Clenched Fists

Once upon a time there was a girl. This girl had a simple life with big dreams, as girls often tend to have. Though the legs on her body were rather short, the legs on her heart were rather long, and they carried her heart to places and people near and far. The problem was that long legs are able to travel farther than short legs, so her heart always seemed to be leaving her body behind as it explored new territory to love.

God was good to this girl. He gave her a family who loved her from day one and always gave her the best they could offer. He gave her friends to strengthen and encourage her growing up. He gave her a body that almost never fell ill and remained intact no matter how many times she fell down. He gave her sunsets over a lake in the evening and sunrises with cups of tea in the morning. He gave her books to teach and challenge her. He gave her teachers who genuinely cared for her brain and her heart. Most of all, He gave her the opportunity to know Him from the very beginning so she didn’t have to miss out on a single day of His love and fatherhood.

One day, God gave that girl a threefold dream: Poverty. Children. Africa.

In reality, it wasn’t given in a single day. The dream had been brewing for years, but once the bud of an idea sprouted in her mind, her imagination blossomed into a million vibrant possibilities. Poverty. Children. Africa. Those long legs on her heart were only warming up.

Her heart was running far from home, but her body was slower and steadier. Emotions only pretend to set the pace for actions; rarely can the latter keep up. The girl lived her simple life at home while her heart raced back and forth between continents. There were the normal things to do: Go to college. Find a job. Spend time with family. She loved those things, she really did. There was nothing wrong with them. In fact, there were so many things right with them that many would say she had it easy. She was blessed.

More than anything, the girl was blessed by the people God kept placing in her life. Her family multiplied, not by marriage or blood, but by relationships and acceptance and wholehearted love. She was never orphaned, but she was adopted many times over. There were special people, and there was an extraordinarily special man, and it was all very, very good. Her days were full of hard work and her evenings were full of laughter and her nights were full of rest and her months were full of challenges and her years were full of growth. Soon, she had another dream edging its way into her heart: Marriage. Family. Ministry.

One would think her heart would have been full—and perhaps it should have been—but with all its running around there was always a bit of an empty space left behind. Some days the space seemed negligible, but some days it consumed her entire being. It hurt when her heart so often left her body behind. It wasn’t fair.

One day, God gave the girl the opportunity for her body’s short legs to follow her heart’s long legs. For three months, she lived in Africa. She loved children. She served people in poverty. It wasn’t exactly like the dream in her head, but reality tends to rebel against cookie cutter plans. Like most dreams realized, there were a fair share of disappointments; but like all God-given dreams realized, there was an incomparable satisfaction and joy in knowing she was in the center of His will.

Yet her heart was still unable to rest. How could it rest when it still had two homes—two homes located on opposite sides of what seemed like an excessively large world? It filled the previously empty space and left a new one that proved no better than the last. But the girl lived on, and the girl loved on. This was the beginning of learning to live in the tension.

The girl came home and the emptiness traded places with the fullness. Her two dreams were in a constant tug-of-war in which the opponents were infuriatingly evenly matched, and it took its toll. Instead of hard work, her days were full of longing. Instead of laughter, her evenings were full of tears. Instead of rest, her nights were full of confusion. The challenges were still there, but the growth seemed elusive. Her heart was growing tired. So once again she turned around and physically ran toward her first dream: Poverty. Children. Africa. Only once again, the emptiness traded places with the fullness. But the girl lived on, and the girl loved on. Life in the tension continued.

God had blessed the girl, and she desperately wanted everything He had given her. She truly believed both dreams had come from His hand, and that the hope of Poverty, Children, Africa, Marriage, Family, and Ministry were all God-given gifts chosen especially for her. So she held tight. She did not let go. They were all good things; why would she let go? She embraced her love for people on both sides of the globe and held them close.

In doing so, however, the girl misunderstood—or perhaps simply forgot—that there is a difference between an embrace and a clutch. Though the dreams had been gifted to her, they were not hers to protect. They were not hers to claim. They were hers only to receive… and one can only receive with an open hand.

It is hard to love with a hand wide open, because what if that love is then taken away? How could she keep it close if she couldn’t protect it? How could she care for her God-given dreams if she had to leave them exposed? If they were both given from God, were they not hers to keep? What if God took them away? With what would she be left?

No matter how many times the wise woman told her to hold everything with an open hand, and no matter how hard she tried to hold her palm flat, the girl kept a mighty grip on both dreams, until God had to pry open her fingers one by one to reveal what lay inside. What He saw made Him sad, for a dream held in a clenched fist cannot grow, and dreams held in opposite hands cannot be joined. What protection she meant to give had turned to limitation, and her lack of trust had stifled the precious gifts.

