It's Not Over

In December 2020, I sat at our clinic and listened to the doctor say how happy she was that 2020 was finally ending and that 2021 would bring a fresh start. Like much of the world, she was optimistically convinced that Covid was a thing of that year and could not follow us as we moved forward. New year, new problems, but let’s throw out the old. 

I disagreed with her very much. Of course January first would not be magical. Of course people who went to sleep sick on the last day of 2020 did not wake up miraculously healed on the first day of 2021. Of course things would not just hop back to normal. 

By that time, schools in Uganda were partially opened. To make room for social distancing, only a few classes of students were allowed to return to school in October, meaning most of the school-going children in the country had spent the last nine months without any formal education. The government produced homework study packets—hard copies, because not everyone can afford internet for such things—but even though they were supposed to be free, in most places the distributors asked exorbitant amounts of money for them, which meant most students had no option but to do without. The money simply wasn’t there. 

In February schools opened a bit more. More classes were allowed to come back. The Ministry of Education even published a four-year plan of how to get schools back on track with a normal school calendar after such a long hiatus. Things looked promising. 

Most people in the country went back to life as normal. I know this primarily secondhand, since to leave our compound we still needed to have a gate pass signed by one of three people in the management team, only one of whom actually lives on the compound. We tried to do the responsible thing and stay inside the compound as much as possible, only taking an occasional outing to file papers for my work permit. For Christian’s birthday, we were extravagant and hired a car to take us to a swimming pool down the road for the morning. It was a BIG day for us. 

I made a five-month homeschool and camp program that would last until July 2021, which was supposed to be the end of the 2020 school year. Finally we could plan some things without asking every week what the next step was going to be or what lockdown would look like next month. It felt good to be sure of something. It felt good to be able to put something on paper—something that had a period, not a question mark.

Since the rest of the world began to open up as the vaccine became available, we felt like we could finally visit our families without being socially irresponsible. Christian’s brother is getting married in August, so we bought plane tickets to attend his wedding and spend Elliot’s first birthday with family, then make our way to America to introduce my family to the newest member. 

We expected to get a rush of excitement after buying the tickets. Instead, we felt heavy. It took a day or two to realize: It was dread. What if, for the third time in a row, this trip doesn’t work out? What if our parents have to go even longer without seeing their grandchildren? What if we don’t get our rest? 

Our trip is 11 days away, and I am still using the word “if” when I talk about it. Because I have learned that nothing is certain. Nothing is for sure, 100 percent going to happen. I refuse to fully believe we are going until we are sitting on the airplane and the wheels have left the ground. Then I will exhale. 

Six weeks ago, all schools in Uganda closed again. Completely closed, not a single student allowed. Covid had run rampant through the younger demographic this year and putting students together was exacerbating the problem. (One health professional put it very plainly when he told us, “Social distancing died an early and natural death.”) 

Once again, all 200 of our children were home. I threw away my nice paper with the five-month plan. I held some meetings to decide what to do next. I waited. I worked. Hard.

Then Covid hit closer to home. After successfully keeping the disease at bay for more than a year, it breached our compound walls and entered in. Not in a big way, but we needed to take big action to keep it contained. Everyone stay home, interact as little as possible, all nonessential work stopped. Does that sound familiar to anyone? But surely… this was a thing of the past, right? 

The country went back into lockdown too. In June, Christian and I sat and listened to the president speak (the ONLY times I have watched the news in the past decade have been to hear the president announce new Covid measures) as he announced a ban on public transportation, school closures, how overwhelmed the hospitals are, that Uganda has too few oxygen tanks and how important it is to wear a mask. When he finished, I turned to Christian and said, “We heard the exact same speech last year.” 

We seem to be going in circles. Who is playing this pandemic on repeat? 

We want to get vaccinated, but the country is out of vaccines. My sister, who organizes vaccine clinics around her state, sits in a room for a whole day and gets only one—one!—person who wants to be immunized, and the same day I read an article in a Ugandan newspaper about 800 people in Kampala who were immunized with water because that was a fast way for a few “doctors” to make some money. “Send them here!” I want to shout to my sister. “We’ll take anything you have!” 

Students have been in the same class for one-and-a-half years, and there is still no end in sight. Still no word about when schools will open for those classes, let alone reopen for everyone. I dare to guess that with every passing day schools are closed, at least one more student will decide not to come back at all. By the time we do open, social distancing should be easy.

Vaccines are coming, slowly. Healthcare workers, teachers, government workers. People are scared of both Covid and the vaccine so whether they get immunized depends on which fear is the strongest. 

Last year, when other countries were going into lockdown and everyone had to stay home except for grocery shopping and medical emergencies, I felt so blessed. Here on the compound, we had freedom. I could see 200 people in a day just by doing my job. I could still do my job. I could run a kilometer-long circle on the road inside the compound, not be confined to workouts in my living room. Compared to my friends and family, I was not at all confined. 

When you were locked up, I felt free. 

Now that you are gaining your freedom, I feel locked up. 

It has been 16 months since I went for a run off the compound. What I wouldn’t give to not have every step memorized before I make it. I even have places on my route I know I only step with my right foot, or my left, because it has become such a routine. 

These days, I prepare activities for the children from my own home and give all the homework, games and crafts to some aunties every morning. The aunties lead the activities; I do not go there myself. It has been five weeks since I have played with the children from the children’s home, even though I can see them from my front door as they play on the playground. Last week someone donated bouncing castles for a day, so Patricia and I sat on the road by our house and watched the children run around screaming and having fun. Patricia asked if she could go; I had to say no. Children shouted to me, asking if Patricia could bounce with them; I had to say no. (My solution was to borrow a mini trampoline, put it in our yard and tell Patricia that was her bouncing castle. She believed me, bless her sweet little heart.)

On the one hand, this seems so cruel. In 11 days I am leaving for three months, but I already miss the children terribly. How much will my heart hurt at the end of those three months? When I come back will I get to hug them, or will I only be allowed to wave from a distance? 

On the other hand, it makes my heart so happy that I miss them. Even after being here all the time without a break, even after serving them day in and day out, I want to be with them. I love them. I don’t want to be away from them. How God has grown my love for these children, to make part of me not want to visit my own family because for a time that means saying goodbye to my family here. As excited as I am to celebrate Elliot’s first birthday with his grandparents, I am also disappointed it means that his dear friends here have to miss out. Curse geography. 

This year feels a lot like last year. A lot like last year. Now, however, we are used to the uncertainty. We are used to not being able to plan. We are used to not knowing. This year, the uncertainty doesn’t make me nervous; it makes me weary. The stability we always took for granted—schools, grocery shopping, government offices doing their jobs—has been stuttering for the last 16 months. Sometimes those things are there, sometimes in part, sometimes not at all. And what are we left with, when all our stability is gone? When our periods have again turned into question marks? 

This afternoon I was browsing through some of my old journals and stumbled across a passage I had written on March 12 of last year, the day after we cancelled our trip to America: 

But I trust you. And I will accept this. And I will serve my heart out here so the time and the cancelled trip are not wasted. Maybe you will make it very clear in this situation why the plans have changed and maybe not, but I will not blame you for anything. I am sad and will let myself be sad, but I also trust you and choose to have peace in you. I am in your hands. This is in your hands. There is no place I would rather be.

As I was meditating this morning, God simply said to me, “This is an opportunity for you to trust me.” I will do that. I trust you, Lord.

What a long opportunity to trust him. What a long, glorious, forced opportunity to trust God. But I do. And I will. (Notice: That is a period, not a question mark.)