An African Love Story...and a Different Kind of Happy Ending

The following blog is perhaps the most vulnerable piece of writing I’ve ever published.  Though reluctant to bare my heart where anyone can read it, I’ve chosen to post this part of my story in the hopes that others will experience the same healing I have written about here.  I shared this very fragile piece of my testimony with the ministry students at Iris Global’s training school in Micronesia, feeling the same hesitation as I did while writing this.  However, after several people told me that my story of God’s restoration to a once-broken heart brought them their own personal healing, I realized the risk was worth taking.  Though this blog exposes deep vulnerability, I pray that as I share what God has done in my life, He will do the same thing in others’.

This piece of my story starts seven years ago.  I was a twenty-two-year-old senior at Bucknell University, and my friends and I were working on our post-graduation plans.  As my peers were debating about what engineering company to work for, I was deliberating over what country to move to.  There had always been this thing inside of me – a calling I guess you’d say – that drew me to the developing world.  I would watch those “Save the Children” commercials as a child and want to jump through the television screen to walk alongside the children being filmed on those dusty dirt roads.  I’d barely seen poverty in my own environment and was horrified by the injustices others were suffering in remote corners of the globe.  I didn’t care what it would take; I would find my way to those children.  But as my days at college were quickly dwindling, I realized the enormity of the third-world and was overwhelmed by where to start. 

I prayed and prayed, asking God where to go.  Despite an intense fear of moving as far as Africa, I began to have constant dreams about the continent.  I even saw a vision that drew me to Kampala, Uganda’s capital.  I did research; I made a million phone calls; I asked unending questions.  I heard the Lord’s voice with ever-increasing clarity, and it was calling me to Uganda.  Long story short, in September 2006, I ended up on a plane to Africa – alone.

Transitioning from living in a college dorm with my best friends just doors away to living with strangers in Kampala was quite a jarring change.  Two flights had turned my life beyond upside down, and I rapidly shifted from a twenty-two-year-old girl to a twenty-two-year-old woman.  I arrived in Uganda with minimal travel experience, too much book smarts and not enough street smarts, and a narrow understanding of the developing world.  I knew nothing about real poverty, missions, cultural sensitivity, etc.  In Africa, I had to grow up fast and figure out how to fend for myself.  Every lesson was learned the hard way.  I was thrown into the deep end and desperately learned how to swim. 

I lived in a tiny cement room inside an orphanage with a rotating population of women, as well as a family of mice who decided to make themselves at home in our bedroom.  The orphanage’s bathroom was comprised of four squat toilets and several showerheads that shot ice-cold water into an open cement space.  We ate posho at almost every meal, basically a big blob of play-dough, with soupy beans dumped on top.  I hand washed my clothes, which meant they were never really washed.  My feet were always dirty; my hair was always a mess.  I looked like a vagabond, and I probably smelled like one too. 

In high school, one of my teachers taught us that everyone has a “fall from innocence” at some point in his or her life – a moment when one’s childlike innocence and innate sense of trust is violated, resulting in a realization of the effects of living in a fallen world.  Uganda was my fall from innocence.  A once trusting and admittedly naïve young person, I saw that I could not actually trust everyone.  People repeatedly stole from me, mocked me for my skin color, and touched me without my consent.  I often felt violated by the men on the streets and their crude comments.  I grew tired of men commenting on the color of my skin, the size of my body, and what they wanted to do with it. 

The children at the orphanage accepted me and loved me unconditionally, but I still felt like an outsider for a long time.  Some of the Ugandan staff called me “white girl” for months before addressing me by my actual name.  Sometimes they spoke in their tribal languages and shut me out of conversations even though they could speak English.  I went through great effort and rejection until finally gaining respect among them.  Eventually, they warmed up to me, but the beginning wasn’t easy. 

At times, I wished someone would come and rescue me from my own life.  Crazily enough, like a fairy tale, my wish came true.  A guy I will call James (for privacy’s sake) appeared in my life and became the breath of fresh air I was so desperately craving.  A fellow foreigner, James understood the struggles of being an outsider but embraced the idiosyncrasies of African culture.  He loved children and dreamt of moving to Northern Uganda to start his own orphanage, but he was stationed in Kampala to learn the ropes first.  James often stopped by to play with the kids, and his visits rejuvenated both them and me.

