Week 40: What I Know

Yesterday.  Let me tell you what yesterday, November 18, 2014, was supposed to look like:

I would wake up at around 8AM, crawl out of my mosquito net, and pull myself across the hall to our kitchen. I would grab my favorite coffee from atop the microwave and scoop a few spoonfuls of the grounds into my french press. I would find hot water waiting for me on the stove, left behind by a thoughtful roommate. When my coffee was ready, I'd carry the steaming mug back to my room to hang out with Jesus for a little while. I'd read, pray, and probably cry a little bit. It's time, I'd think. Time to leave Uganda. I'd remind myself to enjoy today, to make the very best of my last day in Mbale. I'd hear the morning music of my roommates come flooding from their bedrooms; worship, pop, country, you never know what it'll be. We'd all play our music at the same time. Sometimes it would clash horribly, and sometimes we'd laugh because all three of us would be listening to the same thing. I'd leave the house, probably a little early on this particular day, soaking in all of the sights, smells, and sounds. I would slip on my favorite sandals and right as I was shutting the door, I'd remember to feed the cat. I'd fill a bowl with food, adding an extra scoop or two to accommodate for the three growing kittens.

 When I finally got out the front door, I would speak to the guard, Isaac, for a few minutes. We would exchange "good morning's and "how are you?"s and I would thank him as he opened the gate for me. I would stand outside our gate, waiting for a boda for about ten seconds, until I got bored and started walking. I'd usually walk around five minutes before a boda would find me. I'd tell him where I was going and ask if he knew the place. He would say that he did, and I would climb aboard, sitting sideways, tucking my long skirt under me. I would pay special attention to the drive today, I'd be eager to feel everything that could possibly be felt. I'd wave at children that we'd pass. I'd take mental pictures of their sweet faces, begging my memory to take hold tightly.

Ten minutes later, I'd arrive at the school, the children most likely on their morning break. The young ones would be near the office. Some would run to me, some would stand by shyly. I'd feel the pressure today to kiss each of their sweet faces, to hug every neck, to speak life into every heart. I would find my workmate Sarah, sitting with a few other women from the school, sipping tea. I would greet each of them individually, as I knew was proper in this culture. I would quickly drop my backpack in the office and then find a spot to sit among the ladies. They'd speak in Luganda, unintentionally removing me from the conversation, but I wouldn't mind. Sarah would occasionally fill me in on what they were speaking of. Then they'd ask me to start prayers. I'd go inside to get the copy of Jesus Calling. I would open it to today's date and read the appropriate portion. I may ask them a question or two regarding what we'd read, and share something on my own personal struggles. I would ask one of the ladies to pray, but they'd most likely insist that I pray.

A child may come to the office seeking a new pen, or a fresh notebook, or a medical form to go to the clinic for their headache. I would most likely annoy them with questions. Today would be my last chance to learn something new about them. Sarah and I would sit in the office together, talking about the children as she copied receipts in her financial notebook. Tears would well up in my eyes as I'd start to say how much I'm going to miss her, and she'd tell me to quit crying. "Be strong. You're a strong girl," she'd say, but I know she'd want to cry too. We'd talk about her new husband, and reminisce on how wonderful her wedding, just two weeks ago, had been. We'd talk about babies soon to come, about when I'd be back, and what I may bring her when I came. I'd know that my puffy eyes looked terrible, but we would take a picture together anyway.

When lunchtime arrived, I'd wander outside to where lunch is served. I'd tie my hair back and grab the ladle. It would be a Tuesday, which means posho and beans. The cook, also named Sarah, would scoop posho onto the plastic plates, sliding them across the table to me. I'd place a scoop of beans on top, soaking the posho. I'd hand the plates to each child, alternating between the girls line and the boys. I may give some of my favorite older boys a little extra beans. I loved serving lunch because I got to look at each of them in the face, and have a moment, regardless of how short, with each individual child. When they received their lunch, each made their way into the church to eat. When all of the children had been served, I'd join them in the church. They'd laugh and talk, occasionally being shhh'd by teachers. After listening, talking, and soaking in their presence, I'd join Sarah in the office for lunch. I'd skip the posho and just eat the beans because, even after living in Uganda for ten months, I could not get on board with flour and water as an actually edible substance. Eventually, Kate would join us after having lunch with one of our girls at the high school. She'd pull a greasy chapati out of her bag. Kate usually tried to pass up such an unhealthy treat, but I know she'd eat it on our last day. We'd eat chapati together and talk about the plan for the day.

