The Golden Thread

How the Ugandan government turned off the Wi-Fi and we celebrated, savoring each moment.

Years ago, in a coffee shop in Durango, Colorado, I met a woman who traveled the streets without a home, but with a faith planted and rooted. She spoke boldly of experience and hope. In her life where others saw lack, she found freedom; where others saw bizarre and radical, she experienced true devotion and favor. She rightly knew and lived by one Comfort, one Sustenance.

She took from her pocket a wrapped stand of golden thread. As she began to untangle it, she spoke of the Golden Thread – the One that sews up the torn and tattered; the One that binds up with graces and mercies coated in gold; the One who restores.

Reality is the entanglement of sunrises and sunsets; of cultures and languages; of hands and feet; of smiles and laughter; of brokenness and tear-stained eyes; of God, in and among His people, in fire, in song, in a pillar of cloud, and in lovingkindness (Exodus 13:21; Psalm 42:8).

And in our intertwined and tangled reality, there is a Golden Thread that binds up and sews together. The Golden Thread of Grace. The Golden Thread of Joy.

Luke 22:19 says, “And he took bread, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them. . .”

In the original translation, “He gave thanks” is the word “Eucharisteo.”

Eucharisteo. A word weaved throughout scripture, embedded in thanksgiving, with the root charis meaning grace. Jesus, before he was to die on the cross, took bread. And in that moment, he saw the bread as grace.

He saw grace.

And seeing the bread as grace, he gave thanks to the Father.

He gave thanks.

And not only did he experience grace, but the derivative of eucharisteo is chara meaning joy.

So, he took the bread, saw it as grace, gave thanks, and in giving thanks, he experienced joy.

He experienced joy. [1]

So as I sit here from the foreign yet familiar soil of Uganda, I untangle the stories and experiences of my reality to tell of a greater story – a story sewn together with a strand of Golden Thread. And you wonder, and you ask yourself:

“if I unravel all this grace and all this joy and I give thanks for what it is, what do I expect to find?”

So here is all the sweetness and the sorrow and the beauty and the grace and the joy and the surprises of each moment I could have never even imagined I would get to live in.

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In January, the Ugandan Presidential elections took place. I had only arrived one month earlier on a one-way ticket to Uganda, and I was still waking every morning with the same prayer:

Lord, I need you.

The words would come each morning as if breath. I was living in a land I had only ever dreamed of; with people I had only ever prayed for. I was still adjusting and settling into my new home. What a beautiful position it was to be in – to be at a complete surrender each morning, expectant that the Lord’s strength and mercy would be plentiful for the day ahead. And it was. And it is.

As the elections approached, the Ugandan government took precautions and turned off all access to Wi-Fi, Airtel phone network, and all social media.

They just turned it off.

Who knew?

Apparently everyone in Uganda knew. At my surprise and disbelief, they all laughed and said,

“yeah, this happens sometimes.”

But what about me!

I had no way to contact any of my family or friends. When the government eventually restored the Wi-Fi, there was still limited access to social media including all Wi-Fi calling platforms. For weeks, I waited. I waited to hear the voices of those I love. But that is the thing about surrender – the moment you think you have surrendered all is the moment you will be asked to lay it all down.

But in the waiting, there was grace. And in the grace, thanksgiving. And in the thanksgiving, joy.

As we all missed the connection of distant family and friends via media platforms, we embraced the moments to celebrate together – fully present with one another.

We shared in the eating of fresh-from-the-tree mangos and yellow bananas brought by the neighbors.

We drank evening tea with milk and spent late nights flipping pancakes huddled close by nine curious children.

We took photos and practiced headstands and smiled often at the boy who lost his two front teeth.

We snuggled, ran through burnt orange mud after the flooding rains, and took evening walks through the maize fields.

We laughed at the stubborn chickens in the house and the equally stubborn children who let them in.

And we celebrated many birthdays with cake and dancing and gratitude and fullness.

We knew the moments soaked in sweetness were God’s grace.

But we also knew that moments would come, soaked in sorrow and aching confusion, and it would be His grace to sustain us.

They knew it would be God’s grace to sustain them in the days and years to come as they received Joseph – a young boy abandoned on the street, unwanted, because of epilepsy. And we knew, as we sat with him curled and seizing, it was God’s grace that he is alive, with a home, with us. We knew it was God's good grace to provide an avenue of treatment and we know that his life will be a living testament to the goodness of God.

We knew and spoke the anthem of our souls:

God’s grace. God’s grace.

And we knew, when we had pulled off the side of the road only moments later to witness a motorcycle crash and a woman limp, it was God’s grace. And she was lifted by the hands of many, able to stand and walk.

And we knew, when we received a call for help from a dear friend and pastor to transport his newborn baby, lifeless in his arms, to his mothers village for burial, it would be only God and His grace to bring peace.

Our anthem grew louder through each moment - the joy and sorrow.

And it grows. And it grows.

And in our house, every night, we sing sweet melodies to the Lord, drumming on the table, singing loudly, and giving thanks always for all things (Ephesians 5:19-20). His mercies are sweeter and His grace better than life itself.

That is our Golden Thread - knitting all things together.

[1] Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts (Grand Rapids, Mi.: Zondervan, 2010), 31-32.