selves. I have never been so challenged by the following words from Jesus:

“As the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you. Remain in my love. If you keep My commands you will remain in my love, just I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in His love. I have spoken these things to you so that My joy may be complete in you and your joy may be complete. This is My command: love one another as I have loved you. There is no greater love than this, that someone would lay down his life for his friends.” John 15.9-14

Nothing in me would want Mama Grace or Santa to be coerced into the North American life. Their minds couldn’t comprehend it and I think it would kill them in many senses. But nothing in me would want my family and friends to be coerced into Ugandan life, either. Our minds couldn’t comprehend it and I think it would kill us, too. Neither world is right and, in fact, both are incredibly deformed. At its most intrinsic translation, love means sacrifice. It means pursuing blind outcomes, or even no outcomes at all. But this weekend unveiled how much of my sacrifice is "me based," or based on the response I receive. Either way, I am the key player. There is so much of me to love, taking captive my ability to truly love another. My only ability to sacrifice, then, must involve another’s. I know not love without the cross of Jesus Christ.

“If I speak the languages of men and of angels, but do not have love, I am a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all the mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so that I can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. And if I donate all my goods to feed the poor, and if I give my body to be burned, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love does not envy; is not boastful; is not conceited; does not act improperly; is not selfish; is not provoked; does not keep a record of wrongs; finds no joy in unrighteousness, by rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for languages, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know in part, and we prophecy in part. But the perfect comes the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things. For now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but I will know fully, as I am fully known. Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I Corinthians 13:1-13.

It took everything in me to smile today. I was too tired. Too sad. And feeling too numb to feel. Home from a long day at the orphanage, all I wanted was a bath, glass of wine and a movie. The first two weren’t gonna happen, so I settled for the third. “My Best Friend’s Wedding” provided perfect entertainment for my thawed-out brain. I was so grateful. Also curious though, what I would do had this not been an option? Had I been one of the “normal” people in the world who doesn’t have the choice of food, festivity, or cinematic option on a tired evening in July?

A friend of mine wrote a book called, “Under the Overpass,” where he essentially lived as a homeless person in six American cities for one month each. He has an interesting section that talks about him never ‘really’ being able to be homeless. He was always a phone-call away from getting out. I feel quite the same tonight.

As those living in a first-world country, and many of we “those’s” being white, we will really never experience how ‘they’ feel. We will really never feel what they experience. We’ll never be homeless. We’ll never be poor. And we’ll never be hungry.

What do you do with that?
***
Infant Revelations.
I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned and revealed them to infants. —Jesus

At any other time in my “care-about-investing-in-others” life (probably sophomore year of college, my second year as a Christian), I would’ve preferred to spend a summer with fourteen, or twenty-four years olds, far quicker than babies—let alone sick babies. I’ll flesh this out, so bear with me, but I don’t even like babies that much, at least compared to “adults.” I could literally count on two hands the number of babies I’ve sat for in my entire life. But at this stage, the infant breed is who I best relate to. And they’re also who God seems to be using to best relate to me.

Prior to this debut year under a heading of “Spiritual Formation,” a summer spent in an orphanage would’ve seemed selfish in enough ways that would’ve deterred me from going. Or even considering going. I wouldn’t have felt like I was “doing” enough. I would’ve felt like leaving an orphanage, or country, or summer with sixty kids still orphaned and sick meant no progress. I would preferred “changing lives, challenging relationships and discipling hearts toward God’s”…not changing diapers and dealing with screaming babies. What I would’ve missed though, and have missed in a lot of ways up to this point, was my heart. And you can’t help but ask me then, “If I could really care for another’s heart, if I didn’t even know my own?” And I would probably say, “No, you’re right. I’m just starting to learn how to do both.”

Never have I endured an intentionally selfish season where I sought the classroom of Christ and the discipleship of His teaching, as oppose to attempting my own. Never had I sacrificially sought to “stay and be made,” before I would so willingly (and willfully) “go and make” (as we are told to by the “Great Commision” in Matthew 28).