While the kids were in class for the next couple of hours, we'd visit a few of the mamas in Namatala, saying our last goodbyes to the women and to the village. We'd pray over their homes and their sweet babies. Then we'd head back to the school so we could be there when the young ones got out of class. We'd be sure to grab each one, even the stubborn boys, for one last hug. We'd try to soak in the joy of it, but the tears would always be lurking around the corner. Then the big kids would get out of class, and the real waterworks would begin. They would scold us for showing such weakness, and Kate and I would try to obey, wiping the betraying tears from our faces.

We would walk them home to the slum, leaving some at their homes along the way. But there are several girls that would stay with us until the very last second. We would giggle and sing with them, breathing in all of the life that they have to offer and have been giving so selflessly to us for the past months. We would repeat over and over and over again that we'd be back. We wouldn't forget them. We love them. We love them so, so much. I would eventually begin to worry about it getting dark, and I'd have to tear Kate away from her girls. We'd climb aboard bodas, the whole village probably staring at the blubbering mzungus, but we wouldn't mind. We were their mzungus.

We would ride into town, stopping at Endiro for one last coffee. We'd probably see some of our ex-patriot friends. There would be laughter and well wishes and hugs. I would quietly say goodbye to the ladies who work at everyone's favorite coffee shop, trying not to cry some more. I'm sure I wouldn't have been wearing make-up; no need to even attempt a pretty face today. We would probably stay out a little later than was safe, but it would be okay today. We would get home and try not to weep, but try to focus on the last bit of packing. I'd walk back and forth from my room to Kate's, packing up my things, then running to her to comfort me.

I'd go to bed with a heavy heart. I'd try to count my blessings and think of how amazing it was that I got this experience. I'd probably talk to God, wondering why the greatest loves in life have to hurt so bad. I'd think about all I'd learned and how I'd grown and changed. I'd remind myself that God is the same everywhere, and He'd be with me in this new time. I'd think about my family and friends that I would soon be seeing back in America, and how much ice cream I could eat when I got back. I'd thank Jesus for the beautiful time, and beg Him to ease some of the hurt. He would have. He always did.

The next morning, I'd head with my teammates to Entebbe. Waving goodbye to my house, the dog, and Isaac, I would say my last farewells to the city that treated me so well.

That is how yesterday was supposed to look. But it wasn't what it looked like at all. Two months ago, myself and my two teammates were brought home early due to threats to our safety. We were told in the evening that we needed to leave, we packed all night, and we drove away the next morning. No goodbyes. No closure. So much left undone.

My last day didn't look the way it should have. It should have been purposeful. I should have loved bigger and better than I ever had. I should have been able to say goodbye to the ones I love. To hit them hard with one last, "You're great. You're important. You're loved." I should have been able to hold them one last time, to soak it all in. I should have been able to assure them that I'd be back. But I didn't get to.

They came to school one day, and I just wasn't there. No goodbye. No "I love you,"s. Nothing. I just left them. I was there one day and then I wasn't.

I came back and America felt so strange. I didn't feel like I fit here anymore. America was so different from the life I had come to know, and I wasn't quite sure I knew how to be American anymore. I felt like I had great purpose in Uganda, and I didn't feel like I had any here. 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to me and it wasn't fair to the kids. I was so angry. Angry at God for letting it happen; for letting me fall in love and then letting it be taken away from me. I was angry at those who are making the world unsafe for taking away my safety, my sense of peace, and my freedom to love the people I promised to love. And after the anger came the despair. The hurt and the pain and the sorrow. And then came the fear. The fear that the children would hate me, the fear that I would never again be the free person that I was in Uganda, and the fear that if God gave me something good, He would probably just take it away from me.

They hate me. 

I will never again be the girl I was there. 

If God gives me something good, He'll just take it away. 

Heavy things to believe. And I really did believe these things, not so very long ago.

