it's cold and still and the rain is just a moving mist like it is in san francisco. today i am homesick. i'm missing people. i'm missing my old normal, what life was like for most of my life. i'm missing things working and being fixed when they're not. i'm missing large outdoor spaces, like parks, and mountains and beaches. i'm missing the ease of life that isn't found here. i'm missing being known. i'm missing not wondering if we're doing the right thing by raising our kids in africa and not having a savings account.
it started yesterday when a ugandan friend who we haven't seen in many months called about his sick mother. i listened to the story, the same story i've heard and seen too many times. families spending all their money for an incorrect "diagnosis" and poor medical care, only to have the person become sicker and sicker. that is often when i get called. she was treated for malaria, but didn't get better. so they treated her for typhoid but she didn't get better. so they "treated" her for a virus, but she didn't get better. so they checked her heart, but that looked okay. now she can't breathe. they don't know what to do. they have no more money.
it's so very frustrating and so overwhelming that it makes me want to pack it up and go. it makes me feel like having a regular job in a hospital in the USA where doctors diagnosis things before they treat. where medicines get given when they are needed and not 24 hours too late after the family scrambled all day to find the money to purchase the medicine and bring it to the hospital. it makes me want to drive down well paved streets to starbucks and have a latte while my kids drink organic vanilla milk, then go to a store where the lights are bright and things smell new. it makes me want to sit in a salon and get my hair done while i read new magazines, instead of re-reading the real simple from october 2014 while mike cuts my hair in our bathroom. it makes me want to drive away from streets that smell of burning things and chicken poop, where everything is dirty and broken and stagnant. it makes me want to choose normal, known, and easy.
so i was sitting on the porch with these things. remembering. imaging.
mike had been in that place too before he left for the market. that place of fatigue that leads down paths of wondering: what we're even doing here, what about our finances, is it all just too broken? but then he came back from the store after stopping on top of the hill to read the daily prayer and listen to God. and this is what he read and heard and shared with me.
this morning our friend showed up on our porch and said, "thank you for standing beside me in this." and as we talked and tasted the salt of tears we have tasted before, i could see a bit further. i remembered that we are here to bless each other, not just look for blessings. (but when i look, i see them too). i remembered that the broken stuff is what called me here 20 years ago, and that i like the smell of burning things. i remembered that i am enough even when it feels like too much and will be given what i need, to do what i am here to do.
my hands are open to the unknown. i am surrounded by the light of the eyes i love. i know the weathered countenances of east and west, and that whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face, there is Your face among us.
it started yesterday when a ugandan friend who we haven't seen in many months called about his sick mother. i listened to the story, the same story i've heard and seen too many times. families spending all their money for an incorrect "diagnosis" and poor medical care, only to have the person become sicker and sicker. that is often when i get called. she was treated for malaria, but didn't get better. so they treated her for typhoid but she didn't get better. so they "treated" her for a virus, but she didn't get better. so they checked her heart, but that looked okay. now she can't breathe. they don't know what to do. they have no more money.
it's so very frustrating and so overwhelming that it makes me want to pack it up and go. it makes me feel like having a regular job in a hospital in the USA where doctors diagnosis things before they treat. where medicines get given when they are needed and not 24 hours too late after the family scrambled all day to find the money to purchase the medicine and bring it to the hospital. it makes me want to drive down well paved streets to starbucks and have a latte while my kids drink organic vanilla milk, then go to a store where the lights are bright and things smell new. it makes me want to sit in a salon and get my hair done while i read new magazines, instead of re-reading the real simple from october 2014 while mike cuts my hair in our bathroom. it makes me want to drive away from streets that smell of burning things and chicken poop, where everything is dirty and broken and stagnant. it makes me want to choose normal, known, and easy.
so i was sitting on the porch with these things. remembering. imaging.
mike had been in that place too before he left for the market. that place of fatigue that leads down paths of wondering: what we're even doing here, what about our finances, is it all just too broken? but then he came back from the store after stopping on top of the hill to read the daily prayer and listen to God. and this is what he read and heard and shared with me.
Psalm 126:1-2 When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Then
our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for
them.’
Genesis 17:15-17 God said to Abraham, ‘As for Sarai your wife, you shall not call her Sarai, but Sarah shall be her name. I
will bless her, and moreover I will give you a son by her. I will bless
her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of peoples shall come
from her.’ Then Abraham fell on his face and laughed, and
said to himself, ‘Can a child be born to a man who is a hundred years
old? Can Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?’
Luke 6:21 Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.
we can feel like abraham, laughing at the promises of God from where we sit. seeing nothing in front of us but our own limited view, and doubting the truth of His promises. but His promises are true. we may feel hungry now, hungry for all those things we miss, and weeping because of the broken and dirty and stagnant, but we will be filled with laughter and joy.
last night that woman died at 11pm. i had tried to instruct the doctors, to undo the broken and mend the damage done, but it was too late.
these things that we hold here deflate us. make us question our value and our purpose and our choices. these things that we hold here gather all our moments of tired and lonely, they pile on each other and weigh on our deflated selves, and from there we become the broken and stagnant too. from there it all feels like too much and that we are not enough to do what we are here to do.
Whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face
in the light of the moon and patterns of stars,
in sacred mountain rifts and ancient groves,
in mighty seas and creatures of the deep.
in the light of the moon and patterns of stars,
in sacred mountain rifts and ancient groves,
in mighty seas and creatures of the deep.
Whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face
in the light of eyes we love,
in the salt of tears we have tasted,
in weathered countenances east and west,
in the soft skin glow of the child everywhere.
Whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face,
there is Your face
among us.
in the light of eyes we love,
in the salt of tears we have tasted,
in weathered countenances east and west,
in the soft skin glow of the child everywhere.
Whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face,
there is Your face
among us.
John Philip Newell
this morning our friend showed up on our porch and said, "thank you for standing beside me in this." and as we talked and tasted the salt of tears we have tasted before, i could see a bit further. i remembered that we are here to bless each other, not just look for blessings. (but when i look, i see them too). i remembered that the broken stuff is what called me here 20 years ago, and that i like the smell of burning things. i remembered that i am enough even when it feels like too much and will be given what i need, to do what i am here to do.
my hands are open to the unknown. i am surrounded by the light of the eyes i love. i know the weathered countenances of east and west, and that whichever way we turn, O God, there is Your face, there is Your face among us.
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