great is Thy faithfulness

"I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember Your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all Your works, and consider all Your mighty deeds. Your ways, O God, are holy. What god is so great as our God?"
-Psalm 77:11-13

I am going back to Africa. I am finally typing the sentence my fingers have longed to type since July, the sentence I never thought I'd ever write or speak. But it is official, and it is real: I am going back to Uganda.

It would be impossible to explain the many thoughts and emotions that play through my head and my heart.  I am oh-so excited. I am oh-so scared. I am oh-so ready to pack a bag and board a plane. I am oh-so heartbroken when I think of saying goodbye to Chicago and my beloved family for 8 months. I am completely overwhelmed.

The process of getting to this place of returning to Uganda has not been easy by any means at all. My mind replays the countless nights of crying out to the Lord, "What is Your will?" The rejection, the searching, the surrender. So many thoughts were worked through, so many places applied to, so much surrender had (and still has) to be done. This journey has not been easy, and this journey has only just begun.

Sara and I have been praying about going back to Uganda since August. And oh, to tell you all He has brought us through! It would take many a blogpost. We considered so many options, we applied to so many places, we prayed over so many things. It got to a point where we had to stop. In the midst of trying to get back to Uganda, I had forgotten who was really in control. I had foolishly believed it all depended on me, when really I had no control whatsoever.

I have been reminded of this again and again: I can accomplish nothing. Each moment, each breath, I have to depend on Him. There is no other way. And it seems that, as soon as I lose that mentality and focus, He does something to bring me back to that place of dependency.

Going back to Uganda for 8 months. The commitment I have just made feels dauntingly and scarily and overwhelmingly huge. Honestly, I am freaked out. Leaving behind Chicago, surrendering my family, caring for children with disabilities, living in a completely different culture.. for 8 months. How in the world am I going to do this? And thinking about it now, I have to laugh. Because I have been reminded that I'm not doing any of it, He is.

When I stand in the airport next fall, saying the most heartbreaking goodbye of my life, He will be there. When I worriedly begin to think of home and what may be happening without me, He will be there. When I serve day after day at Ekisa, when I am mentally and physically tired, when I don't know what to do, He will be there. When I learn how to live in Uganda and shop in the market and live in a culture so new to me, He will be there. He will always, always be there.

I look at all that God has brought me through-- just in this process of returning to Uganda, and also within the past year of my life. And I stand amazed. "Look at all He has done!" my soul screams at me, "How can you doubt Him now? How could you forget what He has brought you through, and all He has promised you? How can you worry that He doesn't know best?"

All I have needed His hand has provided. He has worked all things in His perfect timing for His perfect will, always. He has given me, His child, what is best for my life. Great, oh-so great, is His faithfulness. When I look at my past, when I remember and reflect on what He has done, how can I not rest assured that He who has been so faithful before, will be again?

I stand about to embark on this journey, not knowing what may lay ahead. And I hear Him say, "All you have needed, My hands have provided. Child of mine, do not doubt Me now." It is still scary, it is still hard, it is still unknown. But all I have to do is glance behind me, seeing the work of His hand, and this I know: He has taken care of me up to this point, and He's not going to stop now.

no greater joy

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." --Luke 12:32-34

Meet Waako Elisa, an orphaned child that lives in Uganda. He was able to receive a shirt and shorts because of your loving kindness and generous hearts.

This little girl's name is Kataike Shabila. And she also was able to have a new skirt and shirt because of your donations.

Her name is Kaanyi Nabutono. And she is another orphaned child living in Uganda who received a shirt and skirt that were in the boxes sent to Africa.

This is Naula Helen, whose father died of AIDS. She was able to receive a shirt and skirt. And yes, for all you VBS goers, that's a High Seas Expedition shirt she's wearing.

This is Kabasa Margaret, and that is her mother in the background there. As the Ugandans say, she looks quite smart (nice) in her new clothes, doesn't she?

This orphaned boy -Ndoboli Jackson- also received a new shirt that was in the boxes. This photo makes all the Fedex telephone conversations above and beyond worth it.

I am more thankful for your donations than I could ever begin to express. And I am humbled by those of you who have asked how you can help. If you would like to get involved, you can donate items to send (skirts and dresses for girls, shirts for both boys and girls, boy's shorts, gently used or new shoes for girls and boys, soccer balls, jumping ropes) or you can donate money for the shipping cost of the boxes (even with the God-given discount I have through my cousin, this can become costly). As God continues to provide, so we will continue to give. Shoot me an email or facebook message for more details.

We are storing treasures in heaven, where thieves do not break in and moths do not destroy. But we are also giving these things hoping that those who receive them will know of His immense love for them. For there is no greater gift and no greater joy than knowing Him.

Thy hand hath provided

"I will sing of the Lord's great love forever; with my mouth I will make Your faithfulness known through all generations." -Psalm 89:1

thank you

You may remember this post I wrote weeks ago. This morning, I logged onto my facebook to find pictures of the items in those boxes being given to children at the schools I volunteered at this summer. This was the first picture I saw. Tears welled in my eyes, and for second, I forgot to breathe.

I see the joy on their faces, the way their eyes are lit up, the smiles so wide, the moment frozen in time with the snap of a picture. I can almost hear their laughter and feel the excitement in the air. Although I ache to have been there in those moments, my heart still could not be happier.

I think of all I have seen the Lord do in getting these boxes to Uganda. He has provided the items to send, the money to pay for the shipping, the incredible discount on the shipping. I worried they would not get to Uganda safely, but He had them in His hands the entire journey. And I know this is one more story He has given me to share and remember, one more testimony I can give to His goodness and faithfulness.

Seeing children with shoes and clothes has made me so, so happy. And it makes me think about a Father, who cares even more about these children than I do. And I now know some of that joy He feels when He gives us -His children- good things.

He delights in being able to provide for His children, I have no doubt of this. And now, I have a little bit deeper of an understanding of that delight. He has, again, drawn me closer to His heart. And I stand thankful and in awe of the One who made all of this possible, wondering why He has blessed me with the opportunity to be apart of this.

Words will never be able to describe many things about these boxes... my gratitude, my joy, my excitement, and the many other emotions running through my heart right now.