Something that I learned in Uganda, not long before I left is this: our feelings do not outweigh truth. 

There is nothing wrong with feelings. God often uses our feelings to speak to us. He created us with feelings and, since we are made in His image, we know that He has feelings, too. Feelings are not bad. However, when we begin to rely on our feelings as truth, we end up with a pretty warped perception of reality. You can feel one thing, and it be totally off from the truth.

Here's the deal: I had a lot of feelings when I returned to the States. I felt alone. I felt forgotten. I felt cheated. I felt like God didn't care much about me. He didn't feel mighty to save. He didn't feel like my strong tower. He didn't feel like a rescuer or a righteous judge or a good dad. He felt like a big jerk.

At first I was silent about these feelings. I didn't tell Him what I was thinking. I just pretended like He wasn't there. (I gave the creator of the universe the silent treatment. It's kind of funny, thinking of that now.) But then I was too angry to stay quiet anymore. I yelled at Him. I questioned Him. I accused Him. I felt like all of these feelings were valid. I mean, He had not been so great to me, right? I gave Him my life, told Him to do things with me, and this is what He chose: to yank my heart around like I was nothing. Who did He think He was?

Over time, through some angry praying, ugly worshiping, and the gentlest kind of love from my brothers and sisters in Christ, I started remembering some of the things that I know. And the things that I know take precedence over the things that I feel. Here are some things that I know:

I know that God is good. [For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations. Psalm 100:5] 

I know that God loves me. [No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:37-39]

I know that He has great plans for my life. [For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11]

I know that I'm a beautiful, joyful, free child of the best Father. [Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God. John 1:12] 

I know that though things are hard right now, I will be okay again. [And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28]

I know that I will eventually get to see those sweet kids again. [God is not a man, that he should lie, nor a son of man, that he should change his mind. Does he speak and then not act? Does he promise and not fulfill? Numbers 23:19]

I know. Because He promised me.

Feelings are great. They connect us with God and each other and remind us that we're alive. It's part of being a person, it's how He made us. But I'm learning that when I begin to feel things that are a little crazy, a little off, I have to remind myself of what I know.

I know that the kids in Uganda love me. I know that as I seek Jesus, I will start coming back to life again. I know that God has great plans for my life and if that involves taking some things away from me, then so be it. I know that I'm loved, sought after, and cherished. I know that I'm created to be alive, free, and fearless. I know who He is and who I am. So there's no need to act as if my feelings are reality when I know what the truth really is. I know. So I'm going to choose to walk in what I know rather than what I feel.

I know that I still have some work to be done. I'm a really messy human being with lots of healing left to do. But I'm hopeful. I am so very hopeful.

Em

Week 26+27+28+29+30

Whoaaaa. It's been ages since I've blogged. I've almost forgotten how to do this. Almost.

It's funny; it's like pulling teeth to make myself sit down and write, but once I do, I love it. Right now, I'm sitting in my hammock between two beautiful trees, sipping tea, listening to Rend Collective, and yelling at the dog to leave me alone. I'm telling you, Rocky is the most annoying creature I've ever known. "He just needs to be loved!" my sister would say. Whatever, Rocky. I've got important stuff to do.

[Update: It started to rain, so, naturally, I started to dance. Rocky joined, but he soon began biting my ankles, so I sent him away.]

A lot has happened over the past few weeks. Our IChooseYou kiddos have been on holiday for the past weeks, so I've had the blessing of spending a lot of quality time with them. Though this time has been somewhat challenging for me, I am so thankful that I got the opportunity to experience the things that I did. Prepare yourself, I have five weeks to make up for. This post will be long.

I'm going to be real with you: school holidays is not my favorite time. I like order. I like a schedule. I like consistency. So when my order, schedule, and consistency are thrown out the window for five weeks of craziness, I get a little out of my comfort zone. It took a lot of willpower just to keep myself from just staying in my bed all day with endless episodes of The Big Bang Theory as my only brain stimulation. Televisions shows at least have the order and predictability that I so love. But alas, I did not stay in bed for five weeks, but instead visited many families, ate at many tables, and fell even more in love with my Ugandan brothers and sisters than I was before. I was able to meet the parents, siblings, and friends of many of our IChooseYou kids, those I otherwise would not have been able to meet. In just an hour at their homes, I got to know some of our kids better than I have in months of seeing them at school. It was truly remarkable, to see them in their homes, with their families, living their normal lives. I feel like I got to see parts of them I've never seen before.

