Bill Hybels is coined as saying, “The local church is the hope of the world.” Having lived in American for twenty-six years though, the majority of that in the “Bible-belt,” I’ve never found this statement too convincing. Being here, on top of some healthy church experiences in LA, is slowly dissuading my lack of convince. I’ve been to eight different church services in Uganda, each providing a unique location, denomination, structure and size, and each sharing a rich, and I believe representative, canvas of a Trinitarian, Gospel-oriented Church.

America has found me visiting a lot more than eight churches, also of various location, denomination, structure and size (none of which is difficult to pinpoint in a matter of minutes). For whatever reason though—no, that’s not true—for a lot reasons I think, I’m often more partial to the international brand. Maybe it’s just travel adrenaline, or cultural intrigue, but I love worshipping overseas. My two closest engagements with the Acts 2 Church were in the Dominican Republic, where I was baptized actually, and a diverse Body in Cape Town, South Africa, with the lovely Cons family. But now I’d have to add eight more to that list. And eight more reasons to believe in the power, Love and possibility of the local Church at large.

***

The Poor.

I remember being in the impoverished ghetto of Soweto, South Africa, wrestling through thoughts about showing-up in the slums in on our shiny, chartered bus that would serve for the day and then leave that same afternoon. What message would this leave the village? What miscommunications would it lift from our lives? I entered these thoughts again when a large group showed-up at the baby home. In some ways it’s great to have extra hands holding and hugging the kids, but in other ways it’s like giving a lick of a lollipop and then abruptly pulling it away—for probably the hundreth time in these children’s lives. Finally, babysitters are always more lenient and the Mamas loose a lot of leverage on days and weeks when vans arrive. So is it better to not arrive at all?

Being here this summer, alongside a little work with the poor, homeless, and addict-related in LA, I’ve realized these questions, and more so lacking answers, are universal. Furthermore, African questions of poverty and its treatment are not immeasurably different from those we’re accustomed to at home. Granted, the scopes here are immeasurable and unimaginable, whether sex, drug, or slave trades, street kids, poverty enabling disease, or disease enabling poverty and so on, whereas at home it’s far more calculatable. But in terms of broader questions that arrive with ongoing trends of poverty, much is the same. The homeless man in Chicago, or the heroine addict in Tucson, isn’t that far excluded from the one here. And the AIDS patient in Texas is just as scared and shamed and devastated as the one hear. And it’s the same question(s) here that wonders if my $1 donation will buy the next piece of bread, or pave the next path to destruction. (Actually buying the next piece of bread, or more committingly, dining with the person, always seems the best option. But such a thought provides a series of new ones: “I’m too busy today…But if I give them a little, they’ll just want more…What if they kidnap, rob, or kill me?” Believe me, I have these thoughts, too, but I still think it’s the best and most Biblical option.)

Who are “the poor” anyway, and how do the non-poor best serve them? Furthermore, how do the non-poor know that their service isn’t in vain, and should that even matter? The Bible has more than three hundred passages relaying God’s concern for the poor, so it’s clearly something of His interest. Jesus’ brother, James, explains looking after orphans and widows as undefiled religion (1.27). But Jesus himself says there will always be a population of the poor, needy, lost and broken. How do we reconcile this tension, or more tricky, how do we stand on it? It seems that if our goal is to “fix” these lines, we’ve lost before the start. But if our goal is to avoid them, we’re avoiding any movement toward to the finish. And maybe the idea that there’s no finish is just a cop-out, or justifier toward a comfortable life without guilt? Or maybe Jesus was exaggerating, or just had too much to drink?

I’ll always prefer living in questions, rather than ducking in answers, but leaving this one unanswered is tough to swallow.

***

Random.

*On days I want an extra long nap, I’ll pull the Malaria-card, but otherwise, the parasite has departed my system. Dangers of relapse remain, so I’ll continue with spray, mosquito nets and anti-malarials, but otherwise, I’ve been good to go.

*Holly looks like an average twenty-four-year old from Oklahoma. But if you dig a little deeper, she has dreams and ambition far exceeding average. As of yesterday, she was approved as an NGO and will start moving herself, and village kids, into her new orphanage this weekend. Constraints are that kids must be five or older and have AIDS. This limitation, let alone family environment, is unheard of in AIDS treatment. Despite rising cases and awareness, victims are outcasts, here and elsewhere. Anyway, I passed Holly on the road, as she was heading for her first viewing and visit to the inside of the home. We joined for an evening of painting, measurements and dreamed-of stories to soon take residence within those walls. It might’ve been the best “Extreme Home Makeover” I’ll ever be a part of.