Thank you for making this possible:

And for making this possible:

Thank you for giving this darling little girl shoes:

And for putting the smiles on these faces:

Words will never be able to express how thankful I am to all of you who donated money and supplies to send and kept these boxes in your prayers. I know there are very many happy children in Uganda who would say the same thing.

enkoko is not my mukwano gwange

I killed a chicken in Africa. If you've had any Africa-related conversation with me, you most likely know this (in fact, you may have heard it numerous times, in which case this post will be completely irritating because Anna's talking about the chicken, again).

Let me first say that to those of you who let me retell (and retell, and retell) my Africa stories, and smile and nod patiently, enduring them yet again, that means the world to me. So, next time I'm talking Africa yet again, please know how much I appreciate your kindness.

My teammate Molly was the first of our team to kill a chicken. I forget who suggested it or how the idea even came about, but somehow it did. How do I describe Molly to you? Molly is possibly one of the sweetest girls you could ever meet. And I'm not just saying that, she really is adorable. She is kind, funny, sweet, loving, and caring.  She brought a light and a life to our team that I cannot being to describe. To see this sweet, sweet girl kill a chicken was shocking.

Molly was given this chicken, told to grab it by the neck, and swing it. Yeah, no joke. So Molly took the chicken and swung it. And dropped it. She picked it back up, and swung it again. And it got caught in the clothes line. The scenario was heartbreakingly sad, and -in a sick sort of way- ridiculously funny (because this was one of the last things I'd imagine Molly doing). Ten minutes later, we had ourselves a proud Molly and a dead chicken.

photo taken by Josie

Colleen also killed a chicken in Africa, several nights after Molly did it. Same style as Molly, swinging it by the neck. So, when it was my turn to kill the chicken we would eat for dinner, I anticipated doing it the same way. We rode home in the back of the blue pickup truck that afternoon along with our enkoko (that's Lugandan for chicken).

Now, there's a few things you should know about the chickens in Africa. Well really, just this one thing: they start crowing at 4 o'clock. every. single. morning. These chickens that were interrupting my (already very interrupted) sleep would crow outside our window (literally right outside our window), along with the baby wailing and other Africa sounds. After so many nights of chicken crowing, I was frustrated and tired. Hence why I decided to volunteer to kill a chicken.

It's mid-afternoon in Bugiri, we're home from ministry for the day. And Iddi walks up to me with this chicken. As he's showing me how to hold it, I'm suddenly not so sure about this whole chicken killing thing. I consider backing out. But then I think of the countless nights I listened to their crowing and any fear or guilt momentarily vanishes.

photo taken by Sara

When Iddi says to follow him out to the back door, I'm taken by surprised. Here I had mentally prepared myself to swing this chicken around right in the courtyard like my two other teammates, and now Iddi's changing the plan around? I note the knife (the rather dull knife, I might add) in his hand. Oh crap. 

Iddi shows me how to stand on the chicken. I wince as I stand on its legs and wings. This is so not what I had in mind. The chicken must know its life is nearing an end, and that I'm the one who's going to do it. Iddi grabs the head of the chicken, showing me where to put the blade of the knife. I really volunteered, asked even, to do this!? I'm in Uganda and I'm asking an African how to go about killing a chicken. I laugh at how ridiculous this seems. I suddenly realize that I could get used to this, that this world could become my normal. Which, in a way, also seems incredibly ridiculous.

photo taken by Sara

I put the blade of the knife to the neck, and push. But nothing happens, there's barely a scratch. The knife's a lot duller than I thought. "You need to do it harder, Anna." The blade back in place, I close my eyes, as if somehow that would help. It's a sawing motion, a back and forth, until it's over. Red splattered on my wrist, the decapitated head of the chicken laying inches from my feet, the sickening smell of warm blood. I breathe a sigh of relief.

photo taken by Molly

I clean off the knife, and my hands, with the water being poured from the little red cup. And then, we pluck the feathers from the chicken. I silently apologize to the poor, dead chicken I'm now pulling feathers off of. Iddi smiles, I smile back. In all my guilt, I am proud of the fact that I killed a chicken (mostly because it means I have impressed an African, and my favorite African at that). I forgot to mention that the Africans get a huge kick out of the mzungu girls killing chickens.

photo taken by Molly

We walk back inside the courtyard with the chicken, and it is given to the women who will cook it for supper. I go inside to my bedroom, and sit down. Suddenly the guilt I feel consumes me. I just killed a living, breathing thing. That's the only thought that runs through my mind. I rationalize that the chicken would've died tonight anyway, whether I did it or one of the Africans did. But that only helps some. The guilt wears out almost completely when nearly 12 hours later (at 4 a.m.) a chicken crows. I wake up, roll over, and that chicken that I killed 12 hours before? Yeah, I'm not so sorry anymore.

photo taken by Molly

yebe island

Oh my goodness is all I can think as 17 mzungus, 4 African friends, and 1 African boat driver pile into the boat. My team and I are at Lake Victoria, and we're all getting on a boat and headed to the small island a little way's off shore. I'm fairly certain the boat really shouldn't be holding this many people, but what does a mzungu know anyway? Someone asks if everybody knows how to swim.

The little motor is started, and for a brief second, I entertain the thought that it may not be able to work with all these people in this one, small, wooden boat. But it does work, and everyone's hoping it stays working. Someone pushes us off.. or rather, tries. It takes a handful of African men (a lot more than it normally would) to push our boat off. We're headed to the island on Lake Victoria, (Yebe Island) and suddenly that distance I once thought to be small seems huge. If I'm remembering correctly, it was about a 5-10 minute boat ride (the longest 5-10 minute boat ride of my life). Note: these are the kind of things you don't include in your email letters to home, you just wait to tell them about it once you're home.

(photo taken by Becca)

Did I forget to mention the fact that the boat had a small hole in it? Yeah well, it did. That or, because of the amount of people in this boat, some water was splashing in over the sides. Hot sun and faces wet with water, cramped and squished on the wooden benches of this boat, we ride. I'm pretty sure the Africans aren't too worried, but the mzungus? Well, in mom's (Kasandra's) words: you can't really sense the terror I was feeling at this point in time in this picture, but do not be deceived.

The boat hits the ground of Yebe Island. We choose to momentarily forget about the fact that we must make this trip back, for now we're just thankful to be on solid ground. The boat's on ground, the motor shut off, and so now begins the fun-filled task of climbing out of this boat. I find myself thankful that I chose to wear my pants today, climbing this in a skirt would not be easily accomplished. Once everybody's off of the boat, we take in the island around us. What we thought would be a fun-filled day of being tourists is actually going to be a day of praying for this island. And it is oh-so-very obvious that this island needs so much prayer.

