Monday, June 8, 2015

And This Is How It Goes...


It’s like this every time.  It’s no different no matter how many times I repeat the process.  Uprooting myself from American comfort and flying halfway across the planet always, always, always feels hard.

Maybe this would surprise some of you.  It’s still hard for you after all this time?  Really?    Yes, it really is.  Despite several people’s assumptions that I have some sort of uncanny ability to be completely unaffected by jarring, drastic change, this is not actually the case.  I certainly am able to adjust more quickly than I used to, but leaving home never comes without a wide range of emotions.  I am a missionary, not a robot.  I feel many things.  Unfortunately, bravery is not usually one of them.  I still get scared and nervous when I don’t know what to expect or when I leave familiar things behind.  The details are never fully sorted out when I travel to a developing country, and more often than not, I don’t really know what I am getting myself into.  Somehow, things always works out, but that has nothing to do with me or anything within my control.  It’s like God repeatedly tells me to jump off a cliff and then catches me in a net every time.  Even though the safe landings give me more confidence the next time I jump, they don’t remove the frightening feeling of falling. 

They don’t make the leaving process easier either.  I am always a little baffled when people seem to think that simply because I am called to Uganda means that giving up my American life to live there must be a piece of cake.  No sweat.  If God called you to go to Africa, it must be super easy for you to turn your back on your life in America.  God called you, so you must love every second in Africa.  It must be no sacrifice for a person like you.  Ummmm, I don’t even know where to start with these kinds of comments.  Here’s the deal.  I love Uganda.  I love the work I get to be a part of there.  I love that God has privileged me by calling me to partner with Him in this beautiful nation.  BUT I love my life, friends, church, family, and culture in America too.  To pretend that leaving my home doesn’t affect me at all is utter fakeness.  Again, I’m a missionary, not a robot.  I have feelings.  I get sad.  I get scared.  I get hurt.  I miss people.  I miss comforts.  I cry. 

Every time I prepare to leave America, it hurts.  There is an ache in my heart that mourns the loss of my home country.  Knowing my physical comforts are about to disappear is hard.  Knowing my emotional comforts of familiar friends, family, and culture is harder.  I dread those moments when I will do that last load of laundry in a machine, take that last hot shower, eat that last American meal - I never want those comforts to end.

Before I travel to Africa, I always feel a weight on my chest that is a physical reminder of the sacrifice ahead.  I know the price I am about to pay - sleepless nights with mosquitoes eating me alive, bucket showers, hours of washing clothes by hand, bumpy roads, and cramped vehicles.  I know exactly what I’m getting into.  Of course, there are beautiful, wonderful adventures ahead as well.  And yes, the good always outweighs the bad.  However, there is still a sacrifice to reach those beautiful, wonderful adventures.  Going to Africa means transitioning from a world that gives me warm fuzzies to a jarring world that makes me come alive.  Coming alive is good, but it’s not painless.  No woman would tell you giving birth didn’t hurt despite the joy of seeing her new child come to life.  Africa is like new life for me - beautiful and exciting - but it comes with birthing pains.

And so this is how it goes.  Every time.

The night before I leave for Africa, it’s always hard to sleep.  My mind is racing with thoughts.  I know the trip will be long and exhausting.  Flying there alone just might be the worst part. 

Whenever I arrive at the airport, I dread that initial moment of aloneness.  I usually go to the airport with my dad, and after I hug him goodbye, I know what awaits - a walk from his car to the airline desk - alone.  That is my first moment of being by myself and always the hardest.  I usually look back once and then stop myself from looking back again, because it’s too hard.  I check in and walk to my gate, feeling anxious and overwhelmed.  I just want the long flights to be over.  Even though I fly WAY more than most people, flying still freaks me out every time.  Flying at lightning speed in a little tube through the sky never seems like a good idea to me, but I know it’s the only way to get to Africa unless I want to be on a ship for months.  So I say a little prayer, board the plane, and hope for the best.

