enlighten: to give [someone] greater knowledge or understanding; {illuminate or make clearer}; to OPEN SOMEONE’S EYES. The sun, hot at noon, fell heavy on our foreheads. Dust red and dry rose shimmering, plastering our white damp skin with every step. Muffled laughter filled my ears – children’s feet racing down narrow paths, beckoning friends along the way. Water sloshed through dirty pots, and clothes rubbed hard and clean. The murmurs of friendly greetings rose; tin clanged and pots stirred. Odors wafted and hung heavy in the humid air, not all pleasant. A child’s hand reached and grabbed mine, tugged hard. “Muzungo, muzungo!” A black face looked back at mine, teeth flashed, eyes wide with smiling amusement. I smiled back and squeezed hand tight. This was Africa. It took awhile to sink in…the tiring 22 hour air journey was not quite long enough to prepare me for the smell, the noise, the heat, nor the heart of the people. Uganda, Africa – the nation of big skies, vast plains, dark skinned beauty, and intense hurt and suffering. We were here, for real. Eyes opened wide, expectant and ignorant, but thankful. The unknown of our two-week adventure found us dependant, kept humble and reliant on the God who knows. From day one, it was the openness of the people welcoming strangers into their lives that served as constant reminder of my need and of the controversy of it all. Heart undone and willing to be enlightened, I was ready to have my eyes opened wide. A woman stopped us on the street, our skin blaring foreign in the sun. “Sister! Would you look? My child, the fever has not left. He does not respond!” Her cry was definite, yet not pleading, as if asking for compassion, an ear, for human recognition of her plight. We stopped, Mum and I, bent down and felt the boy’s head. Hot and clammy he looked up at us unsure. “What are you doing here anyway?” The woman’s voice again questioned, inquisitive. We met her gaze with smiles; “We are nurses – visiting this beautiful country, learning, helping where we can. Has this always been your home?” Our question led into depth of discussion and short friendship – we listened, gave her medicine for her son, and prayed with them both. Squeezing hand tight, we prayed God would again reveal His love that satisfies, that she would see and know it again. Her story of loss, searching and hardship I will not quickly forget, nor has God ever forgotten. Joy was her name, and it was written all over her face. She beamed as she cooked our meals, laughed over the pots of beans and cabbage, and found delight in smelling the wafting aromas and walking in the brilliant light of afternoon sun. And still her eyes danced as she in broken English spoke tales of her broken past. She told us of her son, sick during the days of rebel occupation, to the point of requiring hospitalization. That night at the hospital – the rooms full of sick babies, scared mothers, and townspeople seeking refuge from the darkness – that night the rebel soldiers burst through the doors, spraying bullets into the mess of sickness and fear. Joy held tight to her young son, protecting him from the bullet that pierced her skin and bone, shattering her upper arm. She pointed to the scar, deeply indented in her arm, “We all have this story”, she smiled big, “But I have my life!” We smiled back astonished. We do not have this story, and how often we do not have this joy. A day at the hospital was much like any other – wandering, greeting, learning, and overwhelmed by the seeming helplessness. The sun was heavy again. Sweat trickled, dust hung low, and this day I cringed, bothered. We made our way to the maternity ward. Soft groans met our ears and grew louder as we wound through the dark hallways. A mother in labour lay on the short table in the middle of the room, hands gripping sides, neck arched as she tried to find comfort on black plastic mat. A throng of young nurses and midwifes crowded, pulling curtain open wide to get a better look. We slipped into the group – Mum grasped the woman’s hand, reassuring. “10cm dilated. Now push woman!” The midwife in gumboots mopped the wet and messy floor as she instructed. Gritting teeth the young woman pushed and head appeared – beautiful, wet, bloody, new head. Another groan and there she was. Tiny, screaming and kicking girl-life welcomed into the world. I marveled at the beauty of the moment. Proud mother sat up stark, unashamed, reaching for her child, her likeness. We cleaned and gently swaddled the babe, giving her to her mother to delight in. Not long was her rest though – within the hour, mother was up. Gathering mat and blankets she carefully walked the slippery tiles to the cleaners room at the end of the hallway. Scrubbing the mat on which she had just lay she cleaned the marks of her labour from her blankets and strong frame. Offering to help, astonished at this young woman’s resilience, we were laughed at. “No, no…” she smiled, waving us away. Mum and I looked at each other amazed – the concept of giving up, of waiting for others to do what one could do themselves, was almost as foreign as our skin to these people. Two short long weeks, and I felt the hurt cut deep hearing stories of loss, of atrocities and pain. We saw the squalor, the dirt, the inequality of it all. Eyes open I saw. But my heart felt too the joy that smiled big and surpassed understanding. I experienced the thankfulness expressed for the smallest favour or gift, and the resilience to carry on, never giving up. Always I come eager to help, to change, to make a difference. And yet it is my heart that is changed. Eyes a little wider, heart a little swollen with the people, the questions, the need. Eyes opened, enlightened. My heart pounds even now with the question, how then should I now live? “And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” {Micah 6:8} There is the call, the summons – to act and to love and to walk with Jesus. And the question is not ‘where will He lead?’ But ‘am I willing to follow?’ For in-light of it all – the cross, the love of God, eternity forever – nothing else matters. I want to live the life of simple obedience, to see and be changed, to love and be overwhelmed, and to live in-light of the Light.
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AuthorHannah Mai Archives
October 2016
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