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