On the Eternal View

“Most days I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall.”

I can’t be sure what people envision when they hear “I’m a missionary in Africa”. I feel like the statement conjures up images of safari animals, red dusty roads, black babies with swollen bellies, maybe even pith helmets bobbing along in the jungle. And I have experienced all of that in my time in Uganda—well, pith helmets have been notably absent.

We joke here about the glamour Americans associate with “saving babies in Africa”. And I myself was quite guilty of envisioning an air-brushed version of what life would look like here. And yet, recently, as I’ve been spending some time attempting to process the last 2 1/2 years, I’ve been overloaded by the total lack of glamour that characterizes them. Most days have been spent sweaty, culturally confused, emotionally exhausted, and not entirely sure of exactly what it is that I’m doing here. I’ve found myself saying the initial phrase at the top of this post entirely too many times. Seemingly one step forward and two steps back, whether in language learning, cultural understanding, giving grace, relationship building, community development, advocacy or whatever.

And yet I hang on that word seemingly. Because I don’t really know how the last 30 months have trickled into eternity. In our women’s Bible study this week we talked about Abraham and how he had to wait for God’s promises to be fulfilled. And how some of those promises were not even completely fulfilled until Jesus came. And how some won’t be checked off the list until Jesus returns to make all things new. Meanwhile, I’ve been listening to the sermon series from my home church about Ecclesiastes—how everything this world has to offer is meaningless. And I’ve been re-reading the book “Broken Down House” which has reminded me of the brokenness of this world and the importance of having an eternal perspective.

It seems that God really wants me to get it through my thick head that even if I don’t get to reap tangible rewards right now, he is calling me to the eternal view. The one that makes missing holidays and birthdays with family worthwhile. The one that values muddling through the daily confusions of living cross-culturally. The one that provides hope in desperate situations.

I’ve had plenty of “i-oughta-pinch-myself-i-can’t-believe-i’m-in-africa” moments here. I’ve had lots of moments of joy and laughter. And I trust that some of the things I’ve done will benefit someone. But even without those things, I am looking forward to the day that it all makes sense, when the eternal plan is rolled out and we see how God used moments we never would have guessed were noteworthy.

Highs and Lows

When living in America, I was regularly described as dependable, stable, easy going. Bundibugyo has changed me in many ways. And the wide range of emotions I experience in a day serve as proof. Life here is comprised of extreme highs and extreme lows. While my life in the U.S. was not always the epitome of steady and predictable, I didn’t wake every morning knowing that the day would likely include mountain-top joy and deep valley sorrow—sometimes within the same hour.

Everything seems more intense and heightened here. Within the past week, I have felt hope blossom while teaching a competent employee how to complete the accounting for the nutrition program. I’ve felt joy at holding a sweet five day old baby girl, listening to those gentle newborn sounds. I’ve been impatient at meetings when everyone shows up late. I’ve been sad about missing yet another niece’s birthday. I’ve felt privileged at being introduced in the village as the daughter of my dear friend, Mama Joyce. I’ve been bone-tired from so much human interaction and requests made, as the introvert in me screams for a break. I’ve been re-fueled by a few hours sitting and reading during a rainstorm.

I’ve felt loved as I sifted through mail sent over the past 2 1/2 years from so many people in the States. I’ve felt the bittersweet emotions of starting the packing process—seeing personal touches slowly leave my room here. I’ve felt sorrow as I helped a friend move from the house she shared with her husband into a rented room with her small children; joined in her sadness over his taking another wife and leaving her behind. I’ve felt pride at having extended interactions with people only in Lubwisi, and yet still unsure of exactly how much was understood. I’ve shuddered while hearing updates from our team leader who has just received a cancer diagnosis and relive my own cancer experiences.

I’ve worshiped through a traditional Seder and age-old traditional liturgy. I’ve worshiped to the beat of African drums and enthusiastic dancing. I’ve filled up on kid therapy—swinging a jump rope, complimenting their coloring pages. I’ve groaned as the same kids knock on my door for a solid 45 minutes, as I try to accomplish something in the house.

Every day and week here includes these paradoxes, these polar opposites with a thread of similarity. Some days I feel like I’ll never be emotionally stable again. And yet, I wonder if I over-value stability. Much of me desires predictability, comfort, surety. But in a deep corner of my heart, I know that the lack of stability is good. It makes me dependent. It brings me to my knees. It forces me to feel deeply. And someday very soon I will be missing these highs and lows.

