I knew this would be a hard transition.

I didn’t know it would this hard. I’d lived overseas before and had no expectation that two months abroad could wreak such havoc on my soul. But it has. This summer marked and married me in ways like nothing I’ve experienced to this point. It’s been a little over a month since the ground touched me at Dulles, most of which has felt dressed in a stranger’s skin, wrestling to reconnect with a distant land, while attempting connection to this foreign land called home—and this ambiguous being called me.

The first time I sat down to write this, I was in the peaceful confines of my home, cooled by the window’s clean breeze and comforted by plush furniture and the scent of a cinnamon candle. I had woken to a hot shower and feasted on a slow, Saturday morning breakfast. This afternoon finds me in a lighted coffee shop, with a floor, a ceiling and even background music to enchant my writing. It’s still perplexing to me that the machine at my fingertips can have me sending, buying, or surfing instantaneously. Or if that feels cumbersome, I can do so with the plastic card in my pocket. People are driving on a road in front of me, laughing at a table beside me, and an elderly man just skateboarded down the sidewalk behind me (granted, this scene might be unique to LA). It’s sunny outside. It’s safe, colorful and progressive. For the most part it seems controllable, such that needing a God today will not make a natural crossing of my mind. I can do, plan, prevent and predict, almost to a tee. The idea of surviving this day is the farthest thing from my attention. A homeless man just walked in. He probably hasn’t showered all week, and maybe hasn’t eaten all day, but chances are, by nightfall, he’ll be covered by a meal and comforted by a roof. Memories reel quite the contrary in Africa, where food, shelter and even survival are never an expectation.

The jury is still out as to whether our life is “better” necessarily, but in terms of ease, life in a first-world country wins without question. My rationales to poverty were shattered this summer. Living with poverty, versus visiting it, has forced me to engaged with some entirely new subjects. I no longer believe, “They don’t know what we have,” and therefore, “are content with what they don’t.” And I no longer assume that one kid’s smile means the whole country must be okay—let alone that kid. There are a few launch pads here, but I’ll make it brief by saying they do know what we have, or at least enough to give them a more desirous and intrinsically covetous spirit than anyone I’ve ever met on this side of the ocean. Furthermore, what kid wouldn’t smile when you ride in on a shiny bus, or even running automobile, carrying candy, polaroids, or presents?

There is no good reason why Africa is seeing, feeling and tasting depravity and death at this very moment. And this one. Most mornings wake me with tears—tears of nostalgia and confusion, tears of conformity and consternation, limitation, inadequacy, intolerability, tolerability, memory, reality, superficiality, sadness, separation, and the list goes on. There’s no telling what my next minutes will unravel, but as I continue to process through these past few months, I continue to grow in belief that there are approximately, and maybe only, two options that make any consoling, and yet logical, sense. Either, the concept of God is an historically massive crux that has killed, marred and masked mankind as a mechanism of power, justifying the true state of humanities depravity and depraved desire—all at the sick cost of “saving” souls. Or, there is a living God who is intrinsically and extrinsically aware and untraceably empathetic toward the cause and causation of what we know as “evil.” Though still impossible to perceive, or conceive, from the limitations of a mind, this God speaks and spoke in such a way that claims His personhood as enough—more than enough—to answer into life’s richest high and poorest low. Furthermore, as one who is gently and justly piecing together a mysterious mosaic that restores, rectifies and saves lost souls.

I’m hoping in the latter.

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Dear Africa,

I’ve made it home safely. The thirty’ish hours of flying weren’t the high of my journey, but they did mark a tangible reminder of how distanced our two worlds are. My mom used to make me write thank-you notes when I received a gift; today that requisite seems a most minimal privilege. I have so much to thank you for, Africa, and so much to hold onto after a summer on your soil. What began as my attempt to come and serve you, turned-out to be just as much about you serving me.

You served my perspective, exposing a lifestyle completely different from that which I know.
You humbled lenses of my self, my world, and my God.
You exhausted me to a point of matchless refreshment.
You ignited my views, vision and hope for the Church.
You smiled at me, and enhanced understandings of my own smile.
You taught me how to give when I don’t have.
You taught me how to receive when I don’t give.
You loved me in my weakness, led me in my fear and carried me in my sorrow.
You showed me that what I’m used to is easier, but also that what I’m used to, and what is easier, isn’t always better.
You found me dirty, redefining my understanding of clean.
You showed me the face of Jesus through the eyes of AIDS.
You showed me the face of faith through the eyes of a child.
You exposed the fragilities of life, but also the tenacities.
You helped me feel exposed, vulnerable and tired, but also freed, purposed and awake.
You forced me to believe blindly.
You feasted with me at a table set with questions, not answers.
You challenged me toward contentment—when I have little and when I have much, when I am well fed and when I am hungry, when I am in abundance and when I am in need.