In the short span of walking home from dinner, I practically tripped on a young boy curled-up to sleep, and witnessed the crash of a motorcycle with three people on it, one being a little girl not more than five, or six. She was thrown-off the bike and then skid across the ground, yet didn’t bat an eye, or shed a tear. That’s not normal. Or it’s not “our normal,” at least. The risk, fear and pain factors of this continent travel in a different wavelength than we do. Infants here could win “Survivor” with their eyes closed. Adults would just laugh at its concept. Or lustfully cry. Extremes of a TV show for us, are samplings of normality for an African. Does one ever get numb to these horrific exposures? For me at least, I think I would say I’ve become numb to the element of surprise, but am still pained by the elements of the stories. And to be honest, I hope it stays that way.

I don’t think there’s a story you could tell me, on that soil or this one, which would surprise me. I don’t think there’s a height of depravity, or depth of humanity, which would overwhelm me. It’d be tough to catch me off-guard, given the hidden heart, motivation, or manipulation of an individual. But at the same time, I seem to remain aware and feeling of the effects and affects of a given story. I think it would be easier, however, and certainly more efficient and less emotionally draining, to ‘not’ hold this awareness, but I also think that would be death—death to living, or the sign of a dying life.

To be numb seems to negate a felt sense of the senses, to hibernate silence and stillness of one’s Spirit. He, or she, is masked by busyness, or idle noise. Being still and silent, however, is what reveals a need beyond ourselves—a knowledge of feelings beyond our comprehension. When I am numb, I have convinced myself that I do not need…, and they do not need… “We’re all okay,” I say. “Such is life…it’ll work-out in the long-run…just a temporary bout between the ying and the yang…etc.” Numbness is like a justifying optimism, a state of consciousness that dissolves reality into nothing more than selfish permissibility. This reminds me of when Jesus attempts to explain the danger of not realizing our need for forgiveness.

“Then one of the Pharisees invited Him (Jesus) to eat with him. He entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. And a woman in the town who was a sinner found out that Jesus was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house. She brought an alabaster flask of fragrant oil and stood behind Him at His feet, weeping, and began to wash His feet with her tears. She wiped His feet with the hair of her head, kissing them and anointing them with the fragrant oil. When the Pharisee who had invited Him saw this, he said to himself, “This man, if He were a prophet, would know who and what kind of woman this is who is touching Him—she’s a sinner! Jesus replied to him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Teacher,” he said, “say it.” “A creditor had two debtors. One owed 500 denarii’s, and the other 50. Since they could not pay it back, he graciously forgave them both. So, which of them will love him more?” Simon answered, “I suppose the one he forgave more.” “You have judged correctly,” He told him. Turning to the woman, He said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave Me no water for My feet, but she, with her tears, has washed My feet and wiped them with her hair. You gave Me no kiss, but she hasn’t stopped kissing My feet since I came in. You didn’t anoint My head with oil, but she has anointed My feet with fragrant oil. Therefore I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; that’s why she loved much. But the one who is forgiven little, loves little.” Then He said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” Those who were at the table with Him began to say among themselves, “Who is this man who even forgives sins?” And Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.” (Luke 7.36-50)

Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think numbness is a refusal, or at least minimizing, of our need for forgiveness. And the worst, or craziest, addendum to that is that I think it’s natural. I think we are more susceptible, and comfortable, to live hidden from our true state and thus, that of another. Human nature avoids emptiness, brokenness and shameless feeling at all costs. And numbness is its greatest defender, whereby we find ourselves content in a realm of mediocre, functioning well maybe, but failing to experience the actualities of life, those of elation and those of desperation.

I sometimes volunteer at a hospital with kids born, developed, or damaged by long-term head-injuries. Dakota is one of my favorite little girls here. She’s a chatty, little ray of sunshine, but silenced by a cage, helmet and hand-coverings. Dakota was born numb to pain. If she is burned, bleeding, or beaten, she doesn’t have the capacity to feel the situation. What a tragedy, and what a greater tragedy that we are apt to choose. “God, help us. Help us never be overwhelmed by states and stories of humanity, but also help us never go numb to the feelings we find in Your presence. Amen.”