I usually can’t sleep during my first flight.  My mind is racing, and I can’t keep up with the many wild thoughts.  I already feel a million miles from home.  The accents surrounding me on the plane (usually European) make me feel like I’ve been away from America for a long time.  It hits me that I’ve really left.

After I land somewhere in Europe for a stopover, the exhaustion hits.  I always wish I’d slept during the previous seven hours on the plane, but unfortunately it’s never been possible.  I get my bearings straight and find my gate.  Honestly, it sounds weird, but I can usually smell my gate before I see it.  Uganda.  Pure Uganda.  I’m telling you; you could blindfold me and tell me to find the gate headed to Entebbe in any airport.  I would find it.

So at my gate, I wait and wait some more.  Now this waiting feels like an eternity, because I’m doing everything in my power to not collapse on the floor, fall asleep, and miss my flight.  That would cause some problems that I really want to avoid.

At long last, they announce my flight, and I can’t wait to start boarding.  Even though I’m always scared to board my first flight, my fear of flying somehow disappears before the second flight.  I’m too exhausted to think about anything except conking out on the next plane.  I finally fall asleep, and this leg of the journey goes by quickly.  A nap and a movie later, the plane has already begun its descent into Uganda.

And then we land.  This is when everything changes.  The SECOND I get off of the plane, I am overwhelmed with joy.  Grinning from ear to ear.  Scared, anxious, exhausted missionary me is gone.  As soon as I hit the ground, a switch flips inside of me, and I am suddenly elated and energized.   It’s weird how happy I feel.  Maybe I’m too sleep deprived to remember feeling homesick or afraid.  I’m not sure.  I walk to the customs line, almost skipping happily.  I end up last in line without fail.  Every.  Single.  Time.  But I don’t care.  We all have to wait for our baggage afterwards anyway.  I finally get to a visa window, and it takes about twenty seconds to get stamped in with my handy dandy visa.  I feel like a local.  I belong here.

And that’s how it works.  That’s how it goes.  I leave America scared, I travel exhausted, and I arrive in Africa elated.  Even though I dread such a long trip to Uganda every time I leave the States, I always end up feeling thankful for the journey afterwards.  I see purpose and benefit in traveling for many hours.  The time in the sky allows a needed transition to take place along the way.  Having time to get over my fear, becoming exhausted enough to change my perspective, and feeling the excitement of hitting the ground - it shifts me from a place of uncertainty to a place of confidence.

So why do I share this?  I’m not entirely sure.  Perhaps just to be real...to let you into my genuine thoughts and fears...to debunk the myth that only people who are courageous or adventurous or wild are called to the mission field...to share my journey with you because I can.  And I suppose, I share because I want to let you know that you can also do things even if you’re afraid or uncertain or overwhelmed.  It’s crazy to me when people tell me I’m brave and even crazier when they tell me they could never live a life like mine.  God uses the weak to shame the wise; He can use anyone.  It’s not about having courage.  I am not a fearless person.  Far from it.  I don’t find it easy to leave home.  I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.  But I DO know that God is good, that God has called me to Uganda, and that God is strong where I am weak.  He is brave where I am scared.  He is steadfast where I am uncertain.  

He is strong and brave and steadfast for you too.  And so we trust in Him.  We agree to go on an adventure with Him.  We admit our fears, we deal with our exhaustion, and we find our excitement.  And this is how it goes...

Friday, May 8, 2015

Forever Homesick

In 2011, I wrote a blog entitled “Home Is Where My Sleeping Bag Is.”  Little did I know, four years later I’d still be toting that same tattered sleeping bag around the globe.  My fluffy blue companion has now traversed nearly thirty countries, and if it could speak, it would have wild stories to tell.  Spending the last few months in Oakland has been an interesting addition to my travels.  In some ways, it feels more like another stop on the journey than it feels like home.  Yet, I suppose at this point, anywhere could qualify as home.  I almost don’t know what that word means anymore.