I thank God for you, Africa, and ask that He’ll continue etching you on my heart to pray for, live for and die for. I have become convinced in your hands that losing my life for the sake of Christ's is, in fact, the very vessel that finds it. I will not bid you farewell, for I’m not good at goodbyes, nor am I convinced I won’t be seeing you again soon. Until then, may the peace of God go before you, as He gently leads us into a greater understanding of who He is, who we are, and the perplexing freedoms confronting that middle.

With Love,
abbie

I’m trying to understand the First Commandment. Because I’m continually being reminded that I don’t understand it. God tells us to serve no other gods besides Him—to possess no other modes of worship than Him. That’s impossible though? I could name ten gods I’ll worship in the next minute, let alone lifetime. Sometimes they’re more obvious and “golden-calf-like,” but more often they’re more subtle and seeped into my thoughts, expectations, motives, or ego. Saint Augustine said, “Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.” And that sounds great theoretically, but what in the world does it mean practically?

This is one of those posts that’s gonna get nowhere close to an answer, let alone an attempted answer really. We could share ten cups of coffee, twenty book exchanges, and twenty-five books we scripted on our own, and I still think we’d be fish out of water. Most of this post relays others’ thoughts on the topic, as I am still floundering. Philippians 2.6-13 could possibly be some of the most profound content in the entire Bible, and I think it’s related to what we’re talking about:

Just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life—a ransom for many…existing in the form of God, did not consider equality with God as something to be used for His own advantage. Instead, He emptied Himself by assuming the form of a slave, taking on the likeness of men. And when He had come as a man in His external form, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross. For this reason God also highly exalted Him and gave Him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow—and those who are in heaven and on earth and under the earth—and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. 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.

Thomas Keating shares further insights saying: “We are made for happiness and there is nothing wrong in reaching out for it. Unfortunately, most of us are so deprived of happiness that as soon as it comes along, we reach out for it with all our strength and try to hang on for dear life. That is the mistake. The way to receive it is to give it away. If you give everything back to God, you will always be empty, and when you are empty, there is more room for God. The challenge is that human nature isn’t comfortable being empty before God.” Thus…“The innate tendency to hang-on, to possess, is the biggest obstacle to union with God. The reason we are possessive is that we feel separated from God—the ordinary psychological experience of the human condition. This misapprehension is the cause of our efforts to look for happiness down every path that we can possibly envision when actually it is right under our noses. We just don’t know how to perceive it. Since the security that we should have as beings united with God is missing, we reach out to bolster up our fragile self-image with whatever possessions or power symbols we can lay hold of. In returning to God, we take the reverse path, which is to let go of all that we want to possess” (Open Mind, Open Heart, page 88).

That’s all I’ve got. And I really didn’t give you much—maybe I’ll have more personal projections soon. So, to be continued.

***

Random.

*I was in a remote area tonight and am certainly no scholar, but know enough to recognize good players in a pick-up game of soccer. Like really good. It made me wonder though, even if the next Pele existed on that field, or Michael Johnson in this district, how would they get recognized (this isn't partial to athletes, either)? And even if they did, how would they talk their way into a Visa? Hundreds here could be incredible assets to any school in America, or anywhere for that matter, and yet they’re landlocked by inaccessible living and a lack of technology.

*When you think they’re exclusive to ballparks and city streets, think again. An African lady with a Bible walked through town today yelling, “Repent and be saved, for the Kingdom is coming.” It was all in Luugandan, but clear enough, especially by others reactions, to know exactly what she was saying. I was really, really saddened, or infuriated, or embarrassed, or something not good, by it. Does anyone actually find such doing attractive? Or more laughably, does anyone actually “get saved” through it?

*Edwin arrived today. He’s been living in jail with his imprisoned mother, who can’t breastfeed due to AIDS (she’s able physically, but would almost undoubtedly leave Edwin to its contraction). Formula was being delivered by a health worker, but inmates would attack violently upon at its arrival. Needless to say, Edwin would never get his hands on the milk and is severely malnourished. He’ll only stay for a few months, until his mother is released.

*A massive lizard just scurried over my feet. And a large frog joined my cold dripper tonight (not shower). One thing I will be relieved of is a divorce from the sight, smell, sound and touch of exotic animals—I should definitely list taste in there, too.

I’ve not cried too much this summer, but this afternoon found me swayed by hesitant tears, wondering if I could bear, or wanted to bear, last goodbyes at the baby home. As it turned-out, my final hours were far less dramatic, or climatic, than I might’ve imagined. Mama Lucy and I shared some special time together, and then Mama Claire was running late, which left me alone with the babies between shifts. Everyone was quite antsy for dinner, but still kind enough to humor my necessary discourse.