Yebe Island hotel (photo taken by Becca)

Yebe Island is home to fishermen. Yebe Island has no hospital, and no school. The people live in scrap metal houses with dirt floors. The children run around all day in their tattered and torn clothing. A radio blares so loudly it vibrates in your chest and you can barely hear yourself think. Fish seem to be just about everywhere. There is so much despair, so much heartbreak, so much need. It's overwhelming.

Yebe Island

After introducing ourselves to the police, we split into 3 groups and head off in different directions to go pray for the people of Yebe. The first woman my team meets is a woman whose sister is deaf. I realize I have been frustrated with this island and its loudly blaring music while this woman would be so thankful to have my ears and to hear the things I am hearing. We pray over this woman, and I wonder if God really will heal her or if our prayers are being prayed in vain.

I do not doubt that I serve a God who heals, I have full confidence that He can heal anything and anyone. What my struggle is, is believing He will heal. To this day, I do not know if that woman can hear, if God chose to place His healing hand upon her ears and restore her hearing. But I trust and know that whatever He did, He did for this woman's good and for the glory of His kingdom.

Yebe Island police station (photo taken by Summer)

My group walks over to a house (though in America, it would not be called a house) and we are invited inside. It is a one room house, for a family I'm not sure how big. I remember looking up and seeing the thatched and scrap metal roof and seeing sunlight seep through the spaces in it. I remember looking at the metal walls where, again, sunlight seeped through the holes. I remember looking at the dirt floor. I remember thinking What happens when it rains? What happens when the water comes through these spaces? What happens when this dirt floor gets wet? Even though I very well knew exactly what happens.

on Yebe Island (photo taken by Summer)

I sit in this house, at that wooden table, on the wooden bench. Kasandra and the translator (Pastor Thomas) are talking to the woman who lives in this house. There are a few others in the room, her brother perhaps, and her father? I met so many faces and heard so many stories that much to my dismay, I can't keep them straight anymore. But what I clearly remember about this house is the child, less than a foot away from me, who slept on a pile of wooden boards against the wall.

I didn't hear Kasandra or the translator's words anymore. This child was all I could think about, all I could see, all I could hear. I pray the will of God over her life. I pray she becomes blessed with the opportunity to go to school. I pray that someway, somehow she grows up knowing and feeling the love God has for her. I pray that on an island of so much despair and bad, she is kept safe and out of harm. I pray that, on an island where there is no hospital, she stays healthy, that neither disease nor illness nor injury claim her life at a young age. I pray that His hope and His light fill her heart, her home, and her island.

on Yebe Island (photo taken by Becca)

Yebe Island, an island of hopelessness and despair and hurt like I have never seen before. Yebe Island, an island so desperately in need of His Spirit and His Presence and His Truth. Yebe Island, an island I still pray for, nearly 3 months later. Yebe Island, an island I will remember forever.

We are abundantly blessed.. with doctors, with schools, with shoes, with clothes, with houses, with food, with jobs, with many things. May we never forget that.

things i love about africa [part 3]

A journal entry I wrote on July 5th, 2011:

These Africa moments I love..

- worshipping in the bedroom
- broken lightbulbs in the clinic with Sara and Nate
- sleeping on Alaina's shoulder the whole way home
- Summer's prayers
- dancing with babies during church
- everyone home from the clinic and being all together again
- car ride stories with the gnarley dudes
- 'Doctor Iddi'
- early morning (not-so-quiet) times with God
- Africa dirt in my mouth (and hair and face and just about everywhere else)
- Isaiah 41:10

Africa is hard, but good.. so good. The thought of going home makes me sad, but excited. I want to see my family and everyone back in Chicago. But the thought of leaving these precious children? It hurts my heart.

It's the little things here.. like jelly beans rationed out each day, having a 1-hour rest in the afternoon, soda (cold!) for lunch, and the cool weather that comes with the rain. It's peanut butter spread onto toast, Summer sharing her small package of powdered lemonade with me, hearing from home every Monday (my favorite day of the week), playing scrabble with Kasandra. I have never been more thankful for each moment, each little thing, and I have never had so much joy.

He is my Jehovah Jireh

"And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work." -- 2 Corinthians 9:8

To this I can testify: God provides. Yesterday, I packed and addressed and mailed 4 boxes- filled with school supplies and shoes and dresses and clothes- to Africa, and watched God provide. I can't be in Africa right now, but I can mail packages to those children I love dearly. And the joy that fills me with can't be described.

My (absolutely wonderful) cousin and I bring the boxes into Fedex and are handed the international forms to fill out. I will admit, I'm worried. About what, I don't exactly know. Maybe it's the abruptness of the woman behind the counter that takes me by surprise, or the fact that we're actually mailing these boxes I've waited nearly 2 months to send that seems unreal, or the unfamiliarity of the forms I'm filling out, or a combination of all three. But for whatever reason, I'm worried.

We fill out the forms that ask for details I wasn't prepared for. We walk to the counter and and our forms are handed back to us, some parts needing to be fixed. My worry turns to slight panic. But we fix the forms, and things seem better. Then my cousin shows his I.D. (the I.D. that will hopefully get us the 75% discount) and the woman behind the counter says his airline doesn't qualify. Fear. It now fills every part of me.

Disagreements are exchanged as I stand there. Suddenly, I'm back to that place of utter dependency I had in Africa. That familiar, heartbreaking, sweet utter dependency I haven't felt in so long. I stand there knowing that God's got to come through on this because I have no other option. This place.. it's beautiful, it's been oh-so missed, and it's humbling.


God, please. Please, God. Perhaps the most heartfelt, most dependent prayer I've prayed since returning home from Africa is that silent prayer I pray in the Fedex office in Evanston. The woman's fingers click on the keyboard behind me. God, if You want these boxes to Uganda, provide a way. I stand there praying His will over the boxes, and the discount goes through.

The woman mumbles a comment, more to herself than to us, "Wow, you saved a lot of money." We take the receipt, the tracking info, and the papers and walk out. I do the math when I get home, and stare at the numbers. It can't be right. I must've done something wrong. I redo my math, the same numbers appear. I do the math one more time, same answer. I stare at the paper, shocked. God has provided in numerous ways today. I'm shocked, humbled, in awe, and thankful.