In Philippians 4:12, Paul says, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty.  I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want" (NIV).  

In a way, I understand exactly how Paul feels.  I believe I can learn to be happy in almost any environment.  Throw me into a jungle, a village in the middle of the bush, a crime-filled ghetto, or a laidback beach town.  I’ll find something to like.  Feed me delicious American food or feed me rice and beans every day.  I’ll be okay.  I am a chameleon who can fit in anywhere; yet somehow that translates to not really fitting in anywhere.  I don’t quite know where I belong, because to belong everywhere means to belong nowhere.  (Only another nomad can truly understand why that makes perfect sense).

I never planned to be a vagabond and really don’t think this lifestyle is sustainable long-term.  But for now, it’s just kind of the way the cookie has crumbled.  God has given me both the opportunity to travel as well as a heart that is able to fall in love with different cultures easily.  This is a gift, but it’s also the most challenging part of my life to manage.  I perpetually feel pulled in a million different directions.  I have family in Connecticut and New York, a church and community in Southern California, ministry connections all over Latin America, missionary friends scattered throughout the entire globe, a current job in Oakland, and of course a ministry in Uganda.  

Of all the different directions my heart is pulled, the tension between America and Africa is by far the most drastic.  When I’m in America, I yearn for Africa.  At night, I see my sweet friends and children in my dreams and feel sad when I wake up and they’re not there.  And when I’m in Africa, I dream of America – of familiarity, friends, and family.  When I experience lack in Africa, I sometimes feel frustrated and desire comfort.  Yet when I’m experiencing excess in America, I feel choked by the first world’s abundance.  My body, mind, and heart are not always in the same place.  Some days, I am physically present in one world and mentally present in another. 

There’s just something about Africa that gets in your blood.  It’s hard to understand for someone who’s never been there.  I certainly never imagined I could love such a difficult place before I moved there the first time.  Oh Africa, it drives me crazy, but I’m addicted to it.  There are days in Uganda when I want nothing more than to walk down the street without drawing the attention of every person in the village – every stare reminding me of how obviously different I am.  Blending in and having privacy is a luxury I seldom experience in Africa.  Yet, being noticed can also be a gift.  It is common for curious young children to greet me on the streets and burst into giggles when I greet them back in their language.  I can’t help but to smile when I hear those squeaky little African voices singing the word “mzungu” as if it’s a song when I pass by.  But then there are plenty others who I’d prefer didn’t notice me or even acknowledge me at all.  I will never learn to feel comfortable with strange men gawking at me, following me, or touching me as if it’s their right.  I hate the fact that I know exactly which intersections to avoid crossing and that I’ve had to learn those lessons the hard way.  The men who laugh and mock and make disgusting sexual remarks to women who pass by will always bother me.  Yet, as twisted as it may sound, I am weirdly satisfied when I beat these guys at their own game.  When I am able to make a sassy comment back to a mocker in his tribal language or outsmart a taxi guy trying to rip me off or grab a pickpocket’s arm before he gets away, I feel an odd rush of adrenaline.  There are moments when I think to myself, “Yesssss.  I’ve finally got it.”  Uganda’s chaos really makes no sense at all, but somehow I kind of understand it.  I’ve learned to function within a wild system – to recognize that it’s absolute madness yet somehow feel completely at ease inside of it.   