As of this day, I connect with the babies in more ways than I connect with anyone else right now. My faith, especially, connects with their immaturity and raw levels of learning to depend, trust and believe the Hands that are holding them. I connect with their vulnerability and susceptibility—with their uncontrolled emotions and unending need for help, love and being served. I’ve spent the majority of my life pushing away being helped, loved and served and yet through a slow process of humbling and painful peeling-back, God is re-raising me—teaching me what it means that He is actually my fullest Father and Mother. He’s teaching me to be loved, that one day I may mature from this place and start really understanding how to offer the same to my neighbor.
***
Random.
*I told God this morning that if I saw a snake, I was on the next flight home. Low and behold, I did. I hate snakes, with a passion, and I saw a Black Mamba today. If one of these bites you, you’re dead in a matter of minutes. In the last 24-hours, I’ve seen a rat, frog, mouse, massive cockroach and lizard—all in the vicinity of where I sleep. And a city girl can only take so much. Okay, so I’m not exactly a city girl, but I’m also not completely granola. And snakes are my biggest nemesis. Gross.
*Many of you have asked how I feel physically. Well, we’re literally around baby snot, throw-up, sue-sue (#1) and ka-ka (#2) all day and sanitation isn’t quite the catch-phrase/action it is in the States. So between that and bad water, pollution (breathing feels like what I imagine asthma would…can’t breathe too deep and you wheeze if you get out of breath) and living under a roof with fifteen to twenty other quasi sicklings, it’s tough to avoid some sort of malady. But to be honest, you get used to it. You get used to feeling sub-par and learning to function. Or maybe it’s more that you get used to asking God periodically for strength to function—and He provides. Basically, I would say a seven on a the “1-10, How am I feeling in America scale?,” marks a ten in Africa.
*Many of you have also asked about safety. In some ways, I feel safer here than I would at home, but in others it fits the bill for one of the most dangerous places on earth. “Mass Justice” is the norm here, so that the present mass of people decides the punishment for a person. If you yell “thief” at someone, he will be attacked immediately, regardless of whether or not it was true. If someone shoplifts, or steals, public stoning to death is not uncommon. On the dangerous note though, disease and “male dangers” are prevalent. I would never go out after dusk due to higher mosquito populations and the risk of men (though I do it all the time during the day).

I’m beat. It’s not a beat that’s anything partial to Africa—it’s just been a long day. The preemies were fun this morning and in cuddle form at its finest. We had the usual Tuesday Bible Study on the front lawn with the Mama’s leading. Then this afternoon I took three new babies who arrived yesterday to get initial medical tests (the most important being HIV and Malaria).

Isaiah was 6 weeks premature, but doing really well. He’s 3lbs and was found outside the hospital after a rainy night at one day old. He stayed at the hospital for a week and is now safe with us. I fed him today and it took an hour to get one ounce of formula in him. His tiny cheeks would get really tired after like four sucks J. Sue-Anne, our nurse, taught me some neat ways to massage his feet and face to stimulate his movements, but it was still a tedious process.

Holly is probably about two and was found last week roaming the streets. She doesn’t speak a lick of English and had a jewel necklace around her waste (a stomachlace?). Apparently it’s a tribal tradition that calculates growth and wards off evil spirits. We cut it off. She gave-off a few smiles today, but still seems quite shocked and overwhelmed. She tested positive for Malaria.

Nathanial is probably three and severely malnourished. He was found in a dumpster earlier this week. He looks extremely chubby, with a swollen belly and face. A child with only a swollen belly is battling starvation, but a child like Nathaniel has had food, but all starch (probably maize) and no water or variation (little to no protein, fat, vitamins, or minerals). Hopefully the imbalances will regulate quickly. Amani is really good about nutrition and giving the kids a range of fresh, fruits, vegetables, grains, supplemental drinks and proteins. You’ll never see canned, or processed foods here. Nathaniel tested positive for Malaria, too.

When Mama Claire asked me to attend church with her, I had no idea what I was getting into. The day was about as surreal as they come and one of those days that words will not come close to revisiting. I met her at 8am after she worked the night shift at the Baby Home. She told me it was a long walk, but knowing she did it every day, twice a day, I figured it couldn’t be too long. It was. We walked briskly for a little over an hour. Conversations covered her tragic family history, alcoholic husband, journey to learning about Jesus, reflections on scenery and the likes. Her English isn’t great, so looking back, it’s a wonder we covered such an array of topics.