“Jo-cu-cu-ba” means spanking and boy-oh-boy, jo-cu-cu-ba’ing is quite the fad in this place. The Mamas have no problem smacking babies with a wooden spoon, stick, or whatever’s in closest reach. And none of this “three strikes and you’re out” bit…if you disobey, you’re gonna get smacked. Other modes of rearing are pretty different, too. Rarely will a Mama pick-up a baby here ‘just’ because they’re crying. They think it’s important to make sure a child can be alone and to train him/her not to cry unless they’re actually in need/hunger. Average African babies don’t have “blankies, passies, or dolls.” This has made me think about our early tendencies toward depending on “things” to make us feel identified, or confident, whereas children here are raised to depend on themselves, or a god (explains why ‘some’ religion is followed by everyone here…Atheism isn’t in their vocabulary). You can’t help but wonder if our early suggestions of security associate with more “grown-up ones,” that hide us behind a job, relationship, image, or status. If a baby needs to stop sucking his/her thumb, they’ll rubber band a sock over it, or band-aid the finger with aloe vera, or hot sauce. This is all I can think of right now, but there are definitely loads more. Overall, I’ve found the babies to be a lot better behaved and have a lot more calm and “readable” demeanors. When a baby is crying here, it’s usually for a reason. Rarely will kids just cry for attention, or out of boredom. The older ones know Muzungoos have quite the habit of picking-up babies when they’re crying, or just cute, and Ugandans don’t do that. As Mama Lois explained to me, “We don’t have time and freedom to play like you guys do.” Interesting point, and I just realized this is one big run-on paragraph, so I’m gonna stop.

***

Women.

There was a post some weeks back called, “Man Hatred.” And after a few more weeks being here, I can no longer let the women get by unscathed—though I will say the male side is still far more challenging to me. For the most part, Mamas I interact with are from the north and either widowed, or just have different views due to faith and/or the affects of living through a war. Having now spent time with a broader range, however, I've seen some different and less tasteful sides of the feminine mystique.
<Women here are often grossly driven my materialism, in a different and somehow even more distinct manner than back home. If a woman is married to a man here and another comes along who can offer more luxury, they’ll split without a thought—and often leave their children along the way (for the more fortunate, they’ll be left in a Baby Home, but for most, they’re left on their own).
<A lot of stealing, killing, cheating and deceit goes on here. And I mean a lot. Again, it happens in the west, too, but I think we’ve got a lot more props and masks to hide behind.
<Any war-torn territory, which includes most of Africa, will typically have fewer men than women, so that certainly here, polygamy is a norm. Three, or four women and their kids, will live with the same man. The idea has very little to do with love, and more to do with sex, convenience and an option to proliferate if desired.

***

Random.

*I got a massage. It was quite the luxurious $6 investment. (I’ve not talked too much about the economy here, but you can see that cost of living is significantly lower. An average meal out costs between $1-3 and if you go to a really nice place, and spoil yourself, you might spend the equivalent of $7 or $8, but that’s with appetizer, drinks and probably dessert, too.) I’m most comfortable with the more “natural approaches,” so after a couple weeks of mad medicine intake, I figured the least I could do was move around muscles and clear some toxins from my system. I’d passed the crooked, hand-written sign a number of times and figured if it was a female misuse, I was in. I’ll spare you the details, but between a table, sheet, olive oil and an hour under hands that could break a rock, it might’ve been the best 10,000 shillings I’ve ever spent.

*Mama Claire’s sister died yesterday. She was twenty-one and “had been feeling ill, but was never sick.” There was no explanation, just a text, and no extreme shock, which was shocking to have to witness. Mama Claire was very sad, don’t get me wrong, and she made every immediate effort to collect money and head north for the funeral. But no one is surprised when such a tragedy happens. It’s as thought they’d be surprised if it didn’t. Elongating life here isn’t the attempt; survival is—and they often fail.