On the other hand, America offers me a culture that makes sense in a totally different way.  Life is orderly and efficient.  The predictability simultaneously bores me and brings immense comfort.  One of my favorite feelings in the world is walking into Target after being in Africa for several months.  I love that I can buy a block of cheese, a bathing suit, a greeting card, and a grill in the same place.  This type of efficiency does not exist in village life.  An errand I could finish in an hour in America could take an entire day in Uganda.  I’m not exaggerating.  Chores that I dread completing in Uganda take just minutes in America.  It feels like a miracle that I can throw disgusting, smelly clothes into a washing machine, and thirty minutes later, they come out clean without me doing anything besides pushing a button.  Oh, sweet America, I love its magical machines.  And I love that electricity never goes out, hot water is always available, and food can be kept cold in a fridge and then instantly made hot in a microwave.  I love that I can choose the variety, speed, and temperature of my food virtually every time I eat.  I love that I can walk around and no one stares at me.  I love that I can wear shorts, show my thighs to the world, and it’s not taken as something offensive or sexual.  In America, I’m so free to dress, speak, act…to live like I want to. 

Then again, this freedom is America’s worst enemy.  Everyone feels so entitled to whatever the heck they want.  At times, first world culture suffocates me – the entitlement, the materialism, the obsession over smartphones, the lawsuits over the most ridiculous things.  But the worst part is how easily I get sucked back into this world – how in a matter of weeks, I can go from bush woman to the girl who feels entitled to hot showers, instant food, clean laundry, and high-speed internet.  It frightens me how easily I can forget the simplicity of the world I’ve come from and get sucked right back into a culture of overindulgence.  It seems like we Americans never believe we have enough; we always want something else.  I’m just as guilty as anyone.  But I’ve seen the way the other side lives, and it’s undeniable that we have way more than enough.  Americans have so many privileges and freedoms that many people in the world do not have.  We are far more blessed than most of us recognize. 

But on the other hand, America is broken too.  These past months I’ve spent working in the inner city are proof of that.  I can’t tell you how many lost, hungry, drugged-out-of-their-minds people I’ve interacted with throughout this season in Oakland.  The United States is full of poverty – sometimes spiritual poverty, sometimes literal poverty, sometimes both. 

Now this leads me to perhaps my biggest struggle with Ugandan culture.  It seems to me as though the majority of people in Africa believe America is some type of dreamland with no problems.  It is commonly believed that all white people are rich.  I work long days in California, sometimes fifteen hours, and I make pennies.  My goal is to be able to pay my bills, and it hurts me when Ugandans look at me like a never-ending supply of money.  Even when I am outside of Africa, the demand continues.  My inbox of endless manipulative emails (often from people I barely know) asking for money makes me feel diminished to nothing more than a bank, and I hate it.

Yet at the same time, Africa has given me far more than I’ve given Africa.  The developing world has taught me much more about generosity than the first world ever could.  I’ll never forget last Christmas, families from the village who had close to nothing showering me with gifts – literally laying whatever they had at my feet.  More often than not, when I visit a village, I leave with more than I arrive with –whether it’s groundnuts, freshly laid eggs, a chicken, or a sack of sweet potatoes.  Giving out of lack is something that I know moves the heart of God, and experiencing such generosity will never cease to humble me.  Receiving such pure love makes me feel like the richest person in the world.  I can’t stay away from Ugandans for too long; their hearts always draw me back to Africa. 

This wild tension between different cultures both drives me crazy and makes my heart come alive.  There are parts about Africa and America that I can’t stand and parts that I can’t survive without.  Parts that make me feel right at home and parts that make me dreadfully homesick.  And when I add in every person, ministry, and church I’ve gotten connected to in other countries as well, the tension just gets crazier.  I miss so many places.  I am happy where I am, but I miss where I am not.  My heart beats for nations.  I belong in more than one world. 

To be perfectly frank, I don’t always know how to manage all of this.  Sometimes having a foot in more than one place completely overwhelms me.  Practically, I don’t know what it looks like long-term to have a calling to multiple locations.  I know that my musings might cause some people to judge me as scattered or spread thin, but I'm just being honest.  I'm learning as I go, and it can be pretty challenging to try to balance it all.  But then I remember that my love for Africa and my fascination with the inner city and my excitement for the jungle and my heart for nations didn’t come from me.  God gives us desires and callings and dreams that are way too big for us to handle on our own.  He wants us to live a life that is impossible without Him showing up.  Jesus himself said that those who leave their family and home for the sake of the gospel will receive a hundredfold homes, mothers, brothers, sisters, children, and lands.  Perhaps being pulled to different lands and people is actually a biblical concept – and even a gift from God.  So, in the midst of questions, I choose to believe that God is in this.  And I’m confident that when He pours His love out, it won’t run dry or spread thin.  There’s plenty to go around, and I’m happy to be a vessel He can pour it through – wherever that happens to be. 

