we'll stand grateful

It was nearly a week ago that I feed her rice and beans, watching children play and the sky grow dark. and i told her I have 10 days left until I go to America. and I watched as the girl who usually wants to beat me and laughs when I get hurt looks up at me and opens and closes her mouth to give me kisses. The depth of the bitterness of the goodbye that's to take place in what is now 6 days is not lost on me tonight, not in the slightest. 

Laying in my friend's hammock strung between two trees in our backyard, pink sunset clouds and green leaves go blurry and wet. tears fall as i give my sorrow to the One who already know every bit of it. And He whispers that He knows what He's doing, that my hurt isn't more than He can handle, that His grace is sufficient for everything, that His plans were not only for my own good or for the good of you all -my sweet supporters.. but that His plans were especially good for the children I've loved on for the past 6 months and so I have no reason to worry. 

It's hard to put into words what these last few days in Uganda are like. Each moment i have left here is tainted with a bit of sadness.. This is the last time you'll spend 4 hours in the immigration office renewing your visa. You have no Tuesday nights left in Africa. You can't make those plans, you won't be here long enough to see them through. But each moment also holds an excitement beyond words. You'll see that person in two weekends. You'll walk up those steps and through that door in 7 days. You'll actually be around for that event when it happens. Deep bitterness and extreme joy co-exist in the same moment. And though I'm living and experiencing it, I find it hard to believe it's even possible.

Being 7 days away from America is, to be completely honest, terrifying. Not so much fear of the busyness or changes or the culture shock of grocery stores and shopping malls (seriously, I've had actual dreams about walking into Target). But I'm scared… of the heartbreak days and missing my kiddos days. I'm scared of becoming sad and embittered at the life and people around me while I'm missing my Ekisa kiddos. I don't want to take you all -and the unique way you each are a part of my life- for granted. 

6 months in Uganda has taught me many things. One of those things being how thankful I am for you. i have watched your love bridge the gap.. the distance between chicago and uganda that i thought was so large and vast made small by your letters and emails of sweet words and encouragement and prayers. you have loved and encouraged and and carried and supported me throughout the past 6 months (and even before that). It leaves me so humbled, and so thankful. You have blessed my life more than you'll ever know, and more than I'll ever be able to express.

I've been at a bit of loss, as to what to write on this blog. I told it to a friend this afternoon, that I didn't know how to write a blog without it sounding sad, and self-pitying, and depressing. I am heartbroken at the idea of goodbye. But I don't want you to think that's all I am. Because I'm also oh-so excited to say hello to you all. So please know that, while this is a sad post, I really am quite excited at the thought of being in Chicago again and seeing all your lovely faces so soon! 

It's in the quiet of the late nights and the early mornings, when sleep won't come, that He speaks. These 6 months in Uganda have been some of the most beautiful months. And I can do one of two things… I can either get lost in the sadness of this goodbye that's come all-too-quickly, missing the opportunity to see Him at work in other incredible ways. Or instead, I can choose to be thankful for this season of life and lift high the name of the great God I serve, full of hope and expectation for the ways He's going to move next. 

"We will dance, 'cause You restore the wasted years and You will sing over all our coming fears. 

And we'll stand grateful for all that has been left behind and all that goes before us. You are to be praised."

life lessons from the ekisa kids

I always say these children are teaching me, always teaching me. And I've been reflecting for the past couple of weeks on what exactly they teach me, each of them individually. So meet our kiddos, and hear the things I've learned from them over the past 5 months.

Ziki- he teaches me the beauty of sweet friendship.

Zak- he teaches me how to communicate without words.

Mweru- he teaches me love, how to love and be loved. 

Walter- he shows me what compassion for the defenseless looks like.

Isaac- he teaches me not to take life too seriously.

Ibra- he teaches me that love knows no language.

Elijah- he reminds me that we serve a God of justice.

Joshua- he shows me the pleasure of a sweet, happy disposition. 

Rachel- she teaches me to just be myself [and that creepy is okay].

Paul- he reminds me to keep my eyes open for an opportunity to be a good helper.

Jason- he teaches me not to live behind masks, feelings were made to be expressed.

Arafat- he teaches me unabashed, unashamed joy and how to find it in everything.

Zuena- she taught me that life is precious and short.

Sam (Hasanee)- he teaches me we serve a faithful Healer.

Debra- she teaches me that strength and joy and patience are not bound to our circumstances.

Fiona- she reminds me of His faithfulness.

Daniel- he teaches me the happiness of fellowship and simply being with someone.

Misach- he's just cute :)

Isaac (Little)- he reminds me to enjoy the simple things, like back scratches and foot rubs.

