On Power…or the lack thereof

Here in Bundibugyo, power has always been less than stable. The electricity returning creates a certain yell among the missionaries here--of surprise and joy. Some even have a special dance that accompanies it. For the last three weeks our power has been especially unreliable. With the arrival of "THE road" in Bundibugyo Town and beyond, it will make its triumphal, slightly destructive entry in Nyahuka soon. Extreme widening of the road will take place as Nyahuka will soon house the African equivalent of a super highway. This road will roll from Mombasa all the way to Lagos, cutting straight through Uganda into the Congo. In preparation for its arrival, our electricity poles have been slowly shifted further from the current road, resulting in sun up to sun down power cuts. While this isn't highly disruptive and I've almost enjoyed the regularity at which the power comes off and on, our voltage stabilizer exploding a week ago was less appreciated. In smoke and flames, the magical box meant to control fluctuations in voltage, gave up the fight and plunged our house into darkness.

Added to the frustration of limited power, followed by no power, I reached the end of my rope upon realizing we had one propane tank, which was already in use. Propane runs our gas stove, which we use many times a day. But it also runs our "back up" fridge in cases when the power is off for many hours and we'd rather not lose all the meat in our freezer to green mold and other bacteria with long names. We couldn't run both appliances and for various reasons it seemed there wasn't a single propane tank available on all of World Harvest Mission property for our borrowing.

Less than 24 hours later, many of our problems were solved as a propane tank was scrounged up. And luckily the team engineer was in Kampala at the time and able to buy a replacement for our voltage stabilizer, and install in 2 days later upon his return. Thankfully we also had solar light bulbs and outlets available for use during the day which was great.

The point of this story is not how our power was fixed or even my lamenting unreliable electricity. Rather, as I thought about my many "power issues" I realized it isn't limited to electricity.

So many of the things that are challenging to me in Bundibugyo have to do with my lack of power in life here. I am powerless against the electricity going off, rats deciding my pantry is their new home, and sweat dripping down my back. But these are all mere annoyances when compared with the need surrounding me and my seeming powerlessness to help or change anything. Trying to tackle the many needs here is like trying to empty the ocean armed only with a thimble. I may be inconvenienced by my lack of power and propane for my second fridge (a reminder of the excess I continue to have despite leaving America's excess). But it is nothing compared to the powerlessness I feel when I see starving children at the health center or meet yet another student at my door hoping I can pay their school fees.

And even that is nothing in comparison with what I imagine so many people in Bundibugyo may feel on any given day. Powerlessness in the face of corruption as they are asked for a "gift" to accompany their job application. As they hear that their husband has taken a second wife. As they battle with alcoholism. As they watch their child waste away with HIV or as their child cringes in pain during a sickle cell crisis. As they sweat and work in their gardens and the fruit of their labor is stolen. As they lose yet another loved one to malaria. As they freeze in fear, hearing someone has cursed them and visited the local witch doctor with plans to torment them.

Feeling powerless leads to a state of hopelessness and despair. How many times can one be beaten down and still get back up again? I don't know exactly how many times but the resilience and perseverance of so many here amazes me. And ultimately, how does one receive power? The answer is found in Acts 1:8—“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.” The only true, staying power we can find is in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, our Rescuer and All Powerful God.

The more time I spend in Bundibugyo, the more I believe that change can only come through our great God's power. He has the power to free the bonds and break the chains of the captive. Only he can provide power over evil spirits, addictions, dependency, poverty, and death. His love is more powerful than any force and his grace empowers us to bring a preview of his coming complete Redemption to this earth.

I may whine about a lack of electricity or struggle over my inability to meet every need presented to me here. But I am delighted to know the one who is ultimately the most Powerful, "the holder of the keys" as they say here, the one with the Strength and ultimate plan to glorify this place and these people (myself included) in the days to come.

Counting the Cost

In my last post, I mentioned that there is a cost to saying “yes” to the missionary lifestyle. There is a sacrifice in the going, the doing, the being. Some missionaries claim that they “never made a sacrifice”. And if that is truly how they saw it, bully for them. But me? I haven’t been sanctified enough yet to say that. Not sure I ever will.

When I first signed up for this gig, I counted the cost. Moving away from a loving family, supportive friends, and a familiar home. Leaving my home culture and exchanging it for one in which I knew little to nothing. Moving from competence and productivity to a place with a new language that would reduce me to speaking like a toddler. Exchanging climate control for the equator. Sharing my house with jungle wildlife. Joining the scores before me that suddenly inhabited the “missionary pedestal”, in which one is expected to suddenly become holy and kind.

Then when I arrived I counted it all over again as I ran headlong into new sacrifices I had not previously considered. Constant knocks at the door requesting assistance. 80% of my belongings covered in fine mold. The inability to go anywhere anonymously. An eight hour drive to go grocery shopping. Not knowing how to do the most basic things like turn on my fridge or where to buy an onion. Feeling the need to communicate only joy and happiness to those I left at home, when I may have been willing to hop on the next plane to leave.

If you’re familiar with my story, you know that the call to sacrifice continued—through months of illness, a cancer diagnosis, and more months of illness. See-sawing between fear and determination in my decision to return here. Pouring into relationships, some of which have grown and others that have fizzled out. Fighting for patients, many of which have died. Starting new projects, resuming old ones. Continuing to answer the door to new requests, every day, with limited resources for response. Hopping between anxiety and hope at medical follow-ups. And returning again to say good-byes.

I wish I could say that after 29 months, I no longer think about these sacrifices. But I do. Many things that were once incredibly difficult about this life are now manageable. But they seem to be replaced with new sacrifices. Some days certain things weigh heavier than others. Right now the barrage of need at my doorstep coupled with my own weariness has been rough. Add in a dash of stolen cellphone, my desire to maintain reputation on the missionary pedestal of holiness, and some obnoxious comments from men on the road and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

And that’s just what I am—a disaster! Someone completely sinful and incapable of loving people on my own. Someone who yearns for thank yous, recognition, and immediate results for work done. Someone struggling to believe the gospel, while trying to preach it to others. Someone who is tired and weary of the sacrifices.

And yet, there are two sides to every coin. With the sacrifices, comes joy and hope. Maybe not immediately. But the sacrifices are not made in vain. They reveal my true self—the one that is so far knocked off the missionary pedestal, you may have to search around for me on the ground. They make the joys of living here that much more extreme. A gift of bananas from a friend, a child saying “thank you”, a baby that got well, a friendly hello on the street, a reliable and self-motivated employee or a clear phone call back to the U.S. are all counted as great victories. The sacrifices make us yearn for the redemption that is coming—to this world, to this place.

I will never say that I never made a sacrifice. I’ll never say there was no cost involved in saying “yes” to going. And I won’t say that I don’t continue to count that cost regularly. What I will say is that I believe there is a value to the sacrifice, that it will be redeemed, and that it is not in vain. It hurts to say it but I am privileged to sacrifice.

“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.”
 –Philippians 3:8

(This post was inspired by another blog post found here)