Wrestling through life

Some days I wish I could trade the challenges of living in North America for the challenges of being a foreigner overseas. And perhaps someday I will, but for today I remain here and wrestle through what it means to live here after being there.

I sit and I wonder just when it was that those of us in the North American church lost sight of what really matters. When did the service become more about the show than about seeking and knowing, when did the music become more about notes and rhythms than about worship or about really trying to live the words that we sing, and when did being right become more important than dying to self, even if it means burning bridges rather than building them. And I wonder, if those of us inside the church can’t be the stewards of God’s very grace, than who will? If we choose to love only people who love us back, to be generous to only those who have something to offer, than how are we different from anyone else? No one said this would be easy.

I hear the things people argue about and it all just seems petty. When you have met a Mama with empty arms in Rwanda because every single one of her children met the wrong end of machete, and yet here she stands, surviving when maybe she didn’t even want to. And you talk to another Mama who tells you that her two year old asked her if she wants to know what dead people look like, because after 24 short months of life he saw with his own two eyes those blood soaked streets in Rwanda. And then there, right in the middle of the genocide memorial is a life size photo of a child whose last words were “Mommy, where can I run.” Later that week I sit with a group of children and they squeal with wild joy as they play with my hair. So excited they are that they jump up and down and laugh at the strange way my hair feels in their hands. Joy and pain, side by side inside me, and I’m reminded that life is a paradox. Both extremes right there in the same place and I marvel at the thought that I ever saw anything as black and white. 

I sat there in Northern Uganda and saw the aftermath of war and I realized that rehabilitating a child soldier is so much more than I read about in books. It takes more than a gun burning ceremony and a certificate that says “rehabilitated” for these young people to piece their lives back together. Sometimes they choose to return to war and the only life they know, but if they don’t it might take every single day of the rest of their life to fight the battle to rebuild. I remember the ones I met; they had vacant eyes that had had the life sucked right out and I hope that someday the light will return. That their smile will reach their eyes and their joy light up the room.

Without words, people remind me that all these stories are about “those people” “over there.”  But imagine just for a minute, that Mama with empty arms, she could be your sister, because her and you aren’t really so different after all. The little boy who had nowhere to run, he could be your son, wide eyed with wonder and ready to take on the world. And the stories, they are right here beside me too. Someone tells me that the little boy that I once taught in Sunday School here on the frozen Canadian prairies, he survived Rwanda, because his Mom ran through the bush for 3 months straight with him tied to her back. The two of them, were the only survivors in their family. I watch him colour, no different from the other kids, and yet not at all the same. 

And you know what? That little boy, the one who spoke to his Mom of dead people, he is now bent over a desk studying at an Ivy League school. But he does not forget. Because 2 years old is old enough to remember all those things he saw, and he wants to go back to Rwanda so he can make it a better place than the one he remembers as a child. And people like him and his Mama, they inspire me to love when it hurts and when it doesn’t even make sense, and to go out every single day and make the world just a little bit better.  

With eyes wide open

I took my dog out last night.  My mind was busy, and truth be told, as I made the short walk home I was assessing frost heaves in the asphalt. Then for a brief moment I glanced into the skies and saw them. Northern lights. I caught my breath in awe as they danced above me. And I lingered there for some time in silent wonder. Because no matter how many times I see them, they never get old. And as I sat there and watched the heavenly theatrics I wondered how often I walk through life with my eyes down, analyzing faults on the road, when up above me northern lights dance.

Last year when I went camping with my friends, the photographer in the group decided we should stay up until 2 AM so he could get a group shot of us with the starry sky and the Northern Lights above. I have to admit, that at the time, I was tired and cold and I just wanted sleep. But as we made our way out to the beach, I realized why he wanted this shot. Still some soft light on the horizon in the ridiculously long Northern summer daylight, the clear starry sky and Northern Lights above, it was like a little bit of heaven. I won't soon forget that moment or the wonder it beheld. When I was walking with my head down, eyes on my covers, there were others that reminded me to come outside and look up.
 
Right before I went outside last night I was reading a book about the road to Emmaus. About how the disciples walked along heartbroken and defeated because the One they thought had come to rescue them appeared to be dead. They doubted everything their lives had been based upon. They shared all this with the stranger who walked beside them. "There they were, walking with the living Christ, and they had no idea who He was. They were looking past His face and into the abyss that demands proof. They saw His sandals, His hair, His eyes, His robe, but they did not see Him." (Mended, Angie Smith).

I am guilty of much the same. Of racing through life, eyes down, and feeling all alone, when right beside me walks my Saviour. And at times, I do walk with my eyes to the heavens, only to trip and fall on a crack in the road. Instead of getting back up, I stop and focus on what caused me to fall, rather than remembering the lights that dance above.

Last week I went to watch the Watoto Children's Choir. Seeing those kids has special meaning to me, because I've been to Uganda several times, but also because I've been to Watoto. Seeing them in their home context as well as seeing them perform abroad gives me perspective.  As I was watching them sing, there was one little boy, who had shared his story of struggle before coming to Watoto. As he sang the song, his eyes were closed, hands lifted to the heavens, and in that moment, it was only him and Jesus. I didn't want that moment to end because I knew I was witnessing something sacred and because people like him, they know Who walks beside them.