Mama Claire is a really astounding woman. She comes from Gulu, the part of northern Uganda I’ve mentioned before. I’m actually going there tomorrow morning through the weekend. I’ll travel the eight hours north with two Mama’s from the Cottage, as well as three other housemates. Gulu is home to the LRA, who still controls the war, child-soldiers and refugee camps that house hundreds of thousands. It is one of the most dangerous and blood-staining places in Uganda. Given that so many Mama’s from the home have deceased husbands, children and lives there, I am honored to visit. Our days aren’t terribly agenda’ed, but we will stay with the Mama’s and visit a few contacts, including some at the World Vision Child Soldier Recovery Center. They have counseled over 12,000 children from a lifestyle of brutality and killing, to one that experiences life again. There’s a book called “Girlsoldier” and the movie, “Blood Diamond,” which seem to provide quite a good portrayal of Gulu and these atrocities.

Anyway, back to Mama Claire. She had her first child at 14 and additional ones at 17, 18 and 21. She is now thirty, but looks closer to forty-five or fifty. I wasn’t prepared for her home. The Mama Claire I interact with every day couldn’t possibly come from this ghetto. It was awful. At most, her house was the size of my bath and laundry room…with six people living there. She told me it was their living, sleeping, resting, bath and dining room, with an embarrassing laugh. A neighbor came over to say hello (as did the rest of the village’s neighbors I think) and asked if she could show me her home. Mama Claire walked me there and explained on the way that this is what she had been saved out of by God allowing her work at Amani. The ghetto got worse than I thought it could. The kids got more naked. The boys more awkwardly built from heavy labor and the girls wore tattered dresses and boots twice their size to protect from boiling water they transport every day. Mama Claire told me this cluster of about twenty moms and their children (dads are nowhere to be seen) work together and are lucky to bring in $1 each week. The kids could never dream of going to school, let alone having a meal on the table every day.

After visiting these neighbors, we walked about another thirty minutes to Mama Claire’s church—New Life Baptist. Though three hours long, it was really special. The sermon came from John 15 and focused on friendship, both of which have become really meaningful topics to me this year. There were probably about 100 in attendance and many of the songs were in English and the sermon translated (not sure if this was because a Muzungoo was present, or normal…guessing the former). At one point I had to go to the bathroom…the hole in the ground out back, walled by corn stalks and bugs, had to suffice.

After church we stopped by Mama Josephine’s, whose house is about half the size of Claire’s—with eight living there. We stayed there about an hour, drinking Fanta and Coca-Cola. Knowing this would be my hydration for the day, I gladly savored every sip. Leaving from there, we went to Mama Santa’s house, where about sixty women were gathered on her lawn for a bead-making-meeting. It was quite a sight—a load of multi-aged women crammed on a canvas of sorts, with a background of palm and cassava trees. These women have found a way to take pages of magazines and fold them into these stunning pieces of jewelry, purses and belts. A couple girls I live with have recently started an organization called Nubi (“Hope”), which will package and sell the products in the States, with prophets going to school scholarships. All the women are from Gulu and as you can imagine, have really compelling stories. About midway through the meeting, a bunch of kids started dancing and some of the Mama’s joined in. Soon enough, we had a hand-drum and a full-on dance party right there in Mama Santa’s backyard. They all “shook it like it should be shaken” and laughed at me as I shook like it shouldn’t. It was a blast.

Mama Claire and I hurried home for what turned out to be a delicious dinner her fourteen-year-old daughter had spent all day, and all week’s wages, preparing. Potatoes and mashed kidney beans, accompanied by a plastic baggy (resembling one that carries goldfish) filled with fresh water. It was really good. At some point in this meal, Mama Claire’s husband came in. I’d met him earlier, but this time he was drunk. And it was 3pm. When I asked him earlier if he’d ever visited Amani, he asked what Amani was. Claire said he never asks questions about her life. He just goes to work at the steel mill and comes home and drinks with his friends. It was probably be a good thing I didn’t speak Luugandan at this point, because I was really angry and so badly wanted to scream at this man.

Claire was worried she might be late for work at Amani (the night shift runs from 5pm-8am), so we took “boda-boda’s.” Instead of taxis, people here are transported on the backs of bikes—or boda-boda’s. I don’t get scared easily, but these things scared me. Not only did I have like three potatoes and a boatload of beans in my stomach, but we were ridi

Stephen.