Being here this week has reminded me of last summer, when I met Gwyneth Paltrow, Chris Martin and their little girl, Apple. Okay, so I didn’t meet them exactly, but shared a table with them. Well, not exactly “their” table, but the one across from them. And I really did make eye contact with all three icons. It was at the Whole Foods on Ponce in downtown Atlanta. I was enjoying an average afternoon and in walks this threesome, as if it’s their average afternoon, too. No bodyguards, camouflage, or US Magazine reps camping-out the corner. Awe had paralyzed my brain and I couldn’t figure out if I should rush them for an autograph, call my sister, or accidentally spill my drink and slip near their table, requiring a sympathy of attachment and need to rush me to the hospital, see me through to recovery, and then write Coldplay’s next hit, “Slipping Isn’t as Bad as it Seems.” Instead, I just stared at them eat. They left after awhile, again with no hype, and I carried on with my average afternoon—after calling my sister.

As surreal as this dining experience was, it wasn’t life altering. I thought seeing faces that fronted a myriad of magazines, movies and media would forever change me. But it hasn’t. I’ve gone on in my life and I’m guessing they’ve gone on with theirs (I don’t know though, eye contact can be pretty pivotal). And the same goes for Jesus. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I could see, dine and even disguise a song-writable-saga for him, and it still wouldn’t convince my following from here on out. Seeing God isn’t the same as knowing Him. And it’s not just that it’s not “the same,” but it’s not enough. It’s not satisfying enough to last, or captivating enough to hold my attention.

Every decade or so, a 9/11, or natural disaster happens, or every few years a family death, or tragic news story reminds us there must be more swinging the pendulum than just us. But then the service finishes, or the shock wears off, and we’re back to the dementia-zoned grind. We’re back to our ‘selves.’ I’ve seen this again and again this Summer, witnessing touchable handprints of God, where I was forced to be in situations I was terrified to stay, petrified to go, or too pained to move…and God pulled me through. But sure enough, I woke the next morning, and again this morning, to a resistant heart that would rather do life her way, by her rules, and given her will, rather than His. I can never see enough of God to convince me of His greatness. I can never experience enough of His miracles, measure, or immeasurability, that I’ll trust Him for the long haul. Until God returns and redemption is fully at bay, my “me-ness” will always pierce the intimacy between how it ‘is’ and how it ‘should be.’

I’ve been reading through Exodus lately, an Old Testament book recounting Moses’ lead of the Israelites into Egypt. The accounts are endless where people are upset with God and want Him to work a miracle, so He does and they’re all happy-go-lucky. But in a matter of days, or weeks, another problem arises and they’re again found cursing the very name that got them there. A similar and maybe more striking example involves Jesus’ closest friends. They walked, talked, traveled, sang, fasted and feasted with him for three years. They watched him turn water into wine. And yet when the day came that their supposed Messiah died and the story seemed to take an unexpected turn, they denied knowing him and went fishing. Seeing Jesus day-in and day-out wasn’t enough. We need more.

A pretty shocking statement is made that, “In the end, many will say, ‘Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophecy, drive out demons and do many miracles in Your name?” And Jesus replies, “Yes, but it won’t be of matter, because you didn’t ‘know’ Me.” Maybe a fair modern translation would say, “God, I went to church, was really moral and was definitely good more than I was bad.” And Jesus would say to us, “That’s great, but were we friends? Did we have a relationship, where you knew Me when we saw each other and trusted Me when we didn’t? Where you would follow when life made sense and blindly believe you could do so when it didn’t? Did you know me?”

“Desperado…you better let somebody love you, you better let somebody love you before it’s too late.” –The Eagles

Daniel arrived this morning. He was dropped-off by two women from an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization…same as a Non-Profit) who took him from a village. They said the mom looked about fourteen and as if she’d gone mad, clearly with no ability, let alone intention, to care for her son. Daniel is between ten and twelve months old, but weighs just eight pounds. He has sores all over his body and when he arrived, it seemed doubtful he’d make it another hour. His chest and face protrude with bones, and his stomach is hard and swollen. Mama Lucy and I named and bathed him. Caressing ribs never gets easier. We attempted to feed him, but Daniel was so weak and unknowing of touch that his miniature body shrieked mightily when anything neared his flesh. It was as though his corpse was all he had left, with his only defense being a death-cry that screamed bloody-murder and hoped someone would hear. I took him to the clinic for blood tests and a physical. He cried most of the time. When they pierced his finger, he didn’t even flinch. It was obvious Daniel’s life had endured far more pain than a needle. I was his caretaker for the day and it was required that he be held around the clock and given nutrition every two hours. The Mamas rarely spoil a baby to such measures, but in his case it was life-or-death. He alternated between my lap, shoulder and the incubator. Though his tests miraculously showed-up free of “the biggies” (HIV, TB and Malaria), new babies are always kept incubated for a few days, in case of obscure disease or infection.