I became somewhat of a fly on the wall during my time in Namatala. They were no longer on their best behavior for this mzungu. I experienced a lot of things that made me feel uncomfortable, things I did not like. I saw children digging through the trash for food, people intoxicated before two in the afternoon because they hurt so much that they so desperately seek escape, and children being disciplined harshly and violently. It was not my first time to see any of these things, and I know that they are very common occurrences in the lives of these children. But I have grown somewhat used to my little bubble at school, where every child wears a uniform and is treated equally by their teachers. Things in Namatala are not equal. Some children live in houses and some in round huts. Some children have their own bed and some share with four or more family members. Some children have several sets of clothing and some only have one. Some children have both parents at home and some only have a mother or an aunt or a grandmother or a neighbor. I so desire for every child to have the very best, to have what they deserve. But they don't, and that's difficult to reconcile. I saw a lot that made me feel sick, angry, and confused. I have seen awful things that I cannot unsee. 

Cultural fact: it’s a huge honor in Uganda to have someone visit your home. By visiting a home you are expressing that they are worthy of being visited and that they are capable of providing a meal, a nice place to rest, and, above all, company that you would want to keep. Over the past few weeks I have eaten loads of matoke, rice, beans, potatoes, and posho. [If it is offered to you, I don’t recommend taking any pele pele (hot red pepper) with your food. Those little guys are deadly.] The generosity of these people continues to astound me. They have so little, and yet will not even think twice before placing a heaping pile of food before their (obviously well fed) visitors. Honestly, it doesn't really make sense. The poorest are the most giving? The desolate are the most joyful?  I have also seen great beauty over the past month. I have seen great generosity and selflessness. I have seen beautiful families come together through adoption. I have seen so many mamas who are working as hard as they can to give their children the very best. I have seen little children find joy in the smallest of things. I have seen God reach down and move in the lives of these people that He loves so fiercely. I have seen awful things that I cannot unsee, but I have also seen beautiful things that I cannot unsee. I used to think that time in Africa was separated by good seasons and bad seasons. Some days are happy, some are sad. Sometimes it's glorious, sometimes it's hard. But I no longer believe that is the case. It is always hard. It is always scary. It is always a battle. A cynical view, yeah? Oh, but I also believe that it is always beautiful, always sacred, always worth it. It's both/and, every single day. 

Every single day is hard. And every single day is glorious. May the Lord be praised. 

I spent a fair amount of time this holiday at the Amina sewing/beading club. This is where some of the IChooseYou mamas work, creating jewelry, bags, and many other things to generate an income for themselves. I made it known to the children that I would be there every morning during the holiday. Some, though not many, came in the mornings with their mamas. I brought something each day to entertain; a volleyball, stickers, nail polish, story books (Sweet Pickles), sweets, and my Jesus Storybook Bible. Peter and Gift especially loved reading the Sweet Pickles books together. I was so happy to see her delight in them, I've sent a few books home with Gift. I know with absolute certainty that she appreciates them more than anyone else could. I enjoyed this time of paying special attention to few children at a time. I was able to get to know them individually, without loads of other kids around. I even got to take some of them to the market to get a treat. It’s always funny to see what they choose. Sometimes it’s ice cream. Sometimes a soda or tub of yogurt. And sometimes, in the case of Peter, a loaf of bread for his aunt. While the other kids enjoyed their sweet treat, he marched straight to his aunt and handed it to her. That Peter. I love him.

I went with my housemate/workmate Kate to pick up her parents from the airport in Entebbe. They stayed in town for a couple of the weeks. It was such a blessing to have them around; even though they are not my parents, having the parents of someone I love around was so comforting.They asked me questions, bought me lunches, and really, just acted like a mom and dad. I so loved having them around for a short time. [Love ya, Robin and Jimbo!] We took a few of our kiddos over to the hotel where they were staying. One day, we just wandered around the beautiful hotel grounds with a few of our girls. We stopped to pose in front of the flowers and enjoyed the playground that we are much too big for. It was childish and silly and fun and wonderful. I love these beautiful hearts.