James distracted me from the challenges of African life.  He found the humor in everything and could even make being robbed seem funny somehow.  He imitated the accents of the men who often harassed me, making what had once seemed threatening into something amusing.  When I missed my family, he made me feel at home.  And most importantly, he eliminated my feelings of being an outsider.  When we were together, I belonged.  We belonged.

Gradually, I started to fall in love with Uganda.  I was able to find the humor in things more and more, and I learned how to handle myself on the streets.  I mastered the art of bargaining with market vendors, making snappy comebacks in the local language, eating anything with a smile on my face, and peeing anywhere without flinching.  More importantly, I remembered the love that had brought me to Uganda in the first place.  The African children weren’t kids from “Save the Children” commercials anymore; they were real faces and real friends.  I viewed the beautiful children at the orphanage as my own family members and developed a love so intense that I would do anything for them.  Some of them called me “Auntie;” others called me “Mama Caitlin.”  I knew each of their laughs and memorized their cries.  I could identify giggles or tears from a mile away.  I loved hugging and kissing my babies, playing soccer with them on weekends, doing homework problems with them after school, and tucking them in bed at night.  They were my family and my home.  Despite rough beginnings, Uganda ended up being a perfect fit for me.  I genuinely felt like I was living the life I was created for. 

As I became more and more comfortable in Africa, James saw more and more of my heart unveiled.  He noticed the secret things I did for the children that no one else cared about, and he appreciated my compassion that had once been masked with fear and lack of acceptance.  Underneath the dirt and mess of my exterior, James was able to see who I was inside.  Though I’d always thought he was far too handsome to ever be interested in a simple girl like me, I realized that maybe I was wrong.  Over time, our ever-strengthening friendship grew into a fairy-tale romance.

James lived inside a three-home compound with an entire house to himself.  When days were hard, James swept me away to his home, a place that was actually quite humble but became a palace in my mind.  When I got tired of freezing showers, peeing in a hole, and eating play-dough, he temporarily rescued me.  His house had everything a grimy orphanage girl could dream of—a couch, hot showers, internet access, and a kitchen.  I remember using James’ toaster for the first time and laughing in sheer ecstasy when the bread popped.  I hadn’t used a toaster in eight months.

James often spoke about going to Northern Uganda to start an orphanage, and this made my spirit come alive.  All of the children I lived with were from this region and had been rescued from an ongoing war.  I couldn’t wait to one-day move north with James and take in children who needed a safe haven.  We repeatedly made trips to the northernmost province and scouted out land together.  I felt so free to dream with him – like my life was just beginning.

In March 2007, a girl visiting the orphanage for a few weeks asked if she could get baptized during her stay.  I decided that I wanted to be baptized too, because I hadn’t yet been baptized as an adult.  James, the visiting girl, several friends from the orphanage, and I drove to the Nile River; and James and our friend Will baptized both of us.  I was on a spiritual and emotional high.  I had it all – a growing relationship with God, a beautiful ministry, African children who I loved and who loved me, dreams for the future, and an amazing man to share it all with.  Now twenty-three, I couldn’t believe that I’d already gained so much so early in life.  I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

But then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.  James started receiving several words of warning from trusted friends about going to Northern Uganda.  He was confused.  So was I.  His dreams were growing fuzzy, and in turn, he was becoming discouraged.  Suddenly, he became very ill.  One day, his face literally turned green, and he felt like fainting.  We went to a clinic where he was tested for malaria.  The test came back negative, and the nurses told him he was simply dehydrated.  They made him chug some juice and sent him home.

Weeks later, James still felt sick and was growing worse.  I accompanied him to an international hospital where nurses immediately started pumping quinine into his veins.  He’d either been misdiagnosed, or his blood test had been mixed up with someone else’s.  Either way, James had a severe case of malaria that had been worsening daily.  Malaria causes parasites to enter one’s bloodstream, and every day that the disease goes untreated, the parasites multiply.  James’ misdiagnosis had allowed the parasites to multiply for weeks.  This was serious.

I visited James in the hospital, day after day, looking at a man who had become almost unrecognizable.  He was so thin, pale, and weak.  He looked like a shell of the person that I’d once known.

Finally, after a few days in the hospital, his health began to improve, but he was emotionally and physically exhausted.  His mother demanded that he come home to London to rest for an entire month.  I reluctantly said goodbye but knew I would see him soon.