I can let the contrast of my life overwhelm me, or I can embrace it as a gift.  As I wrap up my season in California, I sincerely view it as a gift – the people, the food, the culture, the laughter.  Serving in America has been an absolute treasure.  As I leave the States, I know that I will be homesick for the place I’m leaving behind but also confident of the gift that lies ahead.

Though it's true that I am forever homesick, I suppose it's also true that I am forever home.  

Monday, February 2, 2015

A Memoir of Gratitude

Sometimes I write to vent when I’m frustrated.  Or I write because I’m overwhelmed and need to process.  But today, I’m simply writing because I’m thankful.

I believe that we are responsible to share whatever we’ve been given.  So whenever God gives me a good, happy story, I can’t keep it to myself.

If you’ve been following my blog, you probably already know a lot of the background info leading up to my latest story...

First moved to Uganda in 2006.  Fell in love with a missionary dude.  Dreamed of moving to Northern Uganda with him.  Things fell apart.  Got my heart broken.  Bounced back and moved on.  Fell in love with a nation.  Moved back to the States after a year.  Blah blah blah.  Couldn’t stay away from the third world for too long and ended up back on the mission field.

I guess a part of me knew I wasn’t done with Uganda when I first left it in 2007.  I was too in love with the children there to never return; however, I thought visiting every once and a while would suffice.  On the contrary, this was not enough for Jesus.  When He called me to move back to Uganda in 2013, I knew I needed to give all of myself, but I was kind of scared to do so.  Though I couldn’t deny God’s voice, the fleshly part of me was less than thrilled to jump back into the environment that had almost crushed me seven years prior. 

Fortunately, God sent me back to Uganda with many promises – really good ones in fact.  Knowing ahead of time that some pretty specific things would happen in Africa made moving across the planet – again – a little bit easier.  I felt God’s reassuring voice. 

I am bringing you back to Uganda to redeem dreams that were stolen years prior.

You will finally reach your “Promised Land.”

You have an inheritance in Uganda…

After experiencing God’s faithfulness for many years, I had no reason to doubt He would come through for me.  The more I reflected on what God had spoken into my heart, the more excited I got to return to Africa and see those promises come to fruition.  I started becoming impatient and couldn’t wait to land in Africa and experience everything sort of magically fall into place - immediately.  When I landed in Uganda, I was prepared for a wonderful, smooth, easy season of ministry.  My heart was bursting at the seams.

Unfortunately, the promises didn’t come instantly, and my hopes for a smooth season of ministry were almost instantly crushed.  In fact, the first six months back in Uganda were some of the worst months of my life.  Again, many of you know the story.  No matter what I did for the ministry I was volunteering for or how hard I worked, I was told I had failed.  Miscommunication resulted in deep, painful wounds.  Constant music blaring outside of my house deprived me of the opportunity to sleep at night.  I was struck down with a horrible mystery illness for a month.  I was backstabbed and robbed by one of the boys who lived with me.  I was arrested, threatened, and harassed.  You get the drift.  I was miserable. 

For a while, I was angry.  I kept asking God, Why did you bring me back to this place?  I thought this was supposed to be a season of redemption.  And then I was just sad and hurt – so defeated by ministry that I contemplated quitting missionary life altogether.  By the end of six months, the only thing I felt was pure exhaustion.  I think my body was too weak to try to be angry or sad.  After being diagnosed with a gazillion different freaky tropical diseases, my priority became having a pulse.

