I am more a part of this family than one would think. Watching the Cup of Nations, poor number 11 (kumi n’emu= eleven) fell. I told my family I love eleven. Nkwagala kumi n’emu. They wanted to know why, and why it was important to me. I explained.
I also mentioned 11/11/2011 and marriage. Mom said, “That is just like Josephine (her newly-married daughter). She was married on July 7, 2007.” I fit with this family; this I know.
I also know that I love walking to school even more, now that school has started back up again for the kiddies. Who knew school uniforms could be so adorable, so Crayola? We’re talking bright pinks and deep purples. Swarms of them. Who doesn’t want to see that when they wake up in the morning?
I never thought I was vain or materialistic. I thought I could live on a campground; and maybe I can. But: I miss my Chuck Taylors, my vans. I miss the feel of my punk jeans. I guess I just miss feeling decent. Walking down the street, half of me wonders if the stares really are because of my skin color. We look like crap on a regular basis, and it doesn’t do much for the self esteem. What surprises me is that I care.
When I got home from school last night, my mom was clapping behind her back and in front of her, alternately. I mimicked her, but my bookbag was in the way. I suddenly knew I wanted to wear my bookbag on my front—so I did. Mom and Rebecca laughed as I walked around the backyard, supporting my back like a pregnant woman. I unzipped one of the compartments, peeked in the bookbag and said, “It’s a boy.” Mom said, “No, no, no. That is boring.” I loved that we were on the same page; I loved that I was in a country that probably rarely even has ultrasounds. Mom then said: “Oh, to walk around for nine months with someone inside, and you don’t know what it is until…” And she made a firework motion with her hands. I told her I couldn’t keep the bookbag on for nine minutes, let alone nine months.
Also as I got home, Rebecca was wearing a bright pink flower in her ear. She cocked her hips and her head and did this weird smile thing with her teeth. She was pretending to be the tramp,
Ashhhh Wednesday. I am stoked; and I don’t have a reason why. But I have really been waiting for this day. Tonight we have a prayer service at church—it’s going all through the night, actually, for those who wish to stay. We’ll be praying against the witchcraft and the witchdoctors, etc. who are apparently gathering also on this day. Dang: sometimes I forget about spiritual warfare. Or, I should say, that is most often.
But, because our God is universal, as is the battle, if anyone would like to pray from 11 AM your time till…whenever, that would be incredible.
I just left to go to class. Waited for a ½ hour for the professor, which is entirely normal. Yet it was a 1 hour class. The wait was amusing, though; I’ll give it that. One of the girls stood up, pretended she was the professor, and read us the parable of the ten virgins. Maybe 2 of us were listening to her, but she kept it up. She finally told Vicky to listen. Vicky said she was a virgin, so she didn’t have to. Hah.
Vicky is by far one of my favorite Ugandans. After class, my American self had her schedule planned; she would return to the room and check her email. But I walked out of class with Vicky and
“At home, if you are passing a friend while walking, do you say hi and keep walking, or do you stop to talk?” I told her it depends, but it is natural to do just that. She said, “Ohhhh. See, here we are concerned about people.” (I was laughing on the inside, spitting on myself). “We want to know how people are, so we stop and talk.” I then recalled last week when I passed her,
We had fish again last night. Eyeballs, fins, I just love to see this on the table. The bones are perfect, though. Very cute. It makes me think of God while I eat. The anatomy of the fish: one of the mysteries most Americans never see/eat. We just had fish for lunch too—it actually didn’t look alive, and it was wonderful.
Back to Vicky. She,
Kapintos. That is the word for wedgie; I mentioned I had forgotten before. But Vicky pointed out someone’s today, and we had another 5 minute conversation about that word. De ja vu at its most honorable point.
Xerox. “Let me Xerox your workbook.” This means copy, as in cheat. Another amusing part of the 30 minutes of waiting for the professor. Everyone says it.
Funny story. Jenny, today it is raining, has been raining. Very chilly here. I let Susan wear my sweater, or should I say your sweater? The clothes we sentimentally traded before I left. (I hope I can build the guts to eventually ask for it back. Don’t worry. I will try). But what is funny about it: I have to pee like nobody’s business (yet I’m now making it everybody’s business). Why does this matter? Because my toilet paper stash is in the pocket of that sweater.
(There is rarely toilet paper in the bathroom. If you gotta go, you better have some on you).
Sure, Susan can use the bathroom now. I can’t.
And now to what I cannot stop thinking about, to what I have been itching all day to finally sit down and get what’s in my head on paper, or screen. I think the typing might be a good stress-reliever. Word processor: yes that’s it.
I read a C.S. Lewis poem last night before going to bed. The last line was enough to greet me again in the morning.
“I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek—
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.”
Missions. How many years have I talked of it, talked of it as if I knew what it meant. How many conversations have I had with my mom, defending this profession I’ve chosen with, “But this is what I was born for.” I would shake my head when people said I would miss my family, miss America, and I would stand firm.
What was I standing firm in? Something I hadn’t tested.