My heart grieved his absence each day until he came back.  I was lonely and missed having someone from my culture to laugh with every day.  Four weeks went by painfully slowly.  At long last, James returned, and I eagerly went to pick him up at the airport.  Immediately, I noticed that something about him was different.  He had gained weight back, so his physical appearance had changed, but it was more than that – it was who he was that seemed different.  James was more sophisticated than I remembered.  He seemed above me somehow.  He only wanted to do expensive things that I had learned to live without.  He was suddenly too good for sitting in the dirt and just being with me and the children for hours like he used to.  Honestly, I liked the man with malaria far better than this one.

After being back in Africa for about four weeks, James announced another departure.  This one would be permanent.  He no longer wanted to live in Africa or start an orphanage.  My heart sank.  I anguished at the fact that he was suddenly abandoning his dreams.  It seemed he was so abruptly throwing it all away – his dreams, his calling…and me.

In his remaining weeks, James spent time with me when he was lonely and pushed me away when he was satisfied.  He made dramatic statements about his feelings for me that left me confused.  He wanted to be together yet didn’t want to work for a way to stay together after he left Uganda.  He never fought for me—for us.  I brought him to the airport with my heart in countless frozen pieces.  Though normally tender-hearted to the core, I didn’t shed a single tear when I said goodbye.  I was completely numb.  I stared out the window the whole ride back to the orphanage, silent and cold.  My African fairy tale had become a distant dream.  I’d already woken up.

In my heart, I desperately needed closure but received none.  I found out that James started dating a new girl back home within weeks of his return.  I wondered if they’d been together during his visit to London while I was foolishly waiting for him.  I suppose his riches and her beauty made it easy for him to forget me.  I remained in Africa for months more, daily haunted by reminders of his presence.

After a year in Uganda, I returned to America in September 2007.  Shortly after, I was offered an internship in L.A., and I moved to California and carried on with my life.  I landed a real job when my internship was over and excitedly settled into the West Coast, finding an amazing church and beautiful friends.  Despite my genuine happiness in California, nightmares randomly tormented me for almost two years.  I would see James’ face and hear him telling me it was all a lie.  “I never loved you.  I never loved the children in Africa.”  I would wake up with tears in my eyes, confused as to where I was.  I would feel around for my mosquito net and realize that I was lying in the middle of an uncovered bed in America.  I would snap back to reality yet wonder how the pain in these dreams still felt so raw and so real.

I had promised to return to Africa one day, and after two years of working and saving, I made my way back to visit my beloved children.  An African lady from the orphanage picked me up at the airport and informed me that the compound where James had once lived was now being used to host guests.  She drove me to his old compound, and I had an odd flashback as I looked at the three houses in front of me.  Before I had a chance to say a word, the woman instructed me to sleep in James’ old home.  She explained that in the morning, staff were moving everything from the compound into a new guesthouse and asked if I could help sort some of the stuff.  This would be the very last night they ever used James’ house.

Electricity had already gone out that evening, so I blindly felt my way into a familiar room and fell asleep.  The morning light revealed a house that had not changed in two years.  James’ stuff still filled the house—his books, his map of Uganda, his photos.  There were pictures on the wall that I’d drawn with the kids and pinned up years ago.  Not a thing had moved. 

And then, in a bittersweet moment of finality, we took it all down.  The other volunteers arrived; and piece by piece, we took James’ house apart and put everything away. 

A volunteer who knew nothing about James asked me, “Do you think I could take the map from this house?”

“Definitely,” I smiled.  “I actually knew the guy that used to live here pretty well.  Trust me; he’s not coming back for this stuff.  He’d be glad to give it to you.”

I happily offered his books and other items, laughing to myself.  I couldn’t have planned this on my own.  Only God could have ordained such perfect timing—to bring me back to Uganda on the exact date of the shutdown of James’ house.

I took his photos off the walls and packed up his things.  I said goodbye to the house, to the memories, to the pain.  After that, there were no more nightmares, no more tears. 

That afternoon, I walked to the orphanage and reunited with my African children after two long years apart.  My precious babies saw me from afar and ran into my arms screaming my name.  I thought I’d lost my love in Africa, but as those little brown arms wrapped around me, there was no affection I wanted more.  I knew I had found love in Africa after all.

Even if we were to stop here, this story would sing of the beautiful redemption that only God can bring.  His divine timing is perfect.  But something I’m learning is that there are always more layers to God’s goodness.  Just when we think we’ve received all the healing we need, God takes us deeper and restores us fuller.

