And On the 68th Day, Katie Rested

For those of you who know me (which in all reality is probably all of you because why else would you be reading this), I’m sure you have noticed that resting is not always my strong point.

Huh. One sentence in and I already sound like I am trying to deceive you.

To put it more honestly, I don’t like to rest. I am not good at it. It is not always my strong point because I have rarely made it a priority because I don’t like it.

I don’t take naps. They seem like a waste of perfectly good daylight.

When jogging, I try not to stop mid-run. So great is the effort of coaxing my legs back into a run that it is rarely worth the break.

At camp and at Noah’s Ark, there are always a thousand and one things to do on any given day, so why not take care of some of them right now? No point in waiting, right?

Wrong. Or so I hear.

A friend from home once said he thought people could accomplish far more in five working days with two days of rest than they could in seven straight working days every week. It makes sense in theory, but who has time to put it into practice when my To Do list sits on my desk even during the weekend?

Last time I was here, Warwick and Marilyn urged me to get away from Noah’s Ark once in awhile. Go out the gate. Leave the compound. Go somewhere quiet. (Are there quiet places in Uganda?) They get away for a few days every six weeks or so to rest and refuel before jumping back into the thick of school and ministry and sorting shoes. I understood their point, but since I was here alone the options looked fairly limited and lonely. Leaving the compound was a stressful experience because I was never one hundred percent sure I would find my way back in one piece. I did not want to drag out that stress for a whole day or—gasp—overnight.

This time, they continued their mantra about me needing to get away, but I came up with loads of valid excuses. I may only be here a few weeks, so I don’t need a break in that short amount of time. The term is almost over and I want to utilize the last few weeks with my reading students. I need to plan the holiday program. I need to learn how to run the holiday program.

However, by the end of the holiday I was… pooped, to put it not-so-eloquently. I was embarrassed to admit how much that four-week program took out of me. Fortunately, I didn’t have to admit it to anyone. The day after the program ended, Warwick and Marilyn looked at my defeated face and invited me to accompany them on their trip to Jinja the following Monday.

Not surprisingly, I began vomiting excuses right away. We are going to start Teen Club this week and still have to plan. I need to read through a book and plan the curriculum for Bible Class before Sunday. The students are back at school, so I should be there too so we don’t waste precious time for learning.

In the end, however, I accepted the invitation and two days later embarked upon my first ever trip to the town of Jinja.

Sorry, I am laughing at myself right now. I make it sound like an epic adventure. In reality, we drove one-and-a-half hours so we could sit or lie down for extended periods of time without having to get up. Which was exactly the sort of adventure we needed.

The resort at which we stayed was called Holland Park. (There are a lot of Dutch people in Uganda. I find it somewhat intriguing, but mostly it makes me go “huh” a lot.) The place seemed to be in the general direction of the middle of nowhere, or so I thought as we drove along a bumpy dirt road through small brick houses and gardens. (I mean, we didn’t actually drive through the houses and gardens—not over the vegetables or anything. We were on the road and there were houses and gardens on each side… whatever…)

As soon as we drove through the gate, however, I saw grass—real live grass—and beyond that, the Nile. Right there. Blue and wet and everything. Turns out Holland Park might be strategically located.

We parked next to a small white cottage with Adirondack chairs on the verandah and began unpacking the car. Within five minutes, I was convinced that rest is, in fact, a glorious thing and knew this was exactly what I needed. We ate lunch and then spent the next several hours in the shade of the verandah not working. Looking out over the still Nile and reading my five hundred-page book about a theologian who was killed for trying to assassinate Hitler was a beautiful repose from the heavy chaos of Noah’s Ark.

Later that afternoon, I wandered over to the pool—a quiet, outdoor, stonework-covered infinity pool where, if you put your face at the edge of the water, looks like you are swimming in the Nile itself. After a few minutes of swimming, I hoisted myself onto the ledge separating the pool from the water-catching part (the official name, I am sure) and lay there, letting the water cool one side of me while the sun burnt the other. Never in my six months in Uganda have I listened so hard and heard so little. Most people would have closed their eyes and fallen asleep, but I kept mine wide open because even the sight was peaceful. Looking out over a small field of grass to trees scattered with birds and behind them the Nile slipping past us on its way north… it was wonderful. It was restful. And I liked it.

That night, Marilyn and I sat on the verandah and watched the moon ascend the dark expanse of sky while we talked for hours about Noah’s Ark and family and monkeys and support raising until Warwick invited us inside for hot cocoa. The next day, we drove into Jinja and bought groceries, drank MILKSHAKES, went to a craft market, and finished with supper at a Chinese restaurant where I ordered something so spicy it made my upper lip sweat just smelling it. The next morning I made sure to tiptoe downstairs and outside in time to watch the sun rise over the Nile before taking a taxi home later that morning.

As I said goodbye to Warwick and Marilyn (who were staying another night), Marilyn looked at my face and said, “You look better.” I felt better. Apparently rest is not so bad after all.