Sarah, Allen, and I have started a lovely tradition of playing a game I like to call, “Janky Sorry.” It is similar to the traditional Sorry game, but with a few “janky” elements. For one, we shake the dice in a shaving cream cap. Yeah. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good at it. I always win (Unless the headmaster joins us. Man, that son of a gun sure knows how to roll a six). Actually, Allen beat me last week for the first time ever. I've included a photo of the smug champion.  

I tagged along with Kate and her parents to Sipi Falls, a collection of waterfalls only an hour away from our home. We hiked for a couple of hours to see three of the falls. A recently discovered fact about me: I love waterfalls. It’s amazing that something can be so powerful, so majestic, and yet so gentle and soothing. I mean, people have waterfall sounds machine to fall asleep. But waterfalls are seriously powerful! They can sweep you away! I just think it’s crazy. We spotted exotic birds, chameleons, and, the wildest of all creatures: college aged boys going for a swim in the icy pools. [I absolutely loved the chameleons. I spent the next few days researching how to purchase and take care of a chameleon. I have since decided that the fascinating creatures are too high maintenance for me. But I still really like them.] I managed to carry myself along the slippery path with grace and dignity, until the very end of the hike, when I fell on my butt. I guess we can’t be graceful all the time. At the end of the hike, we had a nice lunch and bought locally grown coffee beans. Do I know what to do with coffee beans? No. I will probably just put them in decorative bowl.

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I continued to visit to my pals at CRO (Child Restoration Outreach) during the holiday. I am absolutely crazy about these kiddos. They are so full of joy. They, like all children around the world, love to play pretend. Over the past couple of weeks, I've seen them turn mud into dinner, brooms into guitars, and old playgrounds into castles. They are truly wonderful children, and I love spending an hour a week in their presence.

Over the holiday, I most definitely missed my daily interactions with my workmate, Sarah. When school is in session, I come to the office every day. We have a devotional and drink tea. We talk about paperwork and emails. We talk about the children and improvements that can be made. And then sometimes we just have fun. We laugh and crack jokes. We tell stories. It’s the best. I've certainly missed this over the holiday. Sarah and I got together for lunch, and then I asked her if she would take me to “the village”. All of the thousands of villages in Uganda are called, “the village.” I find it hilarious that they talk about their village of origin as if it’s the only village there is. This village happened to be in the district of Manafwa. Her brother stays there with his wife and several children. I convinced Sarah to take me, and so we packed a bag of gifts and took off. 

We took a taxi (a van) from Mbale to Manafwa for two dollars per person on an hour long journey. Taxis that are meant to hold eighteen people usually end up holding around thirty. I introduced Sarah to the term, “packed like sardines”, and she in turn introduced me to the term, “packed like bananas.” And packed like bananas we most certainly were. [Funny side story; while we were driving, a few passengers brought their chickens along. I thought this was hilarious. I mean, chickens! I must have giggled for ten minutes before Sarah whispered to me, "You'd better stop laughing before they think you're mad!"] When we arrived to her brother’s home, we were warmly received. I met the entire family and several neighbors. Sarah showed me around the house, then we sat and played with the baby while her sister in law began lunch preparations. Some of the children led us up the mountain to see their crops. The view from the top wasn't too shabby either.  

On our way down the mountain, we stopped at the home of one of Sarah’s friends. His body is slowly becoming paralyzed, starting in his feet and legs, and now extending to his hands. He has been carried everywhere for the past two years, and now needs assistance even to eat. He is of the mind that the local witch doctor has cursed him with this disease. I was given the honor of praying for him, both for the physical healing of this man and the spiritual atmosphere of his home. I can’t say that his illness left him and he began walking again, but I can say that the Holy Spirit made His presence known in that place. A peace fell upon his hut, and everyone felt it. Thank you for hearing us, Jesus. 