In a few weeks, my Africa friends will receive school supplies and clothes and soccer balls. And I am so excited about that. I'm also so thankful to those of you who helped send these boxes off. Thank you for donating your school supplies, clothes, and money for the shipping cost. I am beyond words thankful. I hope to be able to continue sending a box every once in a while, so if you have girl's dresses or skirts, boy's shorts or shirts, shoes, soccer balls, or money you'd like to donate, let me know.

I have seen it again and again in my past, and I want to see it again and again in my future. I want to stand in the will of God, and watch how He provides. Because although I doubt and I worry and I fret (and stand thankful for His grace), I believe that when you're doing His will, He'll provide. He is Jehovah Jireh. He sees and He provides.

in the words of sara groves

"I saw what I saw, and I can't forget it. I heard what I heard, and I can't go back. I know what I know, and I can't deny it. Your pain has changed me. Your dream inspires. Your face a memory. Your hope a fire. Your courage asks me what I'm made of. Your courage asks me what I'm afraid of. Your courage asks me what I know of love."

africa slip-and-slide

They slip-and-slide (butt naked, mind you) right across the road from our house. They run along the porch and slide--on their stomaches, their bottoms, hands in front of them, or spread out to the side. It has just rained (more like stormed) during this afternoon in Africa, everything beautiful and muddy and wet. They slip and they slide, and we laugh and we laugh. This version of slip-and-slide is very new to us Americans, to say the least. And so, this is where the ever-famous phrase "T.I.A." (This Is Africa) is the only thing my team and I have to say as we watch this absolutely crazy fun (secretly wishing we could join in).

Pictures do not do this moment justice, so I'm not even going to upload the ones I have. This video comes closest to capture the ever-awesome African Slip n' Slide. So yeah, enjoy.

staring in the face of suffering

The cries of a baby echo through the dim and dirtied hallway. It's Sunday again, my team and I have come to the hospital to pray for the sick. The cries pierce my heart, the door opens, my feet shuffle inside. The baby is sick, that much I know. But I cannot hear the translator's words beyond that. Prayers of peace are murmured, but the cries continue. Something about the prayers bring the faces of Donna and Lillie to my mind, sweet innocent babies who died of cancer months (and for one girl, years) ago. God didn't hear those prayers I prayed then, will He hear these now?

Those cries, they follow us down the rest of the hallway until we are in the big room with the many cribs and beds. My eyes take in the suffering around me. Why, God? Summer and I kneel on the dirty floor next to a woman. She sits on a mat holding her baby to her chest. I smile to myself, thinking this is a newborn baby and wondering why she isn't in the maternity area of the hospital. But we learn this baby is 13 months old. How is that possible? She is so tiny. "Malnourished, cannot absorb nutrients.." the words sound so far away.

I lay my hand upon this baby, this sweet, sweet baby. I think of how she should be running and laughing and learning to speak words. I'm at a loss, I cannot understand this. Big, hopeless eyes stare into mine. We bow our heads. "God, I don't understand Your will sometimes..." I pray healing over this child, but all I can think is, "Why, God?!" I swallow the tears, I tell  myself to stop it. I know that the second the tears fall, they will not stop.

We walk across the room to join our team at another crib. I stand before this crib, thinking about the baby I just prayed for. And then my eyes see this child, burned from head-to-toe. The tears are falling freely now. "God, where are You??" There was a fire, the child didn't get out soon enough. The suffering around me is too much to bear. My heart can't take it anymore, I need to get out of here. But leaving this room will not erase the things my eyes have seen. This room I will never, ever forget.

The tears fall even after we have made our way out of the children's ward. Those eyes, that cry, the baby, Donna, Lillie, the suffering.. it's all I see. And the hopelessness. In my eyes, God seems so far from this place. I'm unaware of what's going on around me, the tears turn to sobs. I bury my face into the arms that hug me as my heart breaks like it never has before. I cry and I cry, and I cannot make the tears stop. I have never felt so utterly broken.

We sit down-- Summer, Becca, and I. The rest of the team goes on to pray for the other people in the other wards. I put my head on Becca's shoulder, longing for comfort. But there is only One who can speak the comfort my heart needs to hear, and I cannot find Him or feel Him. Eventually the team comes back and we head home. We walk the dirt roads, children following us. Why is that baby sick, but not these ones? What makes that baby in there any different than these children out here? 

My heart is broken and numb. We go inside the house and I lay on the bed. I feel shell-shocked, the hurt now turning to numbness. I am exhausted, but my mind is spinning with so many different questions and struggles and thoughts. I lay on the mattress, willing for sleep to come. But sleep doesn't come, all I see are the children in that hospital, the faces of the hurting. I start to doze off, vaguely aware of the fact that my teammates are eating ice cream outside in the courtyard.

Ice cream in Africa. I should be so excited. But in all honesty, I don't care about the ice cream. The small cup, the little wooden spoon, the strawberry syrup swirled into the vanilla ice cream.. it tastes funny in my mouth. It doesn't seem right-- terribly sick babies lay in a hospital and I sit eating ice cream outside. But it is Faren's birthday, there is a reason to celebrate and laugh. Thinking about how such sorrow and such happiness can exist at the same time leaves me dumbfounded.

We head inside because we're getting rained on out in the courtyard. We worship by light of the lantern. Acoustic guitar worship, no speakers, no microphones, no fancy powerpoint.. no other worship has ever been as moving as this. We sing Hosanna, the song with the lines, "Break my heart for what breaks Yours, everything I am for Your kingdom's cause.." God, if You break my heart like this again, I don't know if I can go on. Sometimes it hurts too much to follow You. I told these words to the Almighty, and (thinking back on it now) I stand grateful for His grace and His patience for this human, sinful heart.

The night comes to an end and everyone heads off to bed-- tomorrow is Monday, our 'off' day. The day we get to sleep in (if such a thing were possible in Africa), stay at the house, and go to the internet cafe to email home. I journal, the questions and the hurt spilling. I feel more damaged then restored, but already He starts healing my hurt. Already He is showing me He doesn't leave us alone to suffer.

Walking home from the internet cafe the next afternoon, the children of Bugiri follow us. They smile at us, they hold our hands, they stare at us. I see these children and a joy I cannot explain fills my heart. God breaks and God heals, this I have seen. I play with these children on the front porch and I praise Jesus for each of them. I don't understand it -why some suffer and others don't- but I surrender it. I unclench my fists and, as I let the thoughts and the doubts go, the peace that washes over me is incredible.