Tasha- she teaches me that each life is precious, and wonderfully made.

James- he teaches me to laugh lots (and to not bite our friends).

So thankful for these kids, and the many things they have taught (and continue to teach) me.

moving the rock

"In Him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in His holy name." -Psalm 33:21

I lay in my bed with Misachi after a particularly rough day. I want home, and the people of home, and familiars of home. But as I snuggle what may be the world's cutest child ever, I realize how deeply it's going to hurt to leave these children I've come to know and love. He looks up at me with those eyes of his and that grin of his and my voice breaks as I whisper, "Misach, I don't know how I'm going to leave you." 

I come home late, children are in beds and lights are turned dim. And I do what may be my most favorite thing to do at Ekisa- peek in and see sleeping children. But she's still awake, sitting in her bed. "Auntie come!" Rachel says, holding her hand out. Bag still around my shoulder and shoes on my feet, I sit on her bed and hug her hard. "Oh," she says, "Auntie Anna, you are leaving for America?" I pull back and look into eyes so brown and sad, realizing they must reflect my own. "Not yet, Rach.. not yet."  But I know that day will be here in the blink of an eye, so I hug her tighter.

We're on Skype, with Auntie Gracie and Auntie Michelle. We bring kids into the room, one at a time, to say hi to the aunties on the computer. And it hits me like a blow to the chest. In not too long, I'll be that auntie who gets skyped in to say hey every once in a while. I'll be the auntie Jason asks about at bedtime, the auntie Walter gets shy on the computer around, the auntie Mama Nam cries about when the car pulls out of the Ekisa driveway. 

I can count on one hand the amount of weeks I have left here in Uganda. And while it fills me with such excitement at the thought of seeing you all so soon, I know it means saying goodbye to some of the most precious children who have wrapped their little fingers around my heart. I'm afraid, because I know the heartbreak that awaits. I find myself -sitting on the porch at nighttime, feeding babies, chasing children in the yard, going on walks to Kimaka- soaking in the moments, knowing 3.5 weeks are going to fly fast and these moments don't last for forever. It feels like last summer felt all over again- excited for a new season of life, heartbroken to say goodbye to the one I'm living now.

When I watched Mama Nam say goodbye, I didn't understand it. I sat on the couch, rubbing her back as the tears fell, wanting to ask her, "You know aunties aren't here for forever, why do you let your heart get so attached?" But in my mind, I replay the moments… her and I hand washing laundry in the yard, staying up all throughout the night laughing, making cassava fries, saying good morning [one of the few things we can communicate, since neither of us knows each other language fluently], sitting on the porch ledge on Sunday afternoons. Moments filled with such laughter and such joy. This young woman is the most joy-filled person I have met. She doesn't guard her heart or her emotions or attachments. And every time an auntie leaves, she hurts like none other.

I've told myself to not get too attached, because goodbye is coming. And the more attached you get, the more it's going to hurt later. But then I think of Nam. I think of the deep joy she knows. She lives with her heart on her sleeve; and I know that's how I want to live too. Because I want to know joy like she knows. And that kind of joy, you can't know it unless you're willing to feel the sadness too. But seeing Nam's joy helps me see how it is so worth it.

There's a future of unknowns that starts the morning of March 8th when I wake up in my own bed and planning a Uganda-trip isn't in my near future. I think of two months from now, and two years from now, and 20 years from now. What will I be doing? I shake at the fear of not knowing so many things… how life will have changed, how my heart is going to be so happy to be home, how much I'm going to miss my life here in Uganda, what this new season of life holds. 

I'm standing with my hand on the rock, and He asks me, "Do you trust Me?" It's like when Lazarus is raised from the dead. Jesus standing outside the tomb and Mary whispers, "But Lord, the smell, it will be great." And I know her fear… not of the smell, but of not knowing what Jesus is going to do with the inside of the tomb. I don't know what lays inside the tomb. I want to put off the moving of the rock and knowing the future, because I don't know what He's going to do with what lays beyond that. 

Whatever lays ahead, the joy and the heartbreak, the known and the unknown, the many more seasons and people and hellos and goodbye's that will come… do I trust Him? Do I believe -truly, sincerely believe- He knows what He's doing? I'm hesitant to say that I do and that I always will. Because do I really mean that? Will I mean that in 10 years? I'm afraid to answer, because I'm afraid of what happens if the answer is not "Yes, I trust You." 

But I have known life with Him and what that's like. And I have experienced it- a life lived with Him is the only life worth living. And I know that there's no going back to any other kind of life that isn't centered around Him. So together we will walk to places of indescribable joy, and also to places of great sorrow. And there's no other One I'd trust enough to walk those places with.