We climbed back down just in time for lunch and a torrential downpour. While we feasted on matoke, posho, beans, and chicken,  rain pounded on the tin roof. Sarah lie down for a nap and I read my book. The peaceful atmosphere was wonderful. We headed home later in the afternoon, and I waved goodbye to my new friends. I am the first mzungu to visit Sarah’s family there. I felt very honored.

Y’all. One day, something awesome happened. Each time I go to Namatala, I pass by a Muslim mosque on one side of the road, and a Hindu temple on the other side. I pray for both places of worship each time I pass, but I am particularly drawn to praying over the Hindu temple. I have had a desire to love the Hindu people ever since I read stories of Amy Carmichael rescuing little Indian girls from temple prostitution. Something in my heart aches for these people, and I so hope Jesus takes me to India some day. I have wanted to go inside the Hindu temple for a while now, but I somehow knew it wasn't wise to force my way in. One day last week, I decided to walk home from Namatala. I walked along, past the tall, intimidating walls that surround the temple compound. I stood at the gate and peeked inside. Should I go in? I wondered.

Wait, He said.

 A few Ugandans came out to greet me; the guard, cleaning lady, and the grounds keeper. We chatted about the temple and its inhabitants. Should I ask if I can go in?

Wait, Emily.

I expressed my admiration for the buildings and the flowers that covered the grounds. I’ll bet they’d let me in.

Wait until you’re invited.

I stood there awkwardly, trying to make small talk, waiting. The cleaning lady looked at me suddenly and said, “You come inside and see!” I couldn't contain my joy. The guard, a woman of around thirty years, looked at me doubtfully. I asked if the leader of the temple (I later found out that he is called a brahmin) would allow me to enter. She said she wasn't so sure and would ask for me. She came back a few minutes later, saying that they would allow me to enter if I gave a donation of 5,000 shillings ($2) to the temple. I agreed, and then slowly crept inside the gates. The grounds were lovely, with many different kinds of beautiful trees and flowers. It was made up of one large temple, with several smaller rooms and buildings surrounding it. I came upon two families playing on the playground. Both of the men introduced themselves to me. One man, enthusiastic and welcoming, was an attendee of the temple and stayed in the living quarters on the temple compound. He owns a shop down the road from the temple. I also met his adorable two year old son. The second man, quiet, but not unkind, was the leader of the temple. I spoke to each of them for a few minutes and they both encouraged me to explore the grounds. They assured me that it was not a problem, but instructed me to remove my shoes before entering the main temple. As I turned to walk towards the temple, the shop owner stopped me with a question. "Are you a Christian?"

I stopped dead in my tracks. Caught. Found out. I was hoping that I would be assumed to be just another atheistic Peace Corps kid, like so many that inhabit this city. Oh, no. Would they make me leave? Would they be angry with me? "Yes,” I said slowly. “I am. Is it fine?"

He laughed and smiled. "It's no problem!"

I breathed a sigh of relief and headed into the temple, leaving my Chaco’s on the steps. I crept inside. It was bright and cheerful. There were several statues placed along the walls, some containing money offerings. I was alone for a few minutes, and I prayed and sang and ushered the Holy Spirit in. I was trying to be quiet, but my heart filled with so much joy and hope that it was difficult to not fall to my knees right there. What a glorious thing it was: to be in a place of worship where my God, the one true God, is regularly dishonored, spat upon, if you will, and He still came. He is ignored in favor of a statue, a chunk of rock. The Creator of all things, seen and unseen, the Almighty God, the Ruler of the Heavens and the seas, has been rejected for stone.  And  yet.

When I prayed from that place, He heard me. When I asked Him to come, He came. Everything on this earth belongs to him, even Hindu temples. He loves the people who frequent that place, as much as He loves me. And brothers and sisters, that love is very fierce.

The pastor came in (probably to make sure I wasn't doing what I was doing.) We spoke about the beauty of the place and the people who come there. I walked back outside. I really wanted to take a few photos, but I was afraid it may be seen as disrespectful. I barely had my shoes back on before they asked me if I’d like to take some photos of the temple. Are you kidding me? I took a photo of the smiley shop keeper with his baby, in front of the temple. I then saw the rest of the compound, snapping a few photos along the way. I saw many statues and the cement slab (about the size of a basketball court) covered in paintings of their deities, where they dance during certain Hindu celebrations. There is a small, gazebo looking structure in the center. It was all beautiful and well kept, a rare sight in Uganda.