What I had tested, what I knew: I was uncomfortable, discontent, in
I went to
I have been living by two quotes, unconsciously, for awhile.
Quote number one: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” –Gil Bailie.
I don’t agree so much with the first sentence; I think one of the most important questions we must ask, if we are following Jesus, is “World, what do you need?” But the rest: gold.
Quote number two: “The place where God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” –Frederick Buechner.
Phrases like this, “what makes you come alive,” and “your deep gladness,” have made me assume that Africa, or Somewhere—yes, capitalized—was running through my veins. And once I got there, I would come alive, I would have that deep gladness.
Shot down. I am living in
Yes, this frustrates the crap out of me. When I was eight and lying in bed, telling Jesus yes, I want you to save me, that was after months and months of struggling with both God and my Sunday School teacher. “What do you mean I have to love God more than my mom and dad? Miss Darlene, that’s impossible.” I’d cry and make mean comments to God countless nights, because how could He ask such a thing?
So when I broke through that, when I finally realized I could put God before my family, I thought the battle was won. And here I am, 12 years later, wondering, “Now what am I supposed to do with my life?”
I do blame
I also blame the Spanish soap operas. In “Nunca te dios adios”—sorry, I am not adding the accents—“I will never say goodbye,” Juan Francisco, his wife Fanny, and their daughter moved from
Watching it, I pictured my own returning home after even one year. While these four months are killing me.
I am not saying my deep gladness, the passion that makes me come alive, is no longer “being elsewhere,” living overseas, engaging with a new culture and a new people full throttle. Because it very well still is. But I am now noticing the duality of it all—the fact that I have two deep gladnesses, and they are at odds with each other. So I walk to school in the rain, refusing a ride from Becca and Melody’s host-dad, so I can think. So I can straighten this out. So I can mull it over again and again and again. “A scholar’s parrot may talk Greek.” I am finding I never knew what the Greek meant in the first place. It’s like sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Luganda Bible, and everyone clapping. Yet you have no idea what you just read. You knew the syllables, but not the meaning.
Looking my deep gladness in the face, here in
I have always had trouble finding my pulse. I remember the Monday night Women’s exercise and fellowship my church used to have. I was the only kid who came. And the only one who couldn’t find her pulse in time, in order to count with the rest of the women.
So I’m trying to find my pulse, what makes my blood beat, where my deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger, what makes me come alive.
Here it is, I’m gonna say it: I officially don’t know what I want to do for the rest of my life.
An hour ago, I would’ve ended the blog there. But I just got out of class. A seminar where we discussed what our telos is. “Purpose, end.” What we’re striving toward. One of the guys in class said that very recently he considered filling a backpack with the necessities and living in the woods for a few woods. “If I can glorify God with anything, why not do it chopping wood, fishing?” My first impulse was to laugh. Yes, I giggled. But I think he knows what he’s talking about.
What did Christ say my purpose is? To love Him with all my heart, soul, mind and strength, and to love my neighbor as myself. Worship and relationship. This is why I am alive. So, right now, do I really need to know what I’m going to do with my life? Yes and no. Yes, in the way that all I need to know and do is the jazz about love for Him and others.
And No, in the way that life doesn’t work that way, having everything spelled out in numbered, green doors to choose from.
In 12 years, I’ll get out of bed and, over coffee, or now, maybe tea—make that milk tea—I will realize, “This is what I am doing with my life.”
Do I know which continent that bed will be in? No. But I can love the Lord and my neighbor in any of the 7, and I suppose that is all I need to know.
5 comments:
Danielle, I sense your deep struggle and I will pray for you. Know that I am in tears, not only missing you so much right now and sensing how much you miss us, but now knowing that your family's love just may be the answer, it just may be enough! You bless everyone's life you touch, wherever that may be, now or then.....
Danielle, know too that I also sense your struggle and I am also praying for you. I know how difficult it was for your mom & dad to watch you fly away, even for me it was hard and I too am in tears reading your blog and as I write this. You may not know where you will be in 4 months or 4 years, but know deep in your heart that God will certainly guide you now, then and always.
Danielle, you are such a compasionate person, you will do good no matter where it is. We are all God's people no matter where we live in Africa. There are so many missionary things you could do. My old boss used to use his vacation to go and build homes or fix homes for poor people. I look forward everyday to reading your blog. No matter what, this is such an amazing experience for you. Love you and miss you. Aunt Sandi
a few things:
1- i would love watching the children walk to school
2- i miss my chucks when i have to go to school... although i do get to wear them every other day, i still sorta feel your pain
3- i quoted dirty work the other day, but no one with me got it
4- you better get my jacket back!!! just kidding. it doesn't matter really. but does that mean i can give your shirt away?
5- it rained today, and the past three days... so we both experienced rain, the same substance falling from the sky so many miles away... wow.
6- and ... DANG. way to write... i don't even know how to comment on what you wrote. wow.
Sister Danielle, thank you for sharing your deepest thoughts with all of us.
"I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation . . . I can do everything through him who gives me strength."
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