Mr. Darcy and Groceries

I have a few things to say, quick and bullet-like, before I get to what I really need to say.

The other night, I fell asleep at the dinner table. On the dinner table. I only like this because I am realizing that I feel like a member of this family. I feel like I can fall asleep, head in arms on tablecloth, and not even feel rude or guest-like.

The lecturers/professors at Rebecca’s college are on strike, and have been for a week; they want more money from the government. Classes haven’t been happening, and what I notice here is how much people want to go to school, how badly they want their hard-earned money to be put to use. Last night on the news, the students were rioting. One of the boys was carrying a tree, like—a whole tree—through campus, yelling for the government to pay up and end this strike. Maybe he thought that by tangibly using branches, he could influence a branch of government. Cute.

Also on the news: last week. An eleven-month-old had been beheaded in her home, and I don’t remember the reason (as if there could be one). But what I thought was even crazier: when the mother called the police/ambulance, they wouldn’t come unless she paid for their fuel. Apparently this is common. The newscaster mentioned a similar instance where a man’s body was left to decompose in his house for months, because the police demanded payment to do something about it.

Last night was probably my favorite night with my family thus far. A few weeks ago I had stumped Rebecca with the only card trick I know, so last night I taught it to her. We also played card games for a long while. That’s when my mom walked in with the Luganda Bible I had given her money to buy for me. “I almost forgot. Here is your treasure!” she said. I can’t really describe, justifiably, how excited I was. I can’t even read the thing. But I wanted it so badly. I tried to find Romans, and, stumbling, read them my favorite verse. I thanked her, smiling and giggling like an idiot who loves language too much, and she said, “No. Thank you, for loving my mother tongue.
This morning when we walked to school together, she told me how much I love Africa. I was glad she could tell, and agreed with her: yes, you’re right. I do love Africa. Then I quoted Mr. Darcy (we watched Pride and Prejudice together before I left for Kapchorwa): “You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” Except I said Africa instead of you. And it seemed completely appropriate.

But back to last night. The other good things: we got onto the subject of Swahili once Hannington started putting away the dishes and Mom said, “Asante sana,” and I yelled, “Rafiki!” because Rafiki sings that in the Lion King. She said it means, “Thank you very much.” But anyway, they gave me an incredible history lesson about Swahili and tribes, etc. About Luganda and tribal pride; it was amazing. And after that, Rebecca and Mom spent 15 minutes making fun of Idi Amin, because he couldn’t properly speak English. Rebecca marched around the dining room saying, in a deep voice,

“Ladies and gentlemen, now I am going to undress the queen” and

“I thank you from the bottom of my wife.”

Great times in Mukono.

Transition time.

I like to listen to a song called “Twenty-four” by Switchfoot when I am disappointed in myself. Maybe because the words “failure” and “drop-outs” are in there, but maybe more so because of the words: “I’m not who I thought I was 24 hours ago.”
Yes, I am listening to this song right now. Because Tuesday showed me just that: I am not who I thought I was.

I also like to read Proverbs 31 on a sporadic-almost-regular basis, to sort of check myself. To make sure I am mostly a girl who fears the Lord, mostly a girl of noble character. I usually walk away from this passage thinking, “Dang. I don’t make linen garments,” but then I get over it. Because linen garments, I think, don’t scream anything about character—just knitting skills. Skills I’m not too concerned about acquiring, at least not yet. But I thought I had most of the other things, the important things, covered. At least most of the time. And at least this one: "She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy" (verse 20).
I guess you have to go to Africa or something to realize you still have a lot to work on. To realize you are so wrong about yourself.

Judging from my past, my recent efforts, Monday I would’ve considered myself a generous person. Even a really generous person. I have tried to look out for the poor, the hungry. But I’m starting to think that was all just circumstantial. My assumption has been “I have done generous things, so I am generous.” Tuesday told me that doing generous things isn’t always an outpouring of a generous heart. That, maybe I’ve reached the shell, but my core isn’t refined yet.