I sat quietly over Daniel’s rest, watching the glucose-enhanced formula slowly enliven his corpse. His mouth was unfamiliar with the bottle and too weak to suck without assistance, but it was astonishing to see the rate of improvement and change in just a matter of hours. The short, unfamiliar verse, which I’d probably read ten times, but just noticed this morning, was all I could think about. In a tender exchange relaying the promise of the Holy Spirit once he departed, Jesus explained, “I will not leave you as orphans; I am coming to you” (John 14.4). It was as if these very words were being whispered into Daniel’s spirit. The slightest of grins matured into a most magical of smiles, which Mama Suzanne calls, “the ugliest thing she’s ever seen.” The problem is, his face is quite bony and small and his toothless smile is abnormally large, so it’s as though this enormous hole just takes over his face. I still think it’s adorable. Anyway, what remains of Daniel’s limp-less neck and body has at least started to move. By dinnertime, after seeing him through a slow, but successful run at mashed pumpkin, I was convinced this child was going to be okay.

Mama Grace, on the other hand, might not. She got fired last night. Unknown to us, she was caught stealing 2 kilos of sugar the day before we left for Gulu. It would’ve been a disgrace to come home without a gift and she had no money at that point, so at least wanted to bring sugar. Unfortunately, she was caught red-handed when a hole in the sugar bag shined a straight path to her cookie jar purse. Ashamed and shocked, I guess, she lied about it and tried to deny her attempt. There is a lot of pardoning done around here, and a confession of stealing probably would’ve sufficed, but when someone lies, and then keeps lying, there’s only so much pardoning to do. I’m heartbroken for Mama Grace tonight, for many reasons. The Baby Home is an incredible job, paying 90,000 shillings a month (equivalent to about $100) and providing incredible community, safety and opportunity, which are all unheard of around here. I’m also heartbroken that I couldn’t tell her goodbye. All I want to do is put my arms around her and tell her I forgive her and love her. And that God does, too. I can’t imagine the shame she must be feeling right now.

When I put these stories side-by-side, I realize how hard it is to receive. One could say Daniel’s life was saved because he was open to receiving grace (one could also say he didn’t have the strength, or intellect, to prevent it, but maybe that’s what “faith like a child” looks like). And one could say much of Mama Grace’s life was lost because she wasn’t. Daniel let himself be loved, and Grace didn’t. She couldn’t believe God would provide. She couldn’t believe had she waited mere hours, four Muzungoo friends would ask her on a bus-ride home what would most bless her family. She could’ve answered, “Ten kilos of sugar,” and we wouldn’t have batted an eye. When it came down to it, Grace couldn’t resist the indulgence of something that seemed so necessary and would be so instantly gratifying. She couldn’t believe Someone knew of her orphan feelings and would come to her rescue. And I usually don’t either.

How can we believe God wants to feed, hold and handle this day for us? How can we believe He’ll not abandon us, but rather, takes every extreme, including death on a Roman Cross, to rescue us from ongoing villages of despair? How can we trust God’s love? If I had two wishes tonight, they’d be: 1) Realization that letting myself ‘be loved’ by the person of God is my greatest calling. “Love consists of this: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 4.10). This, then, is likewise my greatest capability toward ‘loving.’ 2) I wish my faith would mature to that of Daniel's. “The disciples came to Jesus and said, “Who is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” “I assure you,” he said, “unless you are converted and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child—this one is the greatest” (Matthew 18.1-4).

I’ve heard it said, taught, laughed-at and cried over, that a girl’s most intrinsic desire is to ‘know’ she is beautiful, though have found just a few rare gems who actually do. You can tell her of such truths all day long, but it’s the reception that’s the challenge. Or gift. And I’m grateful to have rubbed such brilliance this morning. I went to Mama Lucy’s church, which provided me, yet again, with a really good Church experience. Maybe you’re surprised—no probably not—but I am dumbfounded by the health of the Church over here. Granted, there’s always a comparable amount of unhealth, but I would say relative to what I know in the States, Africa needs to be sending missionaries to us.

