I have malaria again. Or I relapsed. Or it never went away and so I just still have it. I’ve been in this damn bed for 2 full days now and life is beginning to feel like a really uneventful dream.
I have four days left in this beloved country. Today I was thinking about how I have spent one sixth of the year in a different country. It’s weird. It’s not a mission trip or a trip of any sort at this point…it’s just life. I don’t really see the Ugandans as Ugandans anymore…we are all like a family now. And ya, that sounds cliché and sappy, but that’s just how it is. I have become best friends with Pastor James’ four-year old daughter Kim. Today she refused to go to school because she wanted to see me and give me cookies and drawings she made so I will feel better. We colored eachothers’ nails green this afternoon.
Last week’s visit to the hospital was heavy. There is this boy there named Dennis. Ten years old. Severely malnourished. This is the only way I can explain him: He looks like a piece of paper folded in half, propped up, when he is sitting in his bed. I don’t even know how he can sit up in his bed…the whole time I thought he was just going to collapse. His father Samuel is always there with him. They’ve been there for a month, during which Dennis hasn’t gained any weight. It breaks my heart. And it’s not fair. I want so badly for God to heal him because it seems impossible. When I came home from the hospital, I was angry and anxious. I was crying in my bed and I threw water bottles at the fan (because that solves something). But this week’s visit was severely different, characterized more by joy than by sadness. Dennis’ face looked different…brighter. When we entered the ward, he got up and walked to meet us, smiling. Involuntary tears! He gained one pound and the skin on his arm was peeling; his body finally had enough energy and nutrients to start renewing his skin. I think Dennis will make it.
We can’t feel sorry for Africa. Feel sorry for the incapable. The powerless. These people are anything but powerless: they are warriors, stronger and more able than you and me. To pity them is to dehumanize them, to underestimate their ability, their knowledge, their community. If we feel sorry for them, we are diminishing their hope and their love. And if there is one thing I have learned from life in Africa, it is NEVER underestimate love. Love never fails. It conquered death and sin and separation from our Creator. It is so strong and I hate that I have taken it too lightly. imate Love is fully alive and pulsing in Africa and it can surely heal the bleeding wounds of this beautiful continent. I do love this place.
I’m missing frozen yogurt.
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