I go back to that day in the hospital many times throughout the rest my trip, trying to comprehend and understand the reason for suffering. I struggle with the many thoughts and doubts (surrender isn't a one time thing, this I've learned). How do I praise God when a baby screams in pain? When I stare into the eyes of a malnourished baby, how do I give thanks? How do I say, "Not my will, but Yours, Father," when I see a child with so, so many burns laying in a hospital bed?

I have thought long and hard about suffering-- before this trip, and especially after. And what I have come to believe and find comfort in is knowing that He does not leave us alone, even when we think He's long gone. His heart breaks just as much as ours is when we're hurting, of that I have no doubt. You can ask questions like, "Why do we have sickness at all in this life?" and never truly find an answer that will console you. I have asked that over and over again, and still I don't completely understand. I believe that we never really will 'get it' until the day we see His face. None of this -the hurt, the suffering, the pain- will make sense to us here on earth.

We live in a very broken world-- a world where babies get sick and fathers lose their jobs and mothers die. And the hurt that my heart feels because of those things reminds me that we weren't made for this world. The hurt and the suffering remind me that this is not my home. My home -and yours- is in His house, in a place where everything is finally made right, in a place where there are no tears. Our home is not this world with all its hurt and pain, our home is heaven.

I stare in the face of suffering and, as the tears fall, I say, "Thank You, Jesus, that You know better than I do. Thank You that You hear my prayers, but have a better plan. Thank You that You don't always give us what we think we need, because You can see the big picture. Thank You that You don't leave us alone in our suffering and brokenness."

things i love about africa [part 2]

- "Feel the rush!"
- grease covered hair
- Iddi and his Kayne West sunglasses. haha
- the Word of God coming alive before my eyes
- "A sante sana! Da best!"
- listening to Sara Groves "He's Always Been Faithful" in the morning
- the sound of rain dripping into the buckets beneath the edges of the roof
- children who do not need technology to be happy
- peanut butter on toast
- Jehovah sees, Jehovah knows
- worshipping during a thunderstorm
- the freedom the schedule-less days bring
- plucking the feathers from a chicken during house-to-house ministry
- Isaiah 58:11
- children drawing in my journal during church (and finding these precious drawings once I'm home)

There are so many things I'd give up to be back there again... so many things. But God has me here right now, and so I'm searching to discover the purpose, waiting to know why.

goggles? or glasses?

I have gotten used to children pulling on my glasses, trying to rip them from my face, and getting tiny little finger prints all over them. This is a regular occurrence when babysitting. While I was in Uganda, I'm pretty sure I shook my head and said, "No," to a child pulling on my glasses every day. But children -whether African or American- are obsessed with glasses, there's really no surprise there. The random and funny fact here is that in Uganda, they're not called glasses, they're called goggles. Children pointed to my face, touching the glass lenses, "Goggles?" The first time this happened, I laughed, "No, they're glasses." I say to the child who most likely cannot understand me. "Goggles," the boy says again. Even with this simple thing (calling glasses goggles) I embrace his culture, his language. I smile and nod my head, "Yes, they are goggles." 

first night in africa

After 21 hours of traveling, our plane has touched down in the Entebbe airport. I rub the sleep from my eyes, and grab my blue jansport backpack from the overhead bin. It is nearly midnight as my team and I make our way off the plane. We stop by the bathrooms, and then make our way to the line for customs. Humid air, mosquitos, and guards with guns are the first things I notice about Africa.

We make our way through customs, everyone so over-tired we are chattering and excited and talking nonsense. We find our luggage and walk outside. We meet the Africans who will soon become dear friends. They load our luggage into the bus and we all pile in, ready to make the 3 hour drive to Bugiri.

I stare at the clock at the front of the bus, it is 12:30 a.m. The Africans speak a language I do not understand as the driver starts the bus. I stare out the window. This is Africa. Reality hasn't really set in yet. The clock ticks as teammates talk. Someone in the backseat starts singing, and soon enough others join in. Molly sits on my left, Megan on my right. Alaina passes one earphone of her iPod back to Megan, and they listen to Alaina's boyfriend's hardcore music band (I would soon learn they'd do this lots throughout the entire trip).

It is 1 a.m. and Megan is falling asleep next to me. I look out of the window, staring into the dark. I smell Africa (a smell I cannot describe), wondering how I will get used to this smell. We pass small towns, and I see the small cement houses. I see the men sitting with their motorcycles. I see the bare lightbulbs hanging inside the small cement buildings that are painted yellow, inside people sit at the tables.

I am in Africa. I continue to stare out the window as we pass houses and trees and huts. I think of people back home, I think of all the family and friends who have supported me and encouraged me as I prepared to leave. I wonder if it's already possible to love a place, this place, even though I've only been here a mere 2 hours.

Time drags on, and I stare at the numbers on the clock. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, as does everyone else on the bus. When I open my eyes, we are pulling up to our house in Bugiri-- the place that will begin to feel like home. Our sweet African hosts unload the luggage (they're truly the greatest).

My team and I walk inside the house and sit at the table. I note the unlit lightbulb hanging from the ceiling above, the power has gone out. But somehow the bare bulb in the doorway is still lit up. My tired mind eventually comes to the conclusion that there must be a generator somewhere. The bulbs are connected by wires of some sort, one in each door way, leading all the way to our rooms (this is the only night they are there). Names are called and rooms are assigned. We bring our suitcases to the bedrooms, drop our stuff, and return to the front room.

Our hosts have prepared food for us to eat. It is now 4:30 a.m. We sit and introduce ourselves to the Africans, and them to us muzungus. I struggle to remember names and faces and family relations. We drink hot milk, we eat fried bananas, and other unfamiliar foods that we will be eating every day for the next 3 weeks. Finally we head to our rooms to go to sleep.

I rummage through my suitcase to find pajamas. I do not bother to brush my teeth tonight. Our room is the room with the door that leads to the bathroom. I shine my flashlight into the dark, surveying the small tile room with the squatty potty (the almost-flat toilet seat you squat over) and the small, little sink. Oh my goodness. Juggling a flashlight and toilet paper all while going to the bathroom proves to be a little tricky. Already I wish for my toilet back home, wondering how I will use this bathroom for the next month. Two days from now, the water will stop running. My team and I will have to use the long drop squatty pottys at the back of the courtyard-- the 'bathroom' that is a hole in the cement, filled with cockroaches.

