Friday, June 29, 2012

A Story About Stories.

Sometimes it sinks in.
Sometimes I let myself remember.
Unfortunately, it doesn't happen very often.

I'm talking about Uganda. I claim my love for Uganda everyday.
I don't really though. I really don't like talking about my experiences in Uganda unless
it's with the team that went with me. Others don't understand... and I'm still trying to accept that.

Last night, as I sat through a meeting I let myself open my heart to debriefing again.
We had a debriefing on our trip... They told us we would return to ''normal'' in about two weeks.

They were wrong.. How can I ever go back to normal?

I have at times wanted to continue writing on our team blog... Then doubts creep in, ''They are sick of you talking about Africa. Get over it.''

Tonight, I don't even remember why we were talking about it, but one of my girlfriends in Uganda came up in conversation. And instead of just saying her name and going on with the conversation/story I let myself see her again. To hear her laugh. To hear her voice.

I don't like talking about it. I don't like people misunderstanding the point of
my story. I wear my Uganda necklaces, talk about out trip, the memories, but I don't open my heart to experiencing it again.

Through several experiences of sharing I have built bricks around my passion for Africa, specifically Uganda.
It is reserved for when I am with those I trust... Most of the time, with Jesus and my journal.
People have made assumptions, jumped in, interrupted, and made my trip just another trip. Or they hear my heart and have me labeled as a missionary automatically. I don't even have a right to make that call. Do I want to? Yes. Can I really? No.

It makes me feel like we are burried in statistics. Although they can be used for good... our mentality is most likely built around them.

Read on...

I don't even find this blog enjoyable. It is forcing my heart to break again. For her:

And for them:

      I took these pictures. I