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)