Fast forward to 2013, seven years since I first moved to Uganda.  I’ve been to thirty countries since then and experienced things I never would have dreamt of way back in 2006.  I’ve worked with Iris Global for the past few years, which has provided me with an entirely new view of ministry, concept of family, and understanding of God’s heart.  Iris has taken me around the world; but despite all my travels, Africa has consistently remained on my heart, and no other region has been able to take its place. 

This past summer/fall, I was working with Iris Global in Micronesia, staffing a missions training school.  My hope in working at the school was to recruit potential partners to work with in Africa, and my plan was to make my way back after the training school finished.  Though I knew Africa was calling my name, I resisted the idea of going back to Uganda.  I hadn’t given James much thought for years, so I never even considered that our story played a part in my hesitation.  He’d become a distant memory from my past.  But perhaps, deep down, I associated Uganda with emotional pain and was afraid to return. 

Additionally, the adventurist inside of me hoped to land somewhere less “touched.”  The mission school in Micronesia was very focused on going to “unreached” areas, and Uganda is considered a “reached” nation.  There are many NGOs, church groups, non-profit organization, missionaries, and volunteers already working there.  I started daydreaming with some of the students in Micronesia about pioneering something more unique.  As we brainstormed, my favorite idea was starting a base on the beautiful Kenyan coast and then traveling in and out of Somali refugee areas.  I prayed about this but felt no release in my heart.

However, one night, I had a dream that was as if the Lord was showing me my future.  First, I was driving through what appeared to be Somalia and Kenya.  As I moved around, I didn’t feel unsafe or particularly bad; however, I didn’t feel particularly good either.  I was apathetic.  Suddenly, I was zapped to Uganda.  Children were coming to me and greeting me.  I felt welcomed.  I recognized some people, but others were unfamiliar.  I saw a little boy who was a tiny runt of a child – completely emaciated, unusually short, and absolutely filthy.  He came straight into my arms, and I held him as I began to repent to the Lord, “I’m sorry for saying there’s no need in Uganda.  I’m so sorry.”

I woke up and realized that I had been saying Uganda was fine, the needs were being met, and it was “reached” enough.  But deep in my heart, I knew that was not really true.  Uganda appears on the list of both the “Top 20 Poorest” and “Top 20 Most Orphaned” nations in the world.  Despite all the love and resources people are currently pouring into this beautiful nation, there are still far too many children without homes, without food, and without parents.

One of the other girls on staff in Micronesia is based in Thailand but came to Micronesia to recruit workers to keep children out of the sex trade.  She started telling me that around 90% of the African women rescued in Thailand originally came from Kampala, Uganda.  However, when they got sent home to Africa, there was hardly anyone to receive them or help them with the restoration process.  When I learned about slavery as a child, I always said if I'd lived during times of slavery, I would have been different than other people - I would have fought for the slaves.  I was reminded that slavery is still happening today and wondered if, perhaps, I could be the one to do something this time.

Still inwardly battling my aversion to returning to Uganda, I talked to my little sister who said she’d been praying for me.  She’d had a vision of green hills and tranquil water – either a lake or a river but definitely not the ocean.  I surrendered my own ideas of the beautiful Kenyan coast and immediately thought of Lake Victoria and the Nile River.  I pictured the green hills of Kampala, a capital known as the “City of Seven Hills.”  My sister said she also saw the colors red, black, and yellow, as well as a flag.  She had no idea what the Ugandan flag looked like but searched online to figure out what country’s flag she’d seen in her vision.  Not surprisingly, the red, black, and yellow flag belonged to Uganda.  Lastly, she saw a vision of a little child wearing a green shirt.  I had emailed various contacts in Africa (outside of Uganda) and heard nothing back, so I finally gave in and emailed the woman who ran the Iris base in Kampala.  She immediately wrote me back, “Come join our team.  We are waiting for you.”  I clicked on her website and almost laughed aloud as I noticed the first thing that popped up on the screen – a little child wearing a green shirt.

Right after my first dream of being back in Uganda, I had a second dream that, at first glance, seemed out of left field.  In the dream, I was in London at James’ church.  I saw him and his fiancée from a distance and didn’t want to approach them but knew I needed to.  I reluctantly humbled myself and walked towards them.  James looked at me as though I were a stranger, and I wondered if he had already forgotten who I was.  I said hello regardless, and he both acknowledged my presence and greeted me by name.  I spoke to his fiancée, and I verbally blessed their marriage.