I waved goodbye to the two families as I walked toward the gate.

As I was leaving, I asked the guards name. Rachel. To my mind flooded everything I know about the Rachel of the Bible. Beautiful, favored, sought after. "Rachel, are you...?" I started.  She smiled and took my hand. "I'm a believer," she whispered. I squealed. Several “praise God”s, “Amen”s, and “Hallelujah”s followed. I encouraged her in her position on the battleground which she has been placed. And then I left.

This experience was an incredible lesson for me on obedience. What if I’d tried to go in months ago, would they still have let me in? What if I’d forced my way in, would I have been received so warmly? Who knows what would have happened. But I do know, without question, that I was obedient, and it turned out beautifully. I am thankful for my time there, and I hope that Jesus takes me there again soon.

Monday was my birthday. I felt a plethora of emotions in the days leading up to it. I was excited to be turning twenty, then sad that I wasn't with the people I love. I was happy to have the experience of celebrating a birthday in Africa, then upset that I wouldn't be doing what I normally do on my birthdays. I almost wanted to forget it was my birthday, but then arrived two giant packages from the States, containing countless gifts and notes from my friends, immediate family, and extended family. I wept. The fact that I am loved so extravagantly by such amazing people never fails to shock me. Thank you everyone who contributed to my birthday mail- you are the best!

The day before my birthday, I  celebrated with both my African and mzungu friends. After church, Callie, Kate and I headed out to Namabasa for snacks and conversation. I took my grape and strawberry lemonade drink mixes along with large bottles of water (I tried to convince them that was how Jesus turned water into wine, but they didn't buy it) and cream biscuits. I love being with Mama Flower and her sweet children. They love me so well and expressed that love through encouraging words and many verses of birthday songs. I cherish my time with them.

That evening, I went with some of my ex-pat friends to everyone’s favorite place (Thank the Lord for Endiro!) for dinner. I blew out the Batman birthday candle my mom sent me in the epic packages of birthday wonder. We talked, laughed, and ate the chocolate cupcakes made from a box of cake mix my mom sent me.

On the morning of my actual birthday, my lovely roommate Kate made me a special birthday breakfast, just like my mom always does. It means so much to me that she did this, but it means even more that she pays attention to my constant ramblings about who I am, what I like, and what my mom always does for me on my birthday. She’s a special one, that Kate.

My birthday was the first day of the new school term and I was beyond excited to get back to the school. I missed the office, Sarah, and all of the IChooseYou kiddos. The children sang happy birthday to me (I swear, I've was sung “Happy Birthday” at least thirty times over the course of two days), but I was mostly just excited to be with them. It was productive and refreshing, just like I was hoping it would be.

That evening, sweet Callie made my favorite meal, something I like to call, “Pasta Magic”. Pretty much Callie throws tomatoes and loads of wonderful vegetables in a pan, pours it over noodles and it magically turns into my favorite food ever (it’s not really magic, Callie’s just a great cook). My roommates presented me with gifts: a beautiful teapot and a polka dotted dress. Both of these gifts are so “me”, I could cry. We ate more cupcakes and I blew out more candles. I spent the rest of the evening video calling (while wearing my new polka dotted dress) various friends and family, which resulted in more renditions of Happy Birthday.

I am very thankful for my friends and family in the USA, my two wonderful roommates, and my friends here in Uganda. You made this scary, first-away-from-family birthday wonderful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Honestly, y’all, this month has been really hard. I miss my family and my friends. I miss what I know. It’s really weird to have your birthday away from the people who love you, and I didn't like the idea one bit. I've been thrown out of any sense of routine and familiarity that I've come to know, and I feel insecure and uncomfortable. I don’t always want to be here. Sometimes I just want to pack my bags and head straight home to my mom and my bed and my shelf of books. I want to be where things are familiar, where I’m loved, where I’m known.

But here’s the thing: more than anything in this world, I want Jesus. More than comfort, more than stability, more even than the people I love. I want Him. I want to live with Him, walk with Him, and work with Him. I desire to know Him, more and more deeply. I want my love for Him to grow fiercer, and my understanding of Him to grow deeper. He is what I want. More than anything, more than anyone. Jesus.