But then, something miraculous happened.  My body healed up, and my heart started to follow.  By September, everything began turning around.  My friend Pastor Robert invited me to move to Northeastern Uganda to work with his ministry, Mercy Seat.  He worked out in the bush – in real Africa – in the setting I had dreamt of so many years ago.  Suddenly, I realized working with Pastor Robert might be part of the redemption God had been talking about.  The doors for working in Northern Uganda that had slammed shut in 2007 started opening again.  So, I decided to move from the capital city of Kampala to rural Soroti.  That’s like moving from Manhattan to Kentucky.  Though it was a sacrifice in some ways, it was also the beginning of fulfilled promises.

As I worked alongside Pastor Robert, God showed me that the way I’d dreamt of “doing ministry” back in 2007 could have created massive damage to the local culture as well as to myself.  He gave me a new ministry strategy that entailed empowering local leaders to pursue their dreams for a transformed Uganda.  I was privileged to launch a new ministry called Link.Launch.Love. that channels resources from the western world to small, grassroots ministries in Uganda.  I’ve found my niche being a bridge builder and a voice for my Ugandan friends.  By writing and speaking about what’s happening on the ground in Uganda, resources have begun to pour in, and countless people have received assistance.  Pastor Robert’s ministry, Mercy Seat, has built a house for a family of blind women, started a microloan project where eleven people have either started businesses or boosted existing businesses, paid school fees for a once child-headed household…and lots more.

And two of the boys – well, I should say men – who I helped take care of eight years ago in Kampala enlisted my help to start a ministry they’ve named Hope for the Lost.  These young men had been eager to return to their villages of origin after living at an orphanage in Kampala for years, but they had no resources to get started.  Because of people’s generosity, now they do have resources; and I couldn’t be prouder to be a part of these guys’ dream.

I didn’t know that when God said He’d redeem broken dreams they could be this good.  I never imagined lives could be changed so quickly and so beautifully.  Oh, I could share stories of my sweet Ugandan friends for hours.  Like Stella Rose, who is blind but has learned to recognize my voice and now greets me by name whenever I visit her.  Like Grace, who has called me her daughter since the first day I met her.  Like Margret, who hasn’t stopped smiling since playing games at our Christmas party.  Like Papa Mzee and Opio, who are obsessed with my chocolate cookies.  It would take endless pages to write about all of the families I work with, but I want to highlight a couple of them.

Jamila’s story cannot go untold.  Jamila is a widow who’s lost not only her husband but every single child of hers except for one daughter.  She works tirelessly in swampy rice fields every day to provide for two of her grandchildren that she is raising.  Both are infected with HIV.  Obviously, Jamila is no stranger to loss.

My friends at Mercy Seat and I had been praying for Jamila and asking God to show us something for her.  While praying for Jamila, I saw a vision but didn’t know what it meant.  In the vision, Jamila was approaching a treasure chest.  Inside the chest, she found a mirror.  When she looked into the mirror, she saw the reflection of a young woman’s face.  I wasn’t sure if it was Jamila when she was young or if it were her daughter. 

Weeks later, Pastor Robert, my friend Natalie, and I went to visit Jamila.  During a previous visit, Jamila had told us that she’d heard her dead daughter calling out to her in the night.  She’d gone to the mosque to seek guidance, and the leader failed to mention that this encounter was straight up demonic.  Jamila remained confused and told us that she had been searching for truth for a long time.  Though I’d had the vision many weeks before, I knew it was now time to share the vision with Jamila.  I asked her if she thought it had anything to do with her daughter who had died.  Stunned, Jamila explained that she had recently looked through a bag her late daughter had left behind.  Inside the bag, she’d found two things - money and a mirror.  As Jamila realized that this matched the treasure and mirror I’d seen, she was amazed.  To be honest, I was kind of amazed too.  I had no idea the vision was literal.  Jamila asked me how I had seen the treasure and mirror before she’d told me what she’d found.  I told her the vision came from the Holy Spirit.  Natalie and Pastor Robert jumped in, and we shared the gospel with Jamila.  Shortly after, she told us she wanted to accept Jesus as her savior.  So in the dirt, we prayed together, and Jamila gave her life to Christ.

