I’ll start on a light note; but I can’t promise it will stay there. It’s actually quite difficult to stay there.
But not only did I have some crazy, vivid, terrors-actually-in-the-room dreams last night, but around 3 o’clock I woke to scratches, clawing—I thought—starting to my right, circling my head, and reaching my left. Because I am more of the hide-under-the-covers-and-pretend-the-robber-isn’t-next-to-your-mattress sort of wimp, it took a lot for me to sit up, grab my flashlight, or “torch”, and search for what could’ve been a rat. It wasn’t a rat. It was my homework. A binder I had next to my pillow—falling and scraping against my mosquito net. I should stop sleeping with academics; that must be the problem.
For the more serious. I don’t know where to start. Maybe walking into my backyard on the way home from school. Hearing the usual “Mzungu, give me money,” from the neighbor-boy, and greeting my family in the yard. I eventually sat next to Rebecca, who told me her day had been sad. One of her college friends had just died of tetanus; she saw him only 2 weeks earlier, he talking about his future and how happy he was. She was telling me about tetanus, how people get vaccinated—but only after they get a wound that could have potential—and then the vaccination might last for mere months. Another reminder of how freaking good I have it. She told me how Africans live mainly by luck; you either live or you don’t. She asked me if I knew who Bono was—I’m thinking “Do I know Bono?!”—and then she quoted him, saying that “Africans lack emergency.” She said it is hard to convince them, even if someone dies right in front of them, that they need to check up on the wounds, etc. I can relate to that; it’s a pain to take vitamins. But here it matters—seeing the doctor or not seeing the doctor; it means another day.
Extending on Bono’s words, she said the road scene is similar (I already mentioned how dangerous travel/driving is here). Because much of the police “department” is corrupt, if a car hits a person, the police will bypass the person, not even checking their wellbeing, and try to catch up to the driver, threaten them, and get paid off to keep it silent. Neither do bystanders do anything to help the person, she said. If they hang around the scene, when the police return they will arrest someone beside the injured—“You are responsible.” I asked if there were ambulances. One per district, and she rarely sees it. When I asked her if people getting ran over—or “knocked”—was common, I already knew the answer. You should see the roads, how everyone drives. I thought my skirt was going to get caught in multiple spokes yesterday; and even walking in the grass, they’ll nearly push you off the road so they can stop and say Mzungu out the window.
To hear about medical care in Africa when you are not here—which was me last month—personally, I think it’s difficult to care or do anything about it. But after seeing the hospital—which I already talked about in detail—and realizing that getting even there is half the battle, yeah:
Rebecca wrapped her arms around her knees, leaned forward, and shook her head in disgust. “We are so stuck, just stuck here.” She told me this before, when she explained to me the educational systems in
She broke up the depressing stuff to ask me more about my writing major, what I want to write about once I graduate, how they manage the classes—exams or what. After I answered, I asked her about electrical engineering, and how such classes are managed. She was talking about the things they invent for projects, and how that is all you really get to take with you once you leave university. Once you graduate, even resources are no more. “If you want to research, you cannot research. Our brains are being wasted. We just sit; we are stuck.” Essentially, the only libraries are in the universities—and these are only available to the students. (Dang! What we take for granted in
I think this was the part where I tried to defend her, her country. The unbalance between her lack of opportunity and my endless supply, was already hovering over us, unsaid throughout many of our conversations. So I called it out.
I told her, opportunity or not, being stuck or not, Americans in general are not happy. I told her that wealth leaves the majority of the wealthy unsatisfied. I told her how self-centered the thinking of our country is. I told her, because of opportunity, because of technology, because of wealth, we think the world revolves around us, and essentially we need no one.
I mentioned that really, they were better off. When it all boils down to it, what’s going to matter in the end? I reminded her that Jesus slept on rocks—the Son of Man had no place to lay His head. In order to embrace life, to fully live, who even needs a house, let alone a mansion? Who needs a career? Sure, these things seem essential to survival; I’m not purposely being naïve. But what is Jesus going to ask us when we are done living? How many could you seat in your van? Or better yet, explain to me again, child, how you got your doctorate; I am so interested in hearing that story once more. Yeah right.
I told her about religion of the self running rampart in our country—essentially what I blogged about the other day: Africans being spiritual people, looking for a higher power, while so many of Americans worship themselves, and sometimes without even knowing it. And this is where it got incredibly good—if good is the right word.
(This is longer than I intended; apologies).
She mentioned a man from
This man visited
“You Africans believe in God because that is all you have. You just want someone to come help you. Me, I don’t need God. I grew up with so many things—I am fine. You just hope there is more than this.” He is right, maybe, in the reasons. But of the two, his theology vs.