When it hurts, He comforts. When I’m confused, He brings peace. When I feel inadequate, He reminds me who I am. More than anything, He’s just here. He makes His presence known in every place, in every thought, in every pit.

Sometimes, when I’m upset, I just want the presence of someone I love. My mom, sister, or best friend usually fill this role. I don’t want to talk or figure out my problem or try to cheer myself up. I just want to be in the presence of someone who loves me. I just want to know that I’m not alone. And guys, Jesus does this. Sometimes He speaks, sometimes he moves me to action, sometimes he gives me a solution to my problem. And sometimes, He just sits with me. He makes his presence known. And He refuses to leave me alone.

Y’all, I’m a mess. I screw up a lot. I feel a lot. I cry a lot. I have seen His faithfulness time and time again, and I still doubt him. I think He won’t show up, or if He does, it will only be to tell me how disappointed He is in me. I doubt His character, His faithfulness, and, most shockingly, His love. I doubt that He’ll come for me. I doubt that He wants me. How could He want me? I’m a wreck. But He does want me, wholly and completely. Know why? Because, thanks to Jesus, I’m made new. I’m made whole. My sins are paid for. He has come for me. He comes. He always, always comes.

My mess is nothing Jesus can’t handle.

My favorite song right now, goes like this:

You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of dust. You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us.

A mess, I am. But thanks to the love of Jesus, I am made beautiful. A beautiful mess.

Monday was the beginning of a lot of new things: a new school term, a new year of my life, and a new love for Uganda after this challenging season. I’m praying that this season brings lots more growth, lots more love, and lots more Jesus. I’m good, y’all.

Em

Week 25: My Other Home

Hello friends!

For the past three weeks, I have spent my weekends in the lovely village of Namabasa. One of the IChooseYou families stays in the village, located a few miles outside of Namatala. Mama Flower stays in Namabasa with three of her children; Mike (19), Flower (17), and Esther (10). Her oldest child, Paul (22), attends university in Kampala. I went with Kate (One of my lovely housemates/workmates) for one day, and we absolutely fell in love with it. We began by visiting one Saturday. Then the next week we came on Saturday and returned again Sunday. And this weekend we stayed for two nights. It's so wonderful- we just can't help it!

Namabasa is small and quiet, far from the noise of the city and the smells of the slum. The green farmland is peaceful and the views of the mountains are breathtaking. The neighbors are kind and friendly. It is covered with wild flowers practically begging to be picked. It's kind of, well, heavenly.

This family. Oh, this family. How I love them so. Mama Flower is an incredible woman and has raised some really amazing children. Each member of this family is so special. They are kind and hospitable and generous. Every time I walk through their door, I am immediately enveloped in loving arms and spoken over with words of encouragement. They are constantly making sure I am completely comfortable. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Tired? Cold? Anything I may need is offered before I even think of it. Mama Flower's hospitable heart reminds me of my own Mama. I am always comfortable, and never feel like a burden. Mama Flower is loud and fun and wise. Paul is bold and smart and talented. Mike is kind and protective and goofy. Flower is gentle and serious and determined. And Esther. Oh, Esther. I've started to call her Queen Esther because she carries herself with such dignity and beautiful strength that I can't help but think she's come from royal lineage. Esther is silly and smart and full of life. She sees beauty in everything and everyone. When I grow up, I want to be like Esther.

This weekend was one of my favorites of all time. We told stories. We played games. We sang. We watched movies. We worshiped. We took walks. We took pictures. We climbed rocks. We laughed a lot. We picked flowers. We went to fetch water at the borehole. We prayed. We ate matoke, rice, and beans. We danced. We made ridiculous faces. We drank tea. We waved at all of the neighbors as we passed them. We joked. We made up songs. It was good. It was so, so good.

I love this place. I love this family and their neighbors. I love their home and the food they eat. I love the way they speak to each other in Lunganda and then quickly turn to explain to me what's going on. I love that they call me a sister. I love that they are learning me and I am learning them. I love that I feel at complete peace when I walk into their house. I love that when I enter that place, I am home. 

Em