or: the coolest house in Limbe
On this compound there's a building. It's rock and cement fence slants a slow lopsided angle and many a rooster, chicken, and goat run through its gates. This once-vacant building now teems with life- the scuffling of footsteps, laughter that rings loudly, speakers that blare late in the afternoon, pots of noodles boiling. Where three heads once laid to sleep, there's now eight. Where a bench sat more empty than full, it now spills over and a second one is needed. The white painted walls and fresh countertops and stiff-sheeted beds now have scuffs and mud prints and wrinkles and bangs around every corner. These walls hold joy and struggle, sweat and tears, restless nights and incredible peace. They've welcomed those labeled unworthy, useless, outcasted. And it's become a place of incredible joy.
It's Sunday morning. The shower water runs as they pick out dresses and tie hair scarves on and there's all this Creole shouting and she pats my hand as we sit on the bed. "Aye aye aye..." In the afternoons, when the classroom is locked tight and pencils put away, I walk across the half-rocky half-muddy yard with the sun beating hot. With every footstep I chide myself for not walking this walk more often. The very first day I stood awkward, grasping for words and how to interact. Now my day is not complete without 8 "bongas" (the Ugandan fist-bump) and making fun of at least 2 grandmouns. I look for her blue checkered dress, ask where their linets are, and tap his frail shoulder then turn away teasingly. How I've come to love them...
That day -in the place where soot coats the walls black and dim light casts shadows- this home welcomes yet another. Malnourished and days away from dying, he is found and fed and loved. A week later I watch as he's wheeled (rather begrudgingly) to the lunch table. For a second, the sight sucks all the air from my lungs.
There's many a thing I don't understand about this culture -- how to balance a five-gallon bucket on your head, the way a tap-tap can hold a small army, or how to balance what seems like half a house on a bicycle. And perhaps one day I will successfully master the art of bicycle balancing, but what I will never comprehend is how a culture can so guiltlessly neglect its elderly.
His shoulder blades pop from his thin white T-shirt. Her vacant eyes cry for her kids. His hands shake the water cup at the lunch table. Malnourished knees are bent in fetal position. This is the product of evil, nothing less.
I speak of the things I can't wait to enjoy when my feet hit American soil- the pumpkin-soy lattes, cozy sweaters and brown boots, netflix marathons and 6-mile runs, grocery stores and crock pot dinners, unlimited texting and high-speed wifi, clean towels and my comfy bed... but the truth is, I have been absolutely ruined. How does one watch his rail-thing arms and sunken eyes march up and down the hallway with a smile a mile wide, and leave unchanged?
I love to spin the words as the house grows still. Scribbled on well-worn journal pages is my heart finding its voice. My emotions and thoughts expressed with the tip of my favorite black pen; praying the scribbles I do share with the rest of the world are used by Him. But this.... this I cannot put to words. Only experience can share this.
Late into the night we wrestle. I'm looking at a country that is capable of this- this starving of its elderly and abuse of its children. He came even for ones such as these. The truth of it is unfathomable. It seems almost a great injustice to love the ones who allow such cruelty to exist. As the drums and chants echo late into the night, my aching heart bleeds. Can they really not see? And here is where I find myself. Thankful that this building is, and praying it continues to be. Praying this building I've come to love so dearly changes their lives too. Praying that this building will stand as testimony of His great love to a community lost in darkness.
This is life apart from Him. Surely in this country one can taste the horrors of hell. But here in this building where their faces light up and their laughter rings loud, I know also this: here you can also taste the great joy of heaven.
Inwardly, I still struggle to wrap my mind about a lot of things. My heart is full of the brokenness- of newborn babies who die and 9-year-old's with cancer, broken family homes and children left parentless, starved elderly and beaten children. Honestly, "His ways are higher than ours" sounds a lot better etched onto thin paper than when you're staring in the face of suffering. This question has haunted me many a time throughout the years, and I've yet to hear an answer that appeases the troubled heart. Even so, I find myself in the arms of a God who won't let me go. And that. is. enough. Mainly because I know it has to be. His ways we will never fully understand. But we can know Who He is, and we can choose to let that be enough.
Tonight eight heads burrow deep beneath pillows and freshly washed sheets, with bellies full and hearts well loved-on. And it is all because He loved enough to stir in hearts the desire for a building and the lives wiling to serve here. Their lives are being changed and seeds of hope planted. Daily I fall more in love with this mission's heart, and daily I am humbled and inspired all the more by the great faith and sacrifice my eyes have been so blessed to witness.
And though I try, it's one of those things that aren't meant for words.
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