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.

abide with me

Learning to abide with Him, in each moment of each day. Here's some 'snaps' (pictures) of what life has been like lately.

Mama Esther and Misach.

Jason.. being his usual Jason-self.

Misachi snuggle-time!

Dan the man.

Isaac, playing in the rain.

Out to town for soda and sweeties!

Mama Nam and baby Grace.

Jamil being cool.

Sleeping baby James- the newest addition to our house.

"I need Thy presence every passing hour. What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, abide with me."

eternal lasting love

"And so we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen; for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -2 Corinthians 4:18

This scripture, I have it memorized, written on a paper duct-taped to the end of my bed, and highlighted in my bible. But lately it seems God is taking that passage of Scripture, and making in come alive before my eyes in a way I haven't seen before.

I'm learning what it means to invest in the unseen. I used to think that in order to do that, one had to give up all the seen things… the phones and tv shows and blogs and nice houses and cute clothes and such. In my mind, keeping you eyes on the unseen meant sacrificing all secular things and pleasures and comforts. But oh, what I am learning is that He doesn't want my sacrifice merely for the sake of sacrifice. He's not interested in my service or my deeds, He doesn't need them. He will use them, and wants to use us, but that's not what He's after. What He's most interested in are the hearts of His people.

I tend to get caught up in the sacrifice, kind of like the people of Isaiah 58 who were so busy focusing all their attention on the religious act of fasting that they completely missed the heart of God. I think that in sacrificing the comforts of America  -a hot shower, space, alone time, tv shows, unlimited, high-speed wifi, and all that loveliness- I was fixing my eyes on the unseen. But my prideful heart gets so caught up looking at what I'm sacrificing that my focus is still on the seen, even after I've been removed from it and think I've given it up.

Invest in the unseen. He whispers it in the quiet of the morning. That doesn't necessarily mean comforts and nice things, though sometimes it does. But I'm beginning to see 2 Corinthians 4:18 in a new light. Invest in people, invest in relationships, invest in love, in compassion, in mercy, in kindness. Spend time focusing on and living in the things that will last, the things that are eternal.

These are the words I wrote in my journal, sitting in my bed-bug-invested bed in the middle of sunny, hot Uganda. Words I know I'll need to read over and over again when I come home in March, and struggle and readjust to life in America. 

"Love," I hear You whisper it over and over again. What is the purpose of my life? Love. I want to know why You have me here in Uganda. Love. What do I do when I go home? Love. What is the point of this life? Love. I want to know what it means to be a Christ-follower. Love. All these questions that race through my mind, and Your answer is constant. "Invest in things eternal. Invest in love." 

Maybe I'm not called to give up every earthly comfort. Maybe I'm not called to be a pastor or overseas missionary or doctor. Maybe I'm not called to give out food and life-saving medicine. Maybe I'm not called to preach the Gospel on the street corners. Maybe… maybe I'm just called to love. And maybe those things, they'll just happen because of Love inhabiting the depths of my very being. 

Maybe there will be seasons where I am called to love in Uganda. And then seasons where I will love in Chicago. And seasons that maybe [I hope] will take me other places to other people. Maybe one day love means giving up my free time to go to coffee with a friend. Maybe another day, love means hugging a baby just a bit tighter. Love might mean buying shoes for a pair of bare, dirty, bleeding feet. Love might mean watching a movie and laughing one day, and the next day love might mean giving up a hot shower to be with a hurting soul. One day love might mean baking cookies for a friend, and the next it might mean donating food to the food pantry. Love will manifest in many different ways in many different places at many different times in many different seasons. But You're teaching me that it's not about sacrifice or following the rules or putting enough 'service time' in at a local church or giving up enough time, and effort, and offering money. Those things may happen out of response to love, but that's not what it's all about. What is all about is loving, wherever you are and whoever you're with. 

Thank You for Love. Fill me with Your love, Lord, that it may overflow into hearts and lives all around.

Love Divine, all love excelling. Joy of heaven, to earth come down. Fix in us Thy humble dwelling. All Thy faithful mercies crown. Jesus, Thou art all compassion. Pure, unbounded love Thou art. Visit us with Thy salvation, enter every trembling heart. 

sweet longing

i've put off writing a blogpost because -if I'm keeping it real- I haven't wanted to process life lately. And writing a blogpost, it usually requires a stilled heart and processing life. The reality is that I'm overwhelmed with tiredness, and loneliness, and worry, and doubt. And when I am alone with just me and my thoughts, it results in a bit of a freak out-mental breakdown. So I've stayed busy- snuggling babies and running errands in town and cooking dinner and taking kids for walks to Kimaka to buy fresh pineapple for dinner. 

