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.