Because, a year ago, if you were to approach me and say:
“Pretend you’re in Africa. There is a hungry child, and you have food. Yes, you have food with you at the moment. Would you give it to the child?”
I would’ve laughed at the person, with an obvious yes. What a no-brainer situation. And I’d like to insert here an “easier said than done” disclaimer, but I can’t. Because giving such a child your food is easily said and easily done. Someone who doesn’t even know and love God—surely he too would give a little girl his muffin. Such generosity and love seems to be inherent in us, unavoidable. Not many people would refuse such a person.

This is the part I hate. The part I hate to see written on screen or on paper. I’m not sure I could even say it out loud. That’s how disgusted I am, with the person I thought was different from this. Because I was the one who refused such a person, the one I didn't think could exist.

Tuesday we were at the grocery store. Me and three others. Two of us were standing outside of the store, waiting for the other two, while a little girl stood next to us. She was wearing a yellow dress and a bit of blood under her nose. She had some sort of recently-bought medicine in her hand. She looked at the person I was with and said, “Give me my water.” We just sort of looked at her, asked her to repeat. She did. And we just looked at her. The store security guard, carrying a gun, came over to us, asked if we knew English. “Can you hear what she is saying? She is hungry. She wants food.” And he left. And we just looked at her. There were four of us again, standing there with our groceries, just looking at her. I had a muffin in my bag. A muffin I didn’t exactly need and still haven’t eaten yet, and a muffin that cost probably less than 30 cents. I still don’t know what I was thinking, if I was thinking. But I didn’t give it to her.

I want to say maybe it was because of how it happened. The way she said it. “Give me my water.” And why she said it. Because we are Mazungu, so we are rich. Maybe I was somewhat fed up of being demanded money, while I’m racking up debt back home that they don’t know or care about. Maybe I’m fed up of being assumed to have a Mercedes-Benz-growing Birch tree rooted in my front yard. Maybe I’m just plain fed up—plain conditioned and made numb by the poverty I pass daily.

But none of that matters. What matters is that she was probably hungry and I had a muffin. And a wallet that could buy me 2,800 muffins if only I would’ve walked back into the store. What matters is that that muffin, and that wallet, don’t even belong to me, and I know that. Everything I have is Christ’s, at His disposal the minute He asks me to give it. What matters is that Jesus told us, straight up, that every hungry person is Him. Every hungry person we pass, while holding a muffin in our hands, is Jesus, left hungry.
So why was I surprised when this girl said, “Give me my water.” If she is, deep down, Jesus, and that is how I am supposed to love her, then she has every right to say “Give me my water,” because my water is her water. She doesn’t need to say please to prod my generosity; Jesus shouldn’t have to say please to me. Ever.

And what matters is that, when I’m before His throne, and He is separating those who love Him versus those who say they love Him, and He asks me: Why didn’t you feed me?, and I answer Him, “But remember that Christmas…and the homeless…”, He won’t even blink. Because what is one act of generosity, what is two, what is seventeen, if our hearts are not genuinely generous?
If my heart was genuinely generous, I would’ve handed her my entire bag and not have thought twice. But I didn’t. And I’ve never been so surprised, so disappointed, so ashamed.

I also know that beating myself up gives nothing. Nothing but bruises anyway. I can learn from my mistakes. Such as: I am seeing how unlike Christ I really am, and hence, how much more time I need to spend with Him, so He can better rub off on me.
What I am also learning is something Jenny told me when I told her all this. How sure and constant and overflowing our God’s forgiveness really is: that He will forget this instant if I will—and if I make sure it doesn’t happen again, if I make sure I give my muffin next time. I told Jenny how fed up I am with continuing to need His forgiveness, for having to keep asking, for continuing to mess up, and Him continuing to let me off the hook. His quickness at mercy, his eagerness to forgive, is what kills me.
And Jenny reminded me of Judas. How Jesus knew, beforehand, that Judas was going to betray Him, yet He washed his feet anyway. And Hosea. He knew his prostitute wife was going to cheat on him before he even married her—but he was still in love with her, and still married her, anyway. Because our God is just like that. And there’s nothing I can do about it—except, accept it, and love it.

The end of Switchfoot’s song has promise and redemption. Effort towards not stopping at words like “failure” and “drop-outs”, but doing something about it, running toward Someone who can, and promises to, fix me. And this is where I find my comfort:

“Still I’m singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with you…
you’re raising the dead in me.”