Sep 8, 20215 min read

It was a Saturday

The journey of June, July, & August

It was a Saturday.

Two weeks and one day before it was a Friday.

I had woken warm; a fever beginning to surface. Bodies shuffled and luggage shifted; I hugged our guests goodbye and sat snuggling our little ones. Those who had joined our family and for a time called it home, would all return to the places they came, and we would be left reminiscing the time we enjoyed together and laughing at the memories we made. I stayed, a little shaken by the sudden and rising warmth of my body, as the others accompanied our visitors to the airport.

I began cleaning, the way you clean when company leaves. The satisfied and full-of-love-and-gratitude cleaning. I washed utensils and thought of conversations over homecooked meals, and the way love seeps through in aching hands. I stripped beds and imagined the souls that found rest in comfortable places in a new culture and daily adventures. I cleaned up little messes made by little hands and rearranged the couches displaced from dance parties.

The night before we had baptized all our children, the sweet nine.

The day had been bright and warm. They filled the concrete hole with firetruck water and by happenchance, and what we all like to call African time, the baptism didn’t take place till the cool of evening. We gathered under the glowing moon and shimmering stars and sang praise. And as our voices faded, the rain began. We stood, sopping, as our tears blended with heaven’s water.

We baptized the one who was raised by his auntie, a malnourished woman unable to feed another mouth. He arrived – starved and hallow, unable to walk as weakness plagued his body. They say those who brought him brought him to die in our arms. He was baptized and given a new name: Grace.

We baptized the one who was brought in off the street. When they asked him where he came from, he combined the names of two distant towns spread across the country because he was only three years old and when the radio announcement went out no one ever called; no one ever came looking. He was dunked and his name became Elijah.

And we baptized and rededicated the one who suffers from epilepsy and a mental disparity. They found him, abandoned – dropped in a latrine hole. They renamed him then, Mukisa* Joseph. And he was cleansed from the ones who tried to offer him as a sacrifice to their gods; he was reborn. His life is a testimony of the goodness of God and he is our blessing.

We baptized the three who share the same father. A man who, they say, went mad; one day he no longer spoke or had the ability to care for himself. His mother took him in and cared for him, but she could not manage to care for his children also. Their names are Mary, John Francis, and Ruth.

And the two, sister and brother, who woke one morning to their father gone. Those who found them brought them and said it would be just a few weeks while they searched for their dad – they never returned. Neither did he. The water washed over them, and all evil spirits connected to their family lineage was broken. Their names are Hannah and Aaron and they have favor in the sight of the Lord.

And we baptized the littlest, who came with her mother – a single mother, and mother to all our children, who came in search of a better life for her and her daughter. Her name is baby Gloria.

As I cleaned, I thought of divinity and divineness.

The rain.

It was divine, not in its own nature, but because it served as a symbol.

Cleansing.

Cleansed.

Clean.

And the baptism too, a symbol of a life transformed; a physical act representing a life reborn, forgiven and cleansed from sin, renewed by the blood of Jesus.

Two weeks and a day later, it was a Saturday. As I sought rest and battled with exhaustion, a still-too-high fever, and a dry-cough often bringing me to tears, I laid on the floor. It was the second floor and I laid in the middle on the rug, a blanket clung to my skin as chills quaked my body. My eyes glued to the ceiling, I thought of all the goodbyes yet to be had. Those remaining still would eventually return to their places, the ones they call home, and I laid weak and weary as I wrestled tears.

When I initially came to Uganda, I decided, of my own will and pride, I would stay for two years without returning to the states. I was determined and stubborn; my heart was intentional and my ambitions were true. But as I laid there, and the tears collected behind my ears the way they do when you cry while lying face-up, I eased my pride and released my grip. And I felt the peace and the words melt over me:

It will be more impactful for you to leave and return than if you were to stay.

I hadn’t tasted the truth of those words before and had so tightly gripped my love that even when I heard them, I didn’t believe them. Maybe I had thought leaving would be weak or cruel to the community and friendships I built. Maybe I would be seen as a person who gave up or maybe as a person who didn’t trust and wholly rely on God. Maybe I would be so comfortable back in America I would have hesitation to return to Uganda. Or maybe, returning to America would be so heavy on my spirit as I struggled with cultural differences and explaining my life in Africa to others.

There were many maybes, many what ifs, many questions.

But in that moment, as I released my own will and ambitions; pride and determination; fear and intimidations, truth won.

As Oswald Chambers writes:

You can never sanctify to God that with which you long to satisfy yourself. If you satisfy yourself with a blessing from God, it will corrupt you; you must sacrifice it, pour it out, do with it what common sense says in an absurd waste. . . immediately I say – ‘This is too great and worthy for me, it is not meant for a human being at all, I must pour it out unto the Lord’; then these things pour out in rivers of living water all around. Until I do pour these things out before the Lord, they endanger those I love as well as myself because they will turn to lust.*

I knew, to sacrifice and offer to the Lord those which I loved most, He would use the circumstances for reconciliation and redemption.

Our kids had been left before, many of them without any explanation. But if I said goodbye, and explained the importance of returning to see my family, friends, loved ones, and those who have supported and sponsored me during my time in Uganda, and kept my word, and returned back

t h e y w o u l d s e e G o d.

And they would know and feel deeper

His love

His truth

His faithfulness

His redemption

I said yes. I opened my hands. I released my grip. I asked permission to go from the one who had continuously encouraged me to return and to testify to the way God is moving and working in Uganda. And I booked a flight.

It was a Saturday.

I called my family on Thursday, and I said:

“I’m coming home.”

The tears and cheers came, and they asked:

“When”

And I responded,

“Tomorrow.”

It was a Friday, and I travelled for 32 hours and reached my mom and brother awaiting me at the airport. I stayed for two months.

I testified. I shared. I grieved. I healed. I traveled. I embraced. I loved.

And then I returned, home.

More whole. More ready. More reliant. More resilient. More courageous.