My first thought upon waking up was, “Why did I dream that?”  Somewhat weirded out and even irritated that James had snuck back into my dreams after all those years, I wondered why that had happened.  After visiting Uganda and closing his house down, thoughts of him were long over.  God had healed my heart, and I’d moved on years ago. 

Yet, as I prayed about it, I felt like God was telling me, “You must go back to Uganda with blessing.  You cannot carry any bitterness in your heart.”  Even though I didn’t want to approach James in my dream, I walked up to him anyway and blessed him aloud.  God was reminding me to return to Uganda with a heart of blessing, not a heart of bitterness.  When James left Uganda all those years ago, my friend Will challenged me with this choice.  He said, “Caitlin, now you know what it feels like to lose.  You know what it feels like to be abandoned.  You’ve been called to love hurting people, and now you know what it feels like to really hurt yourself.  You can let this loss cause you to grow bitter, or you can use it to fuel compassion to better love those around you.”  Since my “fall from innocence” in Uganda seven years ago, life has handed me countless reasons to become bitter, and James is just a physical representation of that.  But after having that dream in Micronesia, I made the same choice I made many years ago in Uganda.  I will choose blessing and not bitterness. 

The Lord also reminded me that it had been a whole seven years since I first moved to Uganda in 2006.  I realized the significance of the number seven in the Bible – a number symbolizing completion and spiritual perfection.  Perhaps it’s no coincidence that after having my heart broken in Uganda, God is bringing me back for a fresh start seven years later.  Instead of working alongside James, I will be working with Iris, an organization that has been my family for the past three years.  I already know that starting over in Uganda will yield an entirely different experience for me than I had as a twenty-two year old.  I’ve learned so much in seven years, and I will approach ministry in a very different way than I once did.  I now understand the importance of doing ministry as a family, keeping myself healthy, and cultivating intimacy with the Lord above all else.  I believe that this coming season will be one of deeper restoration and redemption – a chance to experience that completion that the number seven represents.

It’s funny how God redeems things in such strange ways – that He brought me to James’ house to tear everything down and get the closure I needed, that He’s given me new dreams and vision for Uganda, that He’s bringing me back to where my adventure on the mission field began seven years ago.  I know His timing is not a coincidence, and when I think about all the crazy details of my story, I am blown away by God’s sovereign hand. 

I share all of this believing that there are people reading who have been waiting for closure and healing.  Whether it’s a loved one who passed away or a person who’s hurt you who will never say sorry, it doesn’t matter that he or she is not there to provide you closure.  God can do it in a creative way that will heal you without that other person being present.  Or perhaps you feel disappointed as you compare your life to others’.  This is a constant temptation for me – to ask God why my story has had so many ups and downs, so many unexpected changes, so many unwanted challenges.  I know people whose lives look so wonderful and extravagant at an outward glance, and it just doesn’t seem fair.  But I’ve always been a person who is more impressed by quiet, thoughtful details than by loud spectacles, and maybe that’s why God has knitted the details of my story together so thoughtfully.  When I think about the fact that He knew all along that He would train me, solidify my identity, restore me, and then bring me back to my home in Kampala after seven years/the biblical time of completion…or when I think about the visions He gave my sister…or the dreams He carefully released to me at just the right time…I stand in awe.  My story isn’t the smoothest or most glamorous one, but I love it, because I know every part was ever so intentionally crafted by the Creator of the universe.  His attention to detail and His utter genius is mind-blowing.  What could be viewed as battle scars are actually more like beauty marks – precious chapters in a holy story that God has been writing and will continue to write.

God’s writing a story in each of you too.  Maybe you’re in the middle of a chapter where you’re wondering, “Is this really going to have a happy ending?”  But I encourage you to let God create something beautiful, even in the midst of messiness.  And when you’re faced with choosing bitterness or compassion, take the path of blessing.  It’s hard, but it’s worth it.  I pray God heals and redeems every part of your heart that needs restoration. 

As I head to Uganda and return to my former home, I go expectantly.  I believe the Lord has more restoration ahead, and this next chapter is just beginning.  I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel scared at times, but I know that living a radical life of faith is my destiny.  I am excited to be doing what I am made for, and I move forward knowing that I am doing it all with the One who made me.