When Rebecca asked this
“Danielle, so you know how when a person doesn’t have much, people think they cannot tell between what is good and what is bad. They give us old, ugly rags for clothes. He said, ‘I don’t understand you Africans. Who do you think you are?’ We may be the worst off, but we know what we want. We don’t need your clothies. No one is running around naked here, and if they are—they want to.” Rebecca always calls clothes “clothies,” and I love it. It was a hands-on example of why we shouldn’t donate hand-me-downs. These are people with taste, believe it or not. Our junk isn’t their treasure just because they have less.
She told me I was different from the
She replied: “But you did not know what it is like here, and you came. You could not search the web. You could not search ‘the Surekenyas’ and see where we live, how we live and then decide. You could not get a list of what we eat and say no no no, I do not want that. But still you come. That is what says so much. Just coming.”
I still protested. Told her I was gaining more than I was sacrificing—that
Rebecca: “But still. You must know you are different.”
This was a long conversation—but so rich; so I’m sorry, but there is still more. Feel free to stop, but I’m moving on.
We somehow—as if it’s hard to understand why—got on the subject of God. I’m not going to lie: talking with Rebecca about God is like sophomore year all over again, needing the sleep but staying up til four with Melissa, one of the wisest Christ-desiring gals around, to discuss this God of ours, and His amazing love and mysteries.
But we got on the subject of the difference between knowing and doing. (It was a trivial conversation that transferred to God). I told her my relationship with God has been a lot of that lately: me realizing I am growing distant from Him, but not knowing what to do about it, or not committing to do anything about it. I told her I think about it daily, run towards it daily, but still come up short in the “action” area. (Of course there isn’t a rule, a well-known formula on “How to Be where you want to be with God again.” Thank God.) I illustrated with my hands, pointing to myself for the Knowing, and holding my hand way out in front of me for the Doing. Knowing I need to get closer to God and actually Doing it. “I wish I could figure out the bridge.”
Rebecca reminded me of something I, of course, know so well, but forget to apply, to understand: “But we cannot build the bridge. We cannot do. God does.”
Of course I wasn’t thinking in terms of “works,” as in “good deeds.” But neither was she. We were talking about the conscious ways we pant for God, go after Him. Choosing to be focused on Him rather than on everything else that seems more enticing in a period of 24 hours. These were essentially Rebecca’s words:
“You know, there is a difference between leaving and surrendering. If someone drove a car into a house, and then walked away, they would be leaving the mess, and nothing would ever get better. But if the person drove into the house, got out of the car, and just stood there, waiting for someone who knew how to fix it, he would come, and everything would be fine. We are not supposed to struggle. We are not supposed to try and try to build our bridges. You are supposed to fold our arms and wait for Him to bring the supplies. He knows how to build the bridge. We do not.”
(I don't necessarily agree with the "not struggling" thing. Steinbeck's East of Eden taught me too much about the beauty of struggling between good and evil for me to forget so easily what I learned. But as she talked, I realized I really was trying to do it all myself, to fix and fill the gap that I had dug between me and God).
I mentioned how beautiful heaven’s logic is, in that in this world surrendering looks the same as “leaving it be.” But not according to God. People who don’t know God wouldn’t understand that surrendering, handing our lives and tries over into His hands, is actually active. In fact, it is the only form of “doing” we can do, successfully. Otherwise we’ll fail, fall short. Always.
“Waiting for Him to build the bridge. Danielle, this is trust.”
Whoa dang. Dang whoa. Take your pick. I know that Christ's blood, Omusaayi gwa, not only covers my sins, but also takes care of what I fail to do. "Falling short." But I too often forget that it is Christ Himself who bridges the two of us together. You'd think I would know this: for crying out loud, He was a carpenter.
I wish I could write how she sounded, what it looked like, in the dark, only seeing her teeth and one eyeball, from the light coming from the latrine and the moon.
The sights, the sounds of wisdom.
Every time I talk with Rebecca, I feel like God is elbowing my side. “This is why you are here. Listen.”
4 comments:
Hi Danielle. I promised your mom that I would try and find Moses Semakadde's number. Do you remember him from Willoughby Friends Church? His mom Jemimah was in on of my massage therapy classes. I remember that she told me they lived somewhere near Kampala (about 15 miles or so). I do not have their physical address but I hope having their last name may help you find the family. I had an e-mail address and I tried contacting her before you left but it came back as undeliverable. Her it is just in case jemimah_semakadde@hotmail.com. Maybe they do not have internet access now that they are back in Uganda. Take care and God Bless!
wow. that is all i have to say.
It's amazing how God can speak via pillow talk.
That is ridiculously beautiful...I wish I could be in a third bed in that room. I love it.
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