I lay down in mine and Sara's bed. We tuck the mosquito net under the mattress. Are we doing this right? Everything is so new, so strange. Kasandra is already asleep in her bed when someone notices the spider in her mosquito net. We debate, "Do we wake her up and then kill the spider? What if we don't wake her up, and we miss, and the spider bites her? But what if, in waking her up, we scare the spider?" We end up waking Kasandra up, telling her not to move. She crawls carefully out of the mosquito net. Taking my bright pink flipflops, I smack the spider between them. Welcome to Africa.

We crawl back into our beds, re-tucking the mosquito netting under our mattresses. My eyes scan the green netting. I think of the now dead spider that was in Kasandra's bed, and my skin starts crawling. Keep us safe, dear Jesus. Please keep the bugs out. That dependency, it has started already.

I break out my journal, it is 5:30 a.m. A squeaking noise comes from the closed bathroom door, we wonder out loud what it is. We are just glad the door is closed, whatever 'it' is can stay in there. I stare at the ceiling, I cannot sleep. Alaina talks beside me, tired and shocked, "This... this is just crazy. I didn't think we would be living in this primitive of a place. This.. this is just crazy." I smile at her sweet Kentucky accent. I find comfort knowing someone else is slightly freaked out, that I am not alone. The lightbulb in the doorway stays on, but we do not mind, we are grateful to not be left in the dark.

I sigh. I am in Africa. Everything feels so unfamiliar, so strange. I wonder how I will get used to it. If you had told me, in that moment, that before long this place would feel like home, I'd of thought you were crazy. Laying on the mattress, I think of home and all the things I already want to share with the loved ones I have left behind. My eyes close as the night sounds of Africa (radio music playing, voices talking, babies crying) come through the window. The unfamiliarity, the bathroom, being in Africa, it doesn't scare me like I thought it would. My heart is slightly unnerved, but mostly at peace. This.. this is Africa.

imagine africa

Imagine waking up every morning, and knowing you'll spend the day giving your love to children who don't always get that. Imagine saying prayers over sick people, and watching the healing (whether physical or in their hearts) take place. Imagine being content just spending your afternoon sitting outside with little kids. Imagine worshipping God and never, ever wanting to stop. Imagine walking outside and seeing a bunch of little children smiling at you, waiting for you. Imagine your heart breaking as you stand beside the bed of a severely burnt toddler. Imagine your days being filled with purpose. Imagine walking house-to-house and just talking to people simply because you want to know them. Imagine eating rice and noodles every day, at every meal. Imagine seeing children walk around barefoot, and that seeming normal. Imagine being cramped in a van with your teammates for 2 hours, imagine the bonding that takes place. Imagine your heart overflowing with His love. Imagine sitting in the back of a blue pick-up truck, praying for God to provide good white bread for dinner that night. Imagine seeking Him always- when things are good, and when things get difficult. Imagine starry night skies, the smell of burning trash, and mud huts. Imagine crowing chickens and wailing babies. Imagine falling asleep at night, exhausted from serving others all day. Imagine being in Africa.

things i love about africa [part 1]

Throughout my journal are lists, randomly spread out throughout the notebook, some entries longer than others. They're lists of the little moments in Africa that I love, the little things I never want to forget, the little moments that filled my heart with joy. Here's part one of many.

Things I love about Africa:
-heavy rain beating on the roof
-red dirt roads
-shouts of "Muzungu!"
-always holding a little one's hand
-the peace and joy that fill my heart
-dear friends to laugh and cry with
-peeing on cockroaches
-the gecko on our bedroom wall
-ankle length skirts
-hopes and dreams
-bumpy, squished van rides
-nighttime journaling with Alaina
-fresh mangos

Today, I miss the little moments. Today, if someone offered me a plane ticket to Uganda, I would pack a bag and be out the door in less than an hour. Today, I want to pick up kids off the street and cuddle them. Today, I want roosters to wake me up and crying babies to wail throughout the night. Today, I really, truly want to use a squatty potty (no joke). Today, I want to have dirt and grease in my hair. Today, I want to walk on red-dirt roads and feel that hot sunshine on my face. I'm not sure about tomorrow, but today I want to be in Africa.

my name is not muzungu

When you're white and in Africa, people generally tend to stare at you. They also tend to wave and call out, "Muzungu!" It's unnerving at first, but eventually you just get used to it. I use the word muzungu a lot, but realized I never actually explained what that means. Technically in the Ugandan language muzungu means 'wanderer', but really what the kids mean when they scream "Muzungu!" at you is 'white man'.

You walk down the dirt roads, and kids sitting on their front steps see you and wave. "Muzungu! Muzungu!" they cry. You drive through the villages, on your way back from ministry, and children see your van. "Muzungu! Muzungu!" they shout and wave at the vehicle driving by. You are in Africa, you are muzungu.

I remember the first day I was not called muzungu, but rather Anna. As cute as it is to be called muzungu by all the kids, eventually you get tired of it. It feels impersonal, you want to be known by your name. I sat in our eating room at our Africa-home. Some of my teammates and I were hanging out, I'm pretty sure we had just finished up a game of bananagrams. In Africa, the kids were almost always hanging around outside of our house. Staring in from the doorway, calling out to us, wanting to play. And the reality is that, as much as you love those kiddos, you can't always be out there playing with them.

I half-noticed the kids outside as I sat at the little wooden table. I kept thinking, "You should go out there and play with them." But I was so tired. The kids peaked in the door and through the windows, until one little voice called out, "Ana? Ana!"

The first time you hear children call you by your name, rather than muzungu, is a moment you will never forget. Suddenly, I was more than muzungu to them. I was Anna. It was personal, these kids knew my name now. They wanted me-Anna, not just me the muzungu. In that moment, my heart melted. Needless to say, I went outside with them.

Being home now, I wish the children who shouted, "Muzungu! Muzungu!" at me were here. Their cries still echo in my ears, I can still see their excited little faces, I can imagine how they'd jump up and down and wave ecstatically. I miss hearing the word muzungu. I miss it so much, I may just start calling you that.

why i miss the squatty potty

I miss the squatty potty. How can I miss having a cement hole as my toilet? Perhaps I should explain: the squatty potty is so much more than just the squatty potty.