I explained how much I loved them, and how proud I was of who they were becoming. I thanked them for their gentle spirits, and for their willingness to teach and be taught. I petitioned for the health of their hearts, minds, souls and strength and for an increased openness to God’s unfailing love. I prayed for their families and the generations they would influence. And I promised to stand as their ambassadors from this day forward. My little angels were speechless. All ten of them offered undivided attention, until at some point Ryan screamed and the room gained a stench saying someone’s bowels had lost control. I was touched. And kindly prompted toward the end of my talk. Things went a bit downhill from there, which honestly made a night that could’ve been surreal far less so. Ten cranky babies have an exceptional way of ruining a sensuous moment.

The remainder of the evening proceeded as normal, with bottles, baths, diapers and PJ’s, and then off to cribs for a final kiss. These moments marked a delicate mix, not unlike every preceding nights spent with this adieu. I was overwhelmed by the gift of handling life for this day, but more overwhelmed by the gift of handing it back to that which it came. To love in one’s presence, and yet to release to one’s greater Presence, must be the richest miracle I have ever held, or imparted.

May you rest in peace, child. May you rest in Peace.

It’s daunting to think about leaving. I depart for Kampala in the morning, where I’ll spend my last days with a Rwandan family and some missionary friends. The next time I write will be from my laptop in Los Angeles—a loaded thought, to say the least. By this time next week, I’ll have been in a car (driving on the right-side), eaten without a derivative of corn, potatoes and bananas, bathed, bathed in hot water, savored a tall-soy-chai, shopped at a grocery store, sat on a couch, sat on a beach, seen wealth, indulged in wealth, worn make-up, been somewhere alone, put clothes in a laundry machine, used a cell phone, conversed in clear English, felt safe, healthy and clean, strolled by moonlight and slept in a bed…all of which stand in rich contrast my last two months.

Some obvious questions mark this map then: How will it feel? How will I feel? Am I ready for it? Do I want it? Do I need it? Will I feel guilty? Will I make others feel guilty, etc.? The questions of the coming weeks are somewhat predictable, but the answers, I presume, will remain far more unscripted. I never could’ve imagined what was in store for my summer. I gave God a canvas of will and a few lines that seemed of His lead, but from there, I was His.

At the end of my senior year of college, I asked for a one-way ticket to Africa. I wanted to, “hike through the tribes and love on people.” Simple goal, but sounds outrageous to me now. Thank God a little book idea fell into action—I would’ve been killed before stepping off the plane. Endless reasons able me to look back now and realize a naïve passion drove me, whose realities were untimely and unwise. Knowing now what I didn’t know my senior year, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t in the right place. And the same goes for now. This spring was necessary, in order that I best face this summer. And this summer was required, that I best face the details of this fall. My spring highlighted play, laughter and crying, whereas my summer passed themes of service, rest and newfound faith. God only knows what the coming season will bring.

There are many, many things I will miss about my life in Africa. I’ll miss the monotony of doing laundry by hand. I’ll miss sunset walks by the Nile. I’ll miss the babies. I’ll miss the plainness and predictability of schedule. I’ll miss the community of the volunteer home. I’ll miss the Mamas. I’ll miss silence of cell phones, email and media. I’ll miss the simplicity of living. I’ll miss a lot of the food. I’ll miss the amounts of solitude and rest. I’ll miss meals and minglings with my housemates…and so much more. But I am ready to go. I am ready for a new season and hope potentials of guilt will be soothed by a deeper Guidance, surpassing my understandings and reminding me that I am in the right place. I am in the will of my Father. Shades of this season will surely join me in the next, but a new day is dawning and I feel ready to meet it.

Many parts of here have become familiar, and yet many parts of there remain so, too. Just over a year ago I wrote the following piece, which strikes me as quite similar to how I feel today:

It’s the familiar that grips me today; it’s the familiar that makes me feel at home. What is familiar to me is comforting. It’s comfortable and conforms my humanity to a state of being. Whether it’s being with those whom I know, or being with that which knows me, familiarity holds me in peace. But if such is the case, what lies in the unfamiliar? What stirs in the uncomfortable and unconformed place staring at my headlights?

Come tomorrow, I will approach a new Destiny of sorts, Manifest by the western coast of the United States of America. I will leave the familiar, to lean on but the natural laws of the unfamiliar—change leads to progress, progress leverages growth, etc. From experience, I know that such a move will elicit challenge. But I also know that spending time with that challenge will elicit familiarity again. Maybe different looking, and maybe different feeling, but still in the brand of familiar.

Shifting to a lens less carnal, I’ve been forced to question the unfamiliars of God. Do dictations of familiarity rest in the spiritual realm, too? If so, what aspects of God are unfamiliar to me today? What spaces of His Being have lacked my explore? For lest I humanize a being unchanged, I must trust a path uncharted. But what then, will hold me in lasting peace?

Maybe it is He? Maybe it is One who transcends the road and the transforms the comfort? Maybe it is He who is my Familiar—here, in the “familiar” and there, in the “unfamiliar.”

It’s the Familiar that grips me today; it’s the Familiar that makes me feel at home.

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.