By accident, really, I’d actually visited Mama Lucy’s church before. I passed it on a recent evening, intrigued by its open doors, octagon shape and shadowing light toward a simple, but really striking stain-glass cross. I decided to walk in and sit for a bit, but actually entered in on a group of about thirty people doing a Bible Study. I gladly stayed until then end and later retold the story to Mama Lucy, who proudly affirmed that was her church and I must come visit one Sunday. So I did.

It wasn’t even something particular that stood-out in the 2.5 hour service, just an overall feeling of rightness and Spirit-filled presence. As I stood there locking arms with Mama Lucy, singing unharmonized sounds of purity, tears streamed from our eyes and adoration spilled from our hearts. Clad in a long black dress, which accounts for half of her wardrobe, and dark black skin, etched with marks of wisdom, I was beyond honored to stand beside Mama Lucy. She was radiant—one of the most beautiful beings I’d ever laid eyes on. I was plain-faced with damp hair, wearing Chacos and attire that hadn’t been changed in days, but somehow felt beautiful, too. Or more than that, really—it was this overwhelming sense of ‘knowing’ an actual part of my being as beautiful. Even writing that statement feels odd, or too weighty for words, admittance, or something. Especially for the female readership though, I know you will see the breakthrough here, and importance of these moments. There was something beyond the physical about them that I can only know as a wholeness, or poise, and ascribe as from the Lord. I could feel the radiance beaming from Mama Lucy and me and it was as though, for an instant, when we looked at each other, both knew of the beauty we were chanced, choosing, or graced, to behold.

‘How beautiful you are, My darling. How very beautiful!’ Song of Solomon 1.15

***

Tea With Buddha and Jesus.
(For a lengthier, but still short, fictionalization of this, “The Lotus and the Cross,” by Ravi Zacharias is a quite interesting read.)

Tonya is one of my roommates. She’s from the UK, worked in Uganda last summer, spent the year in Rwanda and is now back visiting for a few weeks. She’s a beautiful girl with aged dreads, spiritual tattoos and a heart of toughened gold. We spent the better part of the afternoon over tea, conversation and a robust thunderstorm. Most of it revolved around the challenges of love and how to do so most presently and fully. Tonya lives from a Buddhist perspective, and with my undergrad focusing on Eastern Religion and a fascination with religion overall, you can imagine we get along quite well.

Tonya sews her days by a strand of philosophy saying: “It’s better to love and to lose, than to not love at all.” She walked me through the ripples of this, ranging from extraordinary places of met and shattered dreams (not in that order), to myriads of exposure with drugs, relationships, theory and theology. For Tonya, the pursuit and capture of love requires a depth willing to lose, just as much, and oftentimes more, as its willingness to gain. Such a profession is unmistakably clear when you see her embrace a child, embark a topic of interest, or hear the words of a friend. If I met Tonya five years, or five months ago, my guess is I would’ve agreed with her perspectives. But my surety is that I would’ve understood them far more inspirationally, than actually.

In subtle, and from the outside absent, ways, I’ve seen myself pulling away from the babies. From the Mamas. From here. Part of this is a gift of defense, I presume, but more of it has intrigued me as a fear of love. Though still weeks from my departure, the end is within view. The emptiness of waking thousands of miles from this land is within sight’s reach. And I don’t want to face it. I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want to feel the pain of losing. But it’s too late. As tight as its guard tries to seal, too much of their love, and my love, and His love, has escaped. And I’m gonna hurt. My fear in these final weeks though, as I see tendencies to seal tighter and suppress a more riveting emotion than I want feel, is to give in. And I don’t want to. I want to love. I want to love wholly and richly and painfully and unashamedly. I want to love until it hurts. Until I have no choice ‘but’ to lose. To lie awake affected, grieving, prayerful and marked by souls for whom I chose to lose myself. For then, I think, I might have really loved.

“No one has greater love than this, that he would lay down his life for his friends.”—Jesus

The power has been out the past couple days, malaria has reeked havoc on my system, faucet drips have been cold and slight, and bats have been stormed our house like it’s their job. For whatever reason though, I’ve felt like I wanted to stay in Africa more so this week, than ever before. I’m realizing, then, that there must be something bigger than comfortability, desire, or circumstance, moving someone to go a given direction in life.