God, being the gentle Father He is, did not confiscate the dreams. He left them in her incapable hands, placed His finger beneath her chin, and lifted her eyes upward. Slowly, she turned away from her hands and to His face. It was only then that she remembered, This is where all dreams are supposed to lead.

And that is where we must leave this girl, for that is where she still is: with a Father who dearly loves her, clenched fists, tug-of-war heart and all.

The Hard Life of a Missionary

It was Tamara’s tenth birthday party. I licked crumbs off my lips after having cake for the second time that night and set down my empty bowl that not so long ago had been filled with other special snacks. Balloons on the floor, banners on the ceiling, and smiles all around. Though we had ten of us piled on the red L-shaped couch, it felt cozy and not cramped. The children were taking turns tickling our forearms in a game they had learned earlier that day.

Christian, sprawled out on the couch and covered in a layer of kids, laid his head back, closed his eyes, and with a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his lips said, “Ugh… it’s so hard being a missionary.”

I had an image of missionary life before coming to Uganda. If I tell you it included a mud hut with no electricity, you can probably fill in the rest of the picture. Dirty all the time. Kids in tattered clothes. I am working as hard as physically possible just to make sure they are all loved and fed. No personal time or space. Talking about Jesus every chance I get.

What I did not picture was snuggling on that red couch with seven nine-year-old girls watching Seventh Heaven for three hours on a Friday night. Can this possibly be what I signed up for?

Don’t get me wrong; sometimes it is hard. Like a few weeks ago, when on Thursday night I was told I had to yo-yo in the Friday school assembly as part of an object lesson. When I gave it a try, for the first five minutes without fail my yo-yo spun down and never managed to come back up. I could only yo. Warwick, Marilyn and I spent at least half an hour that night trying to figure out technique, which color yo-yos were the best, and how to keep them going while walking and talking. You know what? It was hard.

Returning to Noah’s Ark has been an entirely different experience than journeying here for the first time. On my last trip, every new little thing made me cry. I had to flip a switch on the outlet to turn it on and off. The showers were cold. I couldn’t leave things plugged in if I wasn’t in my room. Boda drivers always tried to charge me more than they knew I should pay. The toilet paper didn’t tear in a straight line. The ants came in a dozen different sizes and traveled in swarms. I had to wear skirts.

It wasn’t only the major things that were different in Uganda—it was one little thing after another that heaped up until I found myself crumpling under the weight of all that overwhelmed me because sometimes it was just too much to flip that switch on the outlet.

Coming back, however, those things that once made me crumple are a strange source of comfort. I soon came to realize that those little overwhelming differences didn’t bother me because they were obnoxious or inconvenient; they bothered me because they were unfamiliar. When I came back to Uganda expecting them, every insignificant thing I remembered was a small victory for me because I had already tackled that problem. They make me feel at home because I know a little bit about what home is like here.

Sometimes I think it is hard, and not in a learning-how-to-yo-yo kind of way. I will admit no day would seem complete if it did not include a period of time in which I lock myself in my house so I can cry alone without well-intentioned and curious children asking me what is wrong. Early this month, we had an elaborate birthday celebration for Papa. There were moments when everything was utterly perfect—music playing, people laughing, good food, a child on my lap—yet all I wanted was someone back home with whom I could share it.

Just when I think things are hard for me, I have to take a step back and consider some of the people in my life who know what hard really is:

One of my secondary students, who only gets three hours of sleep a night because she attends school, works to pay for school, and does extra lessons with me after hours. She is the same age as my niece, but instead of getting excited about high school and a first kiss she has only seen her family once in the past three years and fears for their safety and future.

Aaron, who last month broke his back and had to have spinal surgery. For weeks, he was paralyzed from the waist down and has only just begun to regain feeling and movement in his legs. At this point no one knows if he will be able to walk on his own ever again.

Annie, who less than two years ago lost her boyfriend and best friend in a car accident. Though much of her old self has resurfaced since then, she lives with his memory and the pain of that loss every single day. She carries him with her.

My grandparents, who daily face the challenges of my grandma’s deteriorating body and my grandpa’s deteriorating mind. For many years now, Alzheimer’s has slowly stolen away my Grandpa Tom. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in confusion as he does, nor how hard it must be to live with a husband who will never again be the husband I once knew, as my grandma does… yet their love remains firm.

One hundred seventy children who were not wanted by their parents. Some are orphans, but most were abandoned as babies. No matter how young they were when it happened or whether they remember anything of their biological family or the pit latrine or sugar cane field in which they were dumped, the reality of how they got here is something with which they will have to live their whole lives.

No… I know nothing of hard.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)