Stephen and I had a date today. We’re working through stuff in our relationship, as he’s got major dad issues and is often reserved and lacks confidence. I’ve found a way to rile him up though. He finds it funny when I fake yell at him, so at one point today I said, “Stephen, you can NOT keep batting those brown eyes at me unless you clearly state where this relationship is going!” This sent him running around the house screaming. Stephen also likes when I blow on his wrist. For whatever reason, it throws him into a hysterical bout of laughter. So we did this for a while too. It was pouring rain, so we decided to catch raindrops for a few minutes, but the weakness of his immune system makes wetness an avoided aim, if possible. He was okay with that—quickly distracted by our next date to-do’s, including Legos, Veggie Tales and eating bananas in our kitchen.

Stephen has autism. His mom died in childbirth and his dad was put in prison for fishing without a license when Stephen was one. When released from jail, he came to pick him up and findings of the disease were explained. He said he didn’t want him. There are little to no care facilities for the special needs population in Africa. I actually walked by Jinja’s “Lame Compound” yesterday, where people are basically dropped off and left to until they die.” Stephen will stay at Amani until he is six and then be passed on to another orphanage. He will remain a physically and psychologically orphaned for the rest of his life.

***

Food.

Eating is pretty basic and organic over here, meaning it’s rare to move beyond things grown from the ground, picked from a tree, or torn from an animal. There are a few Indian run markets in town, and two days a week an outdoor one. Most anything you want can be purchased here, as long as you’re not picky about its taste, brand, or limited number of choices (i.e., there’s not a cereal aisle; there’s Cornflakes). And keep in mind, most every food in this entry should be put in quotations of some sort, as things don’t ever taste quite the same as we’re accustomed to.

We are in charge of our breakfast and dinner, so only my lunch is authentically “Ugandan,” but a typical day for me might include:
Breakfast—eggs, oatmeal, bananas & avocados, rice bread with peanut-butter and bananas, mango, nuts, apples, raisins, papaya, tea and honey…
Lunch (at Amani, cooked by Mama Cook J)—posho (mashed corn), cassava (mashed bananas), maize, baked beans, chipoties, peanut sauce, rice, sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, meat occasionally (once a week maybe)…
Dinner—soup, rice, tuna fish, meat, vegetables (eggplant/tomato/cucumber/pepper), avocado, cereal, peanut butter (and whatever)…
Snacks—lots of nuts and seeds, fruit, peanut butter (and whatever)…

Granted, I’m allergic to wheat and dairy, so that a normal diet could add a further spectrum of bread/milk/cheese/yogurt/ice cream groups, too. Desserts don’t seem too common (due to the expense of sugar, probably), but we always have brownies, cookies, candy and the likes around the Volunteer House. Meals are typically cooked plain, or with sunflower oil and there’s not a lot of spicing, or buttering, which we of the “Weak Stomach’s Club” appreciate. Meat is expensive, so for the natives, a rarity. Since protein is a little tough to come by, I’ll opt for meats whenever given the chance. I’ve yet to see cooked chicken or fish outside our home. That’s not true—Ethiopian Air served me baked cod. Pretty good, too. Water is completely parasite infested, so that even Ugandan’s don’t drink it unboiled. Unpeeled fruits and vegetables must be bleached, or boiled. Okay, writing about food made me hungry. Off to eat.

***
Sophia.

Sophia is the most high maintenance two and a half year old I’ve ever met. She will only wear certain colors on certain days and must have her nails painted. She prefers “puff balls” to braids and insists on her food being completely pureed before she’ll touch them. She’s good at puzzles and can beat you in a game of hide-and-seek any day of the week.

Sophia has AIDS. She was diagnosed with HIV at birth and has recently been confirmed with the full-fledged syndrome. Sophia will never be adopted. In Uganda, at least, regulation does not prohibit the adoption of a child with AIDS, but since health-care and insurance are not covered, it would take a billionaire to fund even a decade of one of these victim’s lives.

As you can imagine, every kid here has a heart-wrenching a story—every person does, really. 30% of the kids at Amani are un-adoptable due to illness, or a situation of their parent being unable to keep them (but with the intention of hopefully soon taking them back). By default, they will remain institutionalized for the rest of their time on earth.

The rain is pouring tonight as