I think most of relief-work, or missionary living, is far more glamorous from afar. And having spent a decent amount of time around these individuals, it’s probably not surprising that most of them are quite subdued and I think stabilized in their initial passion. It’s as though it has yielded into a more matured consistency of steadiness, or calm. Not that their passion has faded, per se, but I think the buoyancies of adventure and undying effort are only natural to find a leveling ground, lest burnout, sickness, or death becomes them (which I’m not denying as often the case). This has further reminded me that any sort of work, relationship, or commitment, hoping to offer long-term effectiveness, must be laced by a passion, but undergirded by something deeper. Something more rooted, like a vision, or mission, I guess. Too many of our days are forced to question if we should come, stay, go, or why we came in the first place, so that I think unless we have a tangible “call beyond ourselves,” be it a loved one we’re wanting to honor, a God we’re wanting to serve, or a cause we’re willing to die for, I can’t see a life of service lasting.

How do you know though? How do you know when to go, or when to stay, or when to take a stand? I’m not sure the full answer, but am getting more sure of a partial one. And for me, at least, a lot of it relates to times I’ve gotten it “wrong.” I feared ____ and settled, or faked okayness and pressed-on—both unhealthily. But the astonishing thing to realize is that in God’s economy, there’s a transcendence of right/wrong, good/bad, black/white, etc., called sovereignty.

Most of this has been learned the hard way, but God’s will is God’s will and as much as He created me with vast wills of choice, being and depth, ‘His will’ will always prevail over mine. I have the freedom to dream and dive and rise and fall, knowing that in honest pursuit of Him (key), I can be “wrong,” or “right,” and His will can’t help but catch me. This doesn’t hand me the lackadaisical leeway to say, “I can do whatever I want and God will take care of me.” No—it’s a call with far more dignity than that. It’s a call that designates me as someone Hand-designed and potentialed for a unique life of peace, adventure, intimacy and glorification. John Piper’s books usually boil down to one truth: “God is most glorified in me when I am most satisfied in Him.” In other words, if you feel called to serve in Africa, I increasingly believe that, in order for your passion to stay present with your leading, it must be supremely based in an enjoyment of the call(er), rather than Africa. Or if you feel led (could be synonymn’ed by stirred, desirous, moved, stimulated towards, etc.) to be a student, dentist, or Mom in America, doing so with a consistence of vigor, purpose and motivation must be lined with a derivative deeper than studies, teeth, or minivans.

To quell any worried audiences, I am not staying in Africa and I am not confiscating any babies into my suitcase. Although a lot of me would love to do both. Thank God, my passion has consistently been trumped by His whisper. Although I don’t doubt I’ll be back on this continent one-day soon, I know the time is not now. An objective “how do you know” is beyond me to explain, but in decisions past, whether related to marrying a person, moving across the country, or knowing I was to be in Uganda for the summer, God’s will has always found a way to speak. Sometimes it’s been through my mistakes, while other times through combinations of Scripture, prayer, counsel, or circumstance. Slowly but surely though, I am coming to trust and discern His voice, which is sometimes loud, usually quiet, and often silent. It is always there though, trumping my temporal, top-able passions saying yes, no, or everything in-between.

***

For God So Loved The World.

I’ve always found John 3.16 kind-of annoying. It’s like the catch-phrase salvation verse and shows-up on anything from t-shirts and bumper stickers, to sermon bases and stupid breath mints. Being over here has helped me free up a little cynicism. I’ve been floored in actual sightings of God’s widespread love for nations, people groups and personalized hairs on each head. Maybe He really did love the world so much, that He gave His one and only Son, Jesus Christ, that none should perish, but all who followed Him would have eternal life. That’s unbelievable.

She’s my little Ugandan Wikepedia. Hasn’t seen an iPod, driven in a car, or traveled much beyond her orphanage in Luwero, but Stella’s eighteen years have matured a most incredible woman. We’ve had the chance to spend more time together lately, feasting on issues of faith, culture and curiosities of her story. A most surprising part has been Stella’s openness, knowing it’s extremely uncommon, and uncomfortable usually, for Ugandans to open-up about personal information, pasts, or emotions. Stella has given me loads of each.