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)

Time in the Land of Plenty

I’ve been shying away from blogging as I’ve spent the last 2 months jetting around the U.S. and back to Uganda. On the one hand, my time in the States doesn’t seem “blog worthy” as I’m not advocating for dying children or finding myself in mud-filled adventures. On the other hand, the transition between two cultures, neither of which seem entirely comfortable, can be adventure enough.

Straddling two cultures, embracing a state of “homelessness”—after two and a half years, I may have thought it’d become “old hat”, nothing to ruffle the feathers. The general expectations of re-entry are slightly more predictable but they take a different form every time.

This time it included shock at how good everyone smells in America, sweet moments savored with friends and family, amazement at how clean everything is—including the streets, joy-filled tastebuds as I savored seafood, salads, and Dr. Pepper for the first time in a year. It included a few jolts as I attempted to drive an automatic car with two feet and experienced a moment of defeat due to the number of chapstick brands available in a Wal-mart aisle.

There are always a few surprises. As I attended Urbana with WHM, I felt a creeping cynicism entering in. So many starry-eyed students with big plans and high expectations surrounded me. I was one of them recently but the past few years have brought unexpected pain, suffering, sacrifice. Questions nagged me as they heard I was a “real missionary” and they wanted to know more. How to encourage them to join in God’s calling while still counting the cost? How to balance sharing the joys and sufferings that come with this life? How to be real without scaring them off?

My time in the U.S. included making plans for the future, experiencing gut-wrenching anxiety for a few days, followed by peace and a clear path to pursue. (I won’t leave you hanging forever about that one—but it’s a whole separate post) There was great rest and naps, just because I could. There were moments for reflection and remembering what had happened in the past 12 months. And of course, there were good-byes. But they were made slightly easier with the promise “I’ll see you in June”.

Over 24 hours of recycled air, moving through the maze of cordoned off security areas, sitting on the tarmac for five hours as they de-iced the plane…and I was home. Home to driving on the left side of the road, home to the warmth and humidity, home to familiar surroundings and advertisements for things I actually recognize. Home to a bed where I can sleep off the jet lag :)

A Post...of sorts

Hello to those of you who read my blog...if you haven't given up on me yet. I have been quite terrible about updating this space since leaving for the U.S. but I promise to write something reflective and whatnot soon. Perhaps there will even be a photo to accompany said post! For now, I'm waiting for David, our friend and faithful taxi driver, to pick me up at the guest house so we can make the long trek to Bundibugyo today from Kampala. And if you want to read some of my thoughts, I encourage you to click here. Lauren, a future member of Team Bundi, asked me some questions via email about life in Bundibugyo and I had a great time answering them. They forced me to reflect and process, which often doesn't happen for me unless I am forced to do so! Thanks Lauren, for the opportunity to reflect on the last 2 years and remember my hopes for the future of Bundibugyo!

Click on it! http://webbersinafrica.blogspot.com/2013/01/another-voice-part-1.html?m=1

Thinking of Friday on a Monday

For the last week, I've been on my "cancer" diet, otherwise known as an iodine free diet, in preparation for my scan on Thursday. As much as I complain about not being able to eat chocolate, Chick-fil-a and other Christmastime goodies for the next two weeks, I am still so thankful for my access to modern healthcare and the hope that the scan will be clear. Despite insurance headaches, I am thankful for the affordability of top-notch care. And despite not liking the two shots I'll receive to the "hip" (read "butt"), I'm so thankful that they were available to me to help smooth this process. Maybe all of this is hitting closer to home due to some news I received two weekends ago.

Friday, pictured below, passed away from Burkitt's lymphoma at Uganda's Cancer Institute in Kampala. You can read more about his story at this link and an update here. The picture below was taken on Thanksgiving Day. The day started with a less-than-traditional schedule of events, including visiting Friday at the Cancer Institute and then dropping off another child's lymph node at a lab for a pathology report. The child with the lymph node issue got good news: no cancer, just tuberculosis. Friday was clearly emaciated and severely ill but his tumor had been responding well to the chemotherapy and Charles said he was looking better than he had earlier in the week. I was hopeful that he might be a success story in the long line of kids that I had advocated for and yet didn't make it.

It can be hard to stay motivated, pouring time, money, and trying to work around endless obstacles into these patients. I'm not sure what the actual "success" rate is of those that I send that actually get medical care and get better. Dismally low. There is a great article on BBC that speaks exactly to this problem here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-20524606 I don't usually click on links to read articles but this one is pretty interesting. The photo at the top is taken in the room that Friday lived in for several months while receiving chemo treatments.

Despite not being able to see Friday healed on this side of eternity, I know our efforts were not in vain. My hope is that the family experienced the touch of Jesus through the many people that sought to help them. And I am thankful for my own hope to see Friday in his fully glorified body someday.