Out of Africa

On June 4, I returned from a 5 month outreach to the Uganda, a land that is often compared to a precious stone. Scattered memories of the sights and sounds, smells and tastes of that small African nation continue to fill my thoughts.

Kampala:

I remember...

Holding on for dear life to the backs of “boda- bodas” (motorcycle taxis) as we weaved perilously close to the other vehicles on congested city streets.

Our team praying and preaching in the hospital wards that were packed to the gills with sick people- their families camped out on the floor, as they waited for the insufficient number of doctors and nurses present to treat them.

A group of us guys with our hands clamped firmly around a goat's legs and mouth as its life gushed from its body. The unrestrained joy that erupted in spontaneous dancing after the meat was cooked and we had feasted with our church family until there was no food left.

The 5-hour church services: dancing, stomping, jumping, singing, shouting, sweating, praying, laughing, crying, and hugging at the end.

My heart breaking when I heard from our Ugandan family that we were the first white people they had encountered to embrace their culture and treat them as equals.

Gulu:

I remember....

The scores of people on their knees in the dirt lifting up wrinkled hands to an unseen God.

The one night when Rachel and I were explaining salvation in Christ to a searching man and pleading with him unsuccessfully to enter into a relationship with Jesus until we were both beat.

The throng of thirsty children in the blazing sun, caked in dirt, missing a shirt or shorts or both.

Eating rice and meat with our hands in a spacious dining room with a ceiling of moon and stars
shooting over our heads and a floor of grass and earth under our feet.

Bombo:

I remember...

The texture and taste of the pig parts that I ate with much trepidation at a feast that was held in our honor.

The elderly woman suffering from AIDS uncovering herself to show us the festering scar from an old operation zigzagging across her torso.

The small HIV+ boy with smiling eyes who sat on my lap and stared and giggled as I smiled back at him.

His grandmother appreciatively clutching our hands with both of hers when we brought blankets and bags of rice.

Murcheson Falls:

I remember....

The elephant charging up to the side of our vehicle puffing out his ears causing me to instinctively whip the door shut to create an impenetrable barrier, at least in my mind, between myself and this fearsome animal.

Having a conversation about redemption with a Hollywood actor aboard our ferry as we floated across the Nile River.

The thrill of being stranded in the game park after the tires of one of the vehicles blew out and we nervously waited for help as the darkness and unseen dangers encroached about us.

Rakai:

I remember...

Standing on my tiptoes peering over the crowd outside the airport attempting to catch a glimpse of my parents, whom I had not seen for over a year, as they came down the walkway.

The sound of a multitude of orphans assembled at the crest of the hill clapping in unison to welcome us to their school as we piled out of our bus. Then several little ones streaming down to hand fresh flowers to each member of our group.

My Mom and I tired and dehydrated as we hoofed it for miles on the dirt roads and the dense jungle paths to visit a family of orphans raising themselves on their own.

Jinja:

I remember...

The pain in my back and shoulders after long hours of cutting the grass with sickles to prepare for the international HIV/AIDS Gathering.

The electricity in the air and the sense that the God of the Universe was present in the gloomy mud hut as we crouched in the dirt to pray for an AIDS widow named Florence who had decided to become a Christian after we read Isaiah 53 to her.

Complaining about hardships to my co-leader and having her lovingly remind me of our call to lay down our lives and serve as Christ served.

My eyes burning at the conference listening to saints of God telling their stories of caring for the dying in the poorest places on the planet.

The immense African clouds and the sun as it would slowly burn out each night bathing everything in a soft rosy glow before extinguishing itself below the horizon.

I remember because I don't ever want to forget.

Epilogue:

Being home in Michigan I am so grateful for the abundance of options, flavors, colors, styles, and labor saving mechanical devices available to me but for the life of me I can't stop examining the gross inequalities of my pampered life in the West when measured against the standard of living for the majority of my friends in Africa.

I heard something the other day that has not stopped troubling me---the amount of money Americans spend every year on ice cream is enough to provide food, water, and health care for the entire world. I now have a responsibility to do something about what I have seen and heard and I can’t ease back into living to entertain myself when there is a whole world of people outside our door screaming for a Savior. It would be a tragedy if this mission trip was relegated to a photo album that I bring out once a year to impress the guests with tales about the African adventure that I had when I was a young man.

In my ongoing effort to war against idleness I have taken up jogging. My route takes me through the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. The stillness of the cemetery makes it the ideal place to clear my head and dream about the future as I exercise. As I was running the other day I was reading the gravestones and imagining what kinds of lives the people buried there had lived, especially the ones who had died very young. Who were they? What did they do? What kinds of stories are told about them? What was their legacy? Which brought me to the question: What is going to be written on my tombstone?

There is this scene in The Royal Tenenbaums where the title character and his son are in a cemetery standing in front of an impressive marble headstone whose epitaph reads:

Veteran of Two Wars
Father of Nine Children
Drowned in the Caspian Sea

After silently staring at the headstone for a few moments the father turns away and looks off into the distance, saying wistfully, "Wish it were mine." When I arrived home from my run I was more certain than ever that with God's help I would be able to give my life for a vision much greater than the American Dream. But I am locked in a battle every day to hold on to this passion to live a life that counts, clinging to the hope that when the end comes after having stood my ground I will be able to die well.

My prayer for all of you reading this including myself is that like King David the epitaph inscribed on our graves will read:

“They served God's purpose
in their generation,
fell asleep,
and were buried
with their fathers.”