As a nursing student, she loves hearing about my Graduate program, which in very basic terms mixes theology (study of God) and psychology (study of self). A lot of our reading this past semester covered parental influence and how that affects one’s view of God. In other words, how the way you were disciplined, loved, reacted toward, listened to, etc., is practically identical to the way you’ll perceive being done so by God. Thus, your reaction(s), opinions, prayer approaches, fears, mistrusts, and so on, will similarly correlate to that of your mother and father. An obvious example might be that you grew-up with a strict dad who lashed-out at the smallest of mistakes. Your view of God, then, will struggle to trust unconditional love, as you’re constantly up against an innate fear that if you mess-up, God will lash-out at you. Through time, prayer, awareness, counseling and usually a good bit of re-objectification (experiencing people who provide “healthy” responses to your mistakes), I think it is of God’s highest priorities to tear-down and rebuild our views of (His) perfect parenting.

Anyway, I was curious about this from the perspective of an orphan. Namely, how had Stella’s view of God been challenged, provided a lacking mom (died in childbirth) and absent dad from the start? The mom side was easy, she said, given that a woman from the orphanage had stepped-in and “re-objectified” (she liked this word J) her views of a silent mother figure. In view of God, then, she felt comfortable turning to His more feminine traits of nurture, care, gentleness and counsel. It was the masculine ones, she explained, that have taken years to rely on. “Believing God as my Father has been the biggest challenge to my faith. I could call Him any other name, but spent years fighting His title, or role, as Father.”

When I asked Stella about thoughts on marriage and if she foresaw herself getting married, she smiled and said she dreams of it, but, “It’ll have to be a miracle of God. I don’t know how to trust men and am only starting to learn what it means to trust Him. I picture myself with a Ugandan, but even in the church, men here talk the talk, but it’s rare to find one who really lives it. To be honest, a lot of me is scared of marriage and although I’d give anything to be a mother, cannot get past the hurdle of the husband element.” “Mock families” are created at her orphanage, so that she spends a good chunk of days working, studying, going to church, eating meals, etc., with 8-10 other “family members,” including a “father and mother figure” (who are staff at the orphanage, but have their own families, too). Unfortunately, Stella watched her “father figure” cheat, abuse and misuse women, namely his wife. Therefore, she said, yet another wall went up between her ability to healthily view a male figure and thus, to healthily view God.

The conversation closed with me explaining how one of our biggest struggles in America is against a lot of jacked-up family lives and therefore, a lot of jacked-up views of God. It was refreshing for her to realize she wasn’t alone in these conversations, and refreshing for me to realize what I’m studying is really poignant material. Arriving at the house, there were three Danish people sitting at the table chatting. Stella looked at my with a grin and said, “I don’t know why I never realized this, but I assumed all white people spoke the same language.” I smiled back, realizing in some ways, it’s a very small world, carrying the same needs and questions of God. But in other ways, it’s really big and carries quite different ones.

***

Random.

Christina (3) and Sharon (2) spent the night last night. Christina entertained herself painting my fingers ‘and’ nails, making banana pancakes and laughing as the adults played Catch-Phrase. Sharon was a little under the weather, so crashed earlier, actually catching-on to the phrase, “slumber party.” Christiana was apparently more keen on an “awake-party.” Between crying, laughing and wiggling, I think she REM’ed for about 30 minutes.

How is it that glue doesn’t stick together when it’s in the bottle?

I think we’ve all realized at times how much we ‘don’t’ mean, “how are you,” when we ask, or are asked. If we really took that greeting seriously, we’d be processing with people all day long. What’s crazy is that Ugandans often knock the greeting up a notch, ‘and’ really mean it. They ask, “How is your life?” And expect an honest answer. No wonder nothing runs remotely close to on time here.

A bird shat on me yesterday. I looked-up to find no tree, no overhang, no nothin’. It had the whole sky to fill and instead chose the 2mm crevice behind my left ear.

This synopsis from an email summarizes my trip quite well. And succinctly. "it's been so hard, so raw, so lonely, so stretching, so tiring, so enriching, so restful, so eye-opening, so dream-producing, so freeing, so long, so short, so overwhelming, so real, so needed, so wanted, so disturbing, so hunger-producing, so draining, so moving, so scary, so Life-giving, so sensory, so exciting, so boring, so adverturous, so me, so unfathomable to me...with so many so's."

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 bor