The squatty potty is one of the many ways you depend on God. As you squat over a hole, all you can do is pray, "God, get me through this. God give me strength." The squatty potty teaches you that He sustains you and supplies your strength. The squatty potty teaches you thankfulness-- for your toilet back home, and also for the squatty potty you have in your Africa-home. You see, when you visit a school and use a squatty potty where flies cover the walls, you find yourself thanking the Lord that your squatty potty at home only has cockroaches in it. The squatty potty shows you what the body of Christ is like. When there's that one night where the cockroaches won't crawl into the hole and you just can't do it, Megan goes first and pees on them for you, so that when it's your turn, they're already in the hole. The squatty potty bonds you with your team. That amazing group of girls go with you every night -Alaina, Summer, Megan. On that night where you keep saying, "I don't know if I can do this again." your girls stand outside the door saying, "Yes, you can." You bond over that stupid squatty potty. And it's absolutely beautiful.

And that, folks, is why I miss having a cement hole in the ground as my toilet.

school supplies and shoeless feet

 A box of school supplies -pencils, notebooks, crayons, pens- sits open on my bedroom floor. I sit, staring, longing. I close my eyes. I can see the children, their sweet faces. This box will go to children I have seen, children I have hugged, children I have played with, children I love. I finger the jump ropes in the box as I think of hopscotches drawn in the dirt. I remember the crumbling brick building, the way the children danced for us, how we sat under the trees and just hugged these precious little ones. I remember, and the tears fall.

My team went to a lot of schools while in Uganda, and it hurts to say that I cannot remember all the schools or the children. But there is one school that is forever engrained in my mind and on my heart-- Isaac's project, Message of Hope Ministries.

Their school is a crumbling brick building. 30 of the children who attend the school are orphans. They sleep in a separate building next to the school. Some of their blue bunk beds are not the traditional two beds high, but rather three beds. Two kids sleep on a bed, so 4-6 children sleep on one bunk bed. Not all the beds have mattresses. A shelf with cubby holes holds whatever possessions they have- a towel, a blanket, perhaps a change of clothes.

The school is made of crumbling bricks. Light comes only from the windows and doors. These children learn here. These children love school, they love learning. They don't own pencils or notebooks, they sit on benches, yet they can still learn. So unlike America.

When we arrived at the school, the first thing the children did was greet us. We introduced ourselves one-by-one, going around the group and saying our names. They greeted us with the sweetest little handclap I have ever heard. And then they took us outside, gave us lime green chairs to sit on. And they danced.

Let me tell you this: Africans can dance. Those little kids got rhythm and beat, it's in their blood. They put this muzungu to shame, let me tell you. They tried to teach us to dance once, and although we laughed and had a great time, muzungus just can't dance like the Africans. They danced and danced, they clapped, they sang. It was the sweetest gift.

We went to this school twice. We sat under the trees and played games- hand clapping games, dancing, singing songs. We played red-rover. We played capture the flag (note: African kiddos can really run fast) with our water bottles. We told them the story of David and Goliath, and Joshua and the walls of Jericho.

The kids swung from the rope that hung from one of the trees, patiently taking turns. They played on hopscotches drawn in the dirt. They own very little, but they were so content. You ask them if they have prayer requests, and they ask you to pray for them to get shoes. And to rebuild their school.

My closet alone has 10 pairs of shoes. 10 pairs of shoes for one person is far too many. I have the ability to pick a pair of shoes that match my outfit while kids in Africa walk on hot, dirty, rocky ground with bare feet. There is something terribly wrong with this picture.

I sit now at my desk, using my own computer. The rain beats against my windows, and I am thankful that they have screens and glass. But I think about the windows in Africa that don't have screens, or glass. When it rains, the water comes in through the windows of that school. Do the children get wet and cold? Does someone hug them when lightning strikes and thunder rolls? Are their blankets thick enough to keep them warm on a chilly night? Their bare feet walk on muddy grounds, do they have soap to wash them clean?

My mind sits, wondering. I look at the box of school supplies and it makes my heart happy and sad. I imagine the smiles on the faces of those kids when they see jump ropes, when they have pencils to write with and paper to write on. Right now, I cannot be there to wrap my arms around these kids or to spend time with them and tell them that they are dearly loved. Right now, all I can do is send a box, send my love, and pray.

africa days

You lay -half awake, half asleep- on your thin mattress, your teammate sleeping beside you. Roosters crow outside your window (closing the window doesn't seem to ever keep the noise out). You open your eyes as you hear pots clanging together and the smell of smoke burns your nose. Your green mosquito net covers the entire bed, and you begin the chore of pulling it out from under the mattress, like you've done every morning for the past 3 weeks.

You rummage around the room trying to be quiet (though it really doesn't matter due to all the noise going on outside). Alas, after a long search, you've found the roll of toilet paper and head outside. With your sleep-crusted face, you step outside into bright African sunlight. It's 7 a.m., but the Africans have already been awake for 2 hours. When do they ever sleep? Your flip-flops smack against the cement as you walk to the end of the courtyard, smiling and saying good morning to the African faces you have come to know and care for. "How was de night?" they ask you. "Good, it was good." you reply, though that's not necessarily true.

The smell of the squatty potty makes your stomach churn as you unlatch the bright blue door. The door opens and you hold your breath. No cockroaches, please Lord, no cockroaches. Your eyes scan the small cement area. Cockroach free, score! You breathe a prayer of thankfulness.

Back in your room, your roommates begin to wake up. You rummage through your disorganized suitcase, looking for a skirt and shirt that don't smell that bad. You hardly notice the wrinkles as you pull on your shirt and straighten out your skirt. You wash your face with water from a water bottle. Washing the grease and sweat and sleep off your face has never felt so good. Thank you, Jesus, for the refreshing, cleansing feel of soap and water on my face. You grab your notebook and your Bible from the end of your bed. You always know exactly where they are, because you never go a day without both of them.

You sit in 'your' corner in the courtyard and your Bible falls open on your lap. You have never craved Scripture like this before. It's refreshing, encouraging, strengthening. You've never experienced this until now, and part of you is almost shocked at how the Word can come alive. You journal and you pray-- for strength, for energy, for joy, for patience, for love. You pray to be filled with Him, because you know that your own strength is not enough.

The Scripture reading and prayer journaling must come to an end (you could do this all day, it seems). Breakfast is ready (an hour later than expected). You walk into the eating/living room to see your team -the people you love dearly- passing around bread and cinnamon and sugar. Ahh yes, the normal African breakfast, complete with the tea your taste buds just can't seem to get used to. One of your leaders pulls out her guitar. The sweet sound of singing fills the room as you sing praises to The Almighty. This is my prayer in the desert, when all that's within me feels dry. This is my prayer in my hunger and need, my God is the God who provides.. I will bring praise.