The same day, we went to visit Stella Rose and her family.  She, her mother, and her two daughters were all born blind.  One of her daughters had also lost her ability to speak a few years ago, and it’s common knowledge among the villagers that this girl “went mad.”  Weeks prior, we’d prayed for all four blind people, and it seemed nothing had happened.  However, when we went to check on the family, they reported that the daughter had been SINGING earlier.  Yes, the once mute girl was singing the words, “Jesus is my rock.  Jesus is my rock!” 

As if these moments weren’t enough to completely undo me, I received one of the best gifts of my life while serving in Soroti.  One morning, I went to Amoroto, the main village where Mercy Seat works.  I thought I was going there to visit some of our families’ homes; however, when I arrived in the village, our friends were all gathered together in a big group.  Pastor Michael, a local leader in Amoroto and one of the most humble people I’ve ever met, organized a meeting to honor us for our work in his village.  Afterwards, he pulled Natalie and I aside and escorted us to his property.  He explained that he’d put a portion of his land aside and was offering it to me as my official Ugandan inheritance.  He wanted me to have the land so that I could build my very own hut and stay there whenever I wanted.  Anyone who knows me knows that it’s been a longtime dream of mine to have a hut in Africa.  (Yes, I realize that’s a weird dream for a white girl from Connecticut, but that’s beside the point.)  Often, when foreigners try to purchase land in villages in order to build, they are ripped off for their skin color.  I never in my wildest dreams expected to be given a plot for free – especially from a family who owned so little.  Land is often the most valuable possession a father can offer his children in Uganda.  Therefore, when Pastor Michael handed me a paper offering me the land as an official inheritance as his daughter, I was moved beyond words.  To top things off, his children, who could have been jealous that this land wasn’t added to their own personal inheritances, were all smiles as they welcomed me to their family. 

I came home and could barely wrap my mind around what I’d just been given.  As I prayed, I didn’t have words sufficient to express the gratitude I felt in my heart.  I only had tears.  While crying out of pure joy and thankfulness, God reminded me that He hadn’t brought me to Uganda just to do something for Him; He’d brought me there to give something to me.  If I hadn’t believed His plan was better than my own, I would have missed out on major blessings.

So there you have it.  After getting ready to throw in the towel, I experienced life coming together miraculously.  I finally got to work out in the bush and see God moving mightily there.  I launched a ministry that I actually believe in with all my heart.  I gained a Ugandan family.  I was handed a literal inheritance in my promised land.  And my broken dreams for ministry were not only restored but handed back to me a million times better than what I ever imagined.

I never want to forget this season of my life.  I think it’s really important to write memorials of gratitude to refer back to when life gets crazy.  Even though things are going really well at the moment, I know there will be valleys again in the future.  Documenting God’s faithfulness can be a good reminder during tough seasons.

I also want to encourage anyone who is going through a rough patch right now.  I know it’s hard to keep fighting when circumstances are brutal.  It honestly scares me to think how terrifyingly close I came to giving up last year.  I was too sick, too tired, too discouraged and beaten down to think I could keep going.  The enemy tried to take me out.  And he almost did.  But after taking what I thought was my last punch, I realized I needed to get back into the ring.  So I did.  Weary, afraid, frustrated – I went back.  And in my weakness, the Lord gave me everything He’d promised.  He redeemed everything that had been lost, making beauty from ashes in His awesome perfection.

God’s promises do not always come to fruition in our time.  They do not always come without a battle.  But they do come, and when they do, they are always worth the wait.


So if you’re in a battle, keep fighting.  Keep pushing.  You will make it.  And soon you will have your own memoir of gratitude to share.