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."