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.