But now here I am.. alone in the aunties room, sitting in my top bunk, wearing running shorts and a tank top and fuzzy socks, pouring sweat, and drinking hot chocolate [when she misses cold weather, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do]. 

my soul, it's a restless soul. stirring deep within me for something more. longing for something that is not of this world.

before i left for uganda this September, I used to think it was Uganda I was longing for… and Uganda that would fill that deep longing and Uganda that would put my restless soul at peace and Uganda that would satisfy my heart. And then I got to Uganda -and it was everything I remembered and expected- but the restless spirit inside wasn't put at peace, rather it became even more agitated. 

i'm coming to surrender to the reality that my heart, it will always be longing. My spirit will forever be a tad bit restless with these days I live here on this earth. I will never find the place on this globe where I feel I belong- whether Africa or America or any other country. Because my heart wasn't meant to call this earth home.

I spent many days last year longing to 'just be back in Uganda already'. And now I've spent the past [almost] week overwhelmed with homesickness, counting down the weeks until I am back in Chicago, dreaming of seeing the faces of people I love so dearly. I think of school, of babysitting, of other trips to other countries. I think of 20 years from now. I think of marriage and kids and being settled in life. And I think I'm just being slightly obsessed with the future, and i think I'm not trusting Him with the now and living in the present. And I pray it over and I surrender my future, and still i'm restless.

It's when this longing gets to its greatest point that she tells me to read 2 Corinthians. And it's in reading those verses that it comes together: my restlessness, my thoughts of the future, my wanting Uganda and wanting America… those aren't the things I'm really longing for. What I'm longing for, what we're all longing for, [when you dig to the root of it] is life before the fall, life in the garden, life spent walking hand-in-hand with the Lord. What I'm longing for, it's not attainable. Not here on this earth, not now. But I know that one day it will be [and oh, what a glorious day that will be]. And until that day comes, we live with the Spirit and we live to please Him.

"Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, because when we are clothed, we will not be found naked. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. Now it is God who has made us for this very purpose and has given us the Spirit as a deposit, a guaranteeing of what is to come. Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body, we are away from the Lord. We live by faith, and not by sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So we make it our goal to please him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it." [2 Corinthains 5:1-9]

It's an overwhelming thought, sometimes a bit depressing… to think that wherever you call home will never completely feel that way. But in the long run, I know I wouldn't have it any other way. Because I am not made of this world, and I am not made for this world. I fear feeling at home in this world. Because the minute I start feeling at home here is the minute I lose my eternal perspective, it's the minute I forget that there's more waiting for us beyond this life we see with our eyes right now. And all the beautiful moments, the happiest of times, they don't compare to what He has in store.

"I need an eternal perspective." I tell it to her on the walk to town, thankful for sweet friendship, "Because when I have an eternal perspective on life, I want to be restless. That feeling of longing, it keeps me remembering this life isn't all there is. It reminds me I was intended to live in a different world." 

ordinary days with an extraordinary God

I want to take off my shoes, fall on my knees. Because surely The Almighty is here, surely this is holy ground. 

"Auntie! Auntie, you see!" hot sun beats down on browned shoulders. i'm watching his legs pump back and forth. "Asanee!" I say, "I see!" Eyes squeeze shut tight, face lifted to the sky, the rush of the wind, his smile so big. 

My hands burn, touching the black, hot gate. It's been a long day in town, walking town and buying fruit at central market. He's sitting on his rock with his favorite Uncle Simon, babbling on about something in a language I don't understand. He greets me with laughter and a bear hug, his four limbs wrapped around my waist, face smashed into my stomach, laughter erupting. 

Late nights and tiptoes and quiet whispers… the aunties are peeking in on their sleeping kids, again. Blankets and footie-pajamas and children burrowed beneath mosquito netting. Misachi. He's laying there, grinning and adorable and content, as always.

 Dark and chilly and quiet mornings. I lay tossing and turning until I surrender to the fact that sleep won't come. I walk out of the gate, running shoes laced and iPod on. And the sight I see, it takes my breath away. Fog rolls and the sky is pink and tiny rays of sunshine burst through the clouds.

I've been at a loss as to what to write on this little blog, because (believe it or not) this life in Uganda is pretty ordinary. Diaper changes and snack time and school and crying children and time-out's and frustration and lots of laughter. What I'm learning is that I serve an extra-ordinary God who meets us in the ordinary.

At first glance, these are all just ordinary moments. But when my heart stills enough to take it all in, I see how extraordinary it really all is. Glory and holiness juxtaposed with sin-stained man, some days the wonder of it brings me to my knees. Ordinary moments and ordinary days, made extraordinary by the presence of a loving, holy God. And I stand, hands uplifted, thankful.