"We go? We go now?" Pastor Thomas's voice echoes loudly in the room. "Yes, we are ready." We've been ready for an hour now, is what you're thinking. Teach me patience, Lord, teach me patience. In Africa, there is no such thing as being on time (or being late). You walk outside of the house and already children wait to greet you, to be loved, touched, held, played with. You and your teammates pile into the van-- squished rather closely together. Personal space has become a foreign concept.

The ride is bumpy and long, wind and dirt blow through the open van windows. Children and adults alike stare at you as you drive by. "Muzungu!" the children smile and wave. When you reach the school, you are already tired. But the children are so happy to see you, their smiles are contagious. Little children come up to you, one after the other, shaking your hand, "How are you? How are you?"

You join hands and sing, "Make a make a circle.." and eventually a (slightly warped) circle evolves. And then there you are- you and your teammates- standing in the middle of this sea of kids. And you start to dance, and sing, and clap. At first, you feel extremely awkward. What do people think of me? But that wears off eventually.

The morning is completed with a Bible story and you hug these children goodbye and climb back into the van. Hands reach up to the windows and you shake them and high-five them before the van pulls away. You see the children chasing after you and it brings a smile to your face. Thank You for these children, and for their joy. Bless these children, keep them safe in Your arms.

The ride home is long, you are tired and hungry. As your van pulls up to the house, a sea of children wave at you. You get out of the van and immediately there are tiny, sticky little fingers crawling all over you-- your arms, your skirt, your back, your shirt, your hair. How long have these children been waiting for us to get back? You are exhausted- mentally and physically. God, give me the strength. You sit on the dirt steps, and children pile onto your lap. You play hand clapping games for what seems like ever. Tiny fingers pull through your hair, braiding and re-braiding it.

Lunch is ready and so you stand up and peel children from you as you head inside. Rice and macarone, again. You imagine the taste of a turkey sandwich-- toasted whole wheat bread, green lettuce, cold turkey meat from the deli. You sip your warm water from your plastic Aqua Sipi bottle. The plate of fresh mangos and pineapples gets passed around the room. You can't remember what it's like to eat at a table, balancing a plate on your knees has become so normal.

The afternoon is warm and sticky as you lay on your mattress, talking to your roommates. You talk of home, and the families that you miss. You talk about how you're so sick and tired of crowing chickens. Someone tells a joke (it may or may not have involved something about a muffin) and the room is filled with laughter. You read Scripture to each other, strengthening and encouraging. This is the body of Christ. You pull the small bag of goldfish out of your suitcase. You've been holding off, trying to save these until you were absolutely desperate for them. The bag is passed around the room and smiles spread across faces. Goldfish crackers have never tasted so delicious. Thank You for cheesy goldfish that taste like home, and friends to share them with. 

You head out for afternoon ministry-- going house-to-house in the community, talking to the people, and praying for them. You walk the streets, being careful to avoid the cow dung and careful not to trip over the rocks and bumps in the road (or get hit by the bicycles flying by). The children, they follow you everywhere. You sit and talk with people- the woman who owns a sewing shop, the man who plants maize for his family, the Muslim women. You walk the streets, see the mud houses, the children's shoeless feet, and you want to cry. Are you here God, even in the midst of this? You see the joy in the children's eyes, the friendliness of the people. Yes, I see You God. You are here, You have not left these people alone.

2 hours pass and it is 6:00. You come home for the day and you are utterly exhausted. You kick your dust-coated shoes off and lay on the mattress, sticky and dirty. You pull out your package of wipes, this is your shower for the day. Thank you, Lord, for citrus-y smelling baby wipes. Behind your neck, in your ears, your face, your arms, your nose.. the dirt doesn't stop coming off. Clean is an unknown feeling these days. Your roommates sit beside you, doing the same thing. You compare your dirty wipes, seeing who is the dirtiest and who used the most wipes. Eventually you call it quits, that's as clean as you're getting.

You lay down on your mattress, counting down the hours until bedtime. It is 7:00 and dinner preparations have yet to get started. This is Africa, you learn to be flexible. You gather with your team back in the eating room. You can hear the children outside, calling the names of those in your group. Don't their parents wonder where they are at? Jesus, keep them safe. You worship. You pray. You debrief the day.

Dinner comes around 10:00- macarone and rice. Chips (or french fries as we call them in America) if you are lucky. Usually cabbage. And some form of meat, most likely a chicken one of the members of your team killed earlier in the day. The Africans get a kick out of seeing the little white girls kill chickens. You are so tired you can barely taste what is going into your mouth. Tonight it is a struggle to keep your eyes open. The power flickers and goes out, someone comes in with a lantern. Its warm, yellowish-red glow is comforting.

You head to your room, groping in the dark trying to find your flashlight. You find it, and thus begins the search for the toilet paper. You and your teammates make your nightly trip to the squatty potty. You open the door and mentally prepare yourself for the cockroaches you know will be in there this time. The blue door opens again, and you walk up the steps. I can't do this again. God, I can't do this. Help me. The encouraging voices of some of your teammates (the girls you have come to love so dearly) surround you as you close the door. You pray as you stand (fine, let's keep it real- you squat) there, peeing on the antennas of the cockroaches. God don't let them crawl back up, please don't let them crawl back up.

You walk back to your room to grab your toothbrush and water bottle. Tonight you actually do brush your teeth, the minty freshness burns your mouth. You crawl into bed and tuck the mosquito net underneath the mattress again, leaving one end open so your friend can get in when she's done journaling outside. Thank you for her, Lord. Thank you for her patience, and kindness. A smile spreads across your face as you think of how you will probably roll onto her in the middle of the night, and she will push you off of her. And you will play fight in the morning, pretending to be incredibly irritated at sharing a bed when, in fact, you don't mind at all. Sharing a bed only brings you closer.

You turn your flashlight on as you pull out your journal and Bible. You write, by the light of the flashlight, about the day, about how you miss home, about the things you love in Africa, about what God is teaching you, about how God is changing you. You write and write, but it seems like you can't record it all down. There's so much you have to say, but your fingers are tired. It's midnight -or after- and your mind cannot think anymore.

You turn the flashlight off. The sounds of Africa surround you- music, people talking a language you don't understand, a baby crying. You close your eyes. Thank You for the strength to make it through another day, thank You for these children, thank You for our hosts, thank You for my team. Thank You Lord for Africa.