home. that is how it feels.
i'm sitting back on my old mukono porch. same couch. same table. same view. same cement slab my kids played on and posts they climbed. same clean air and breeze and calling birds and monkeys. the trees are bigger and the shade is more. it's strange and new and old and normal all at once. it's forward and backward combined. it's opening and closure. it's right. it feels like a gift, a welcome and well timed gift- to return before our going. to leave from our beginnings.
i've missed this space. this place where i could write from. where somehow even from brokenness, i could find pieces of myself that in their speaking kept some of me afloat during seasons when i would i have drowned. in that way this porch is magical.
the brokenness is still here. the unfair. yesterday it broke me again. trying to get care for a young woman whose kidneys have failed. knowing that in my home country it would be a trip to the emergency room, an admission, emergent dialysis. but here, it's an attempt to find a place that can do dialysis, that will do dialysis, and the money to pay for it because it won't happen unless the money is there first and it costs what most people make in a year. broken. and then what? what will happen to her then? she will spend the rest of her days trying to scrape together the money for intermittent dialysis unless someone can sponsor her for a transplant overseas.
life is hard. it's hard in different ways everywhere. we each hold our struggles. we hold our joys.
the kids are now off on their bikes in the rain. mike is down at a meeting. i'm thankful for this moment. this space. the green. the sound of rain. thankful to be back. to be home.
i'm sitting back on my old mukono porch. same couch. same table. same view. same cement slab my kids played on and posts they climbed. same clean air and breeze and calling birds and monkeys. the trees are bigger and the shade is more. it's strange and new and old and normal all at once. it's forward and backward combined. it's opening and closure. it's right. it feels like a gift, a welcome and well timed gift- to return before our going. to leave from our beginnings.
i've missed this space. this place where i could write from. where somehow even from brokenness, i could find pieces of myself that in their speaking kept some of me afloat during seasons when i would i have drowned. in that way this porch is magical.
the brokenness is still here. the unfair. yesterday it broke me again. trying to get care for a young woman whose kidneys have failed. knowing that in my home country it would be a trip to the emergency room, an admission, emergent dialysis. but here, it's an attempt to find a place that can do dialysis, that will do dialysis, and the money to pay for it because it won't happen unless the money is there first and it costs what most people make in a year. broken. and then what? what will happen to her then? she will spend the rest of her days trying to scrape together the money for intermittent dialysis unless someone can sponsor her for a transplant overseas.
life is hard. it's hard in different ways everywhere. we each hold our struggles. we hold our joys.
the kids are now off on their bikes in the rain. mike is down at a meeting. i'm thankful for this moment. this space. the green. the sound of rain. thankful to be back. to be home.
"Give
me a candle of the Spirit, O God, as I go down into the deeps of my
being. Show me the hidden things, the creatures of my dreams, the
storehouse of forgotten memories and hurts. Take me down to the spring
of my life, and tell me my nature and my name. Give me freedom to grow,
so that I may become that self, the seed of which You planted in me at
my making.
Out of the depths I cry to You…"
George Appleton
Out of the depths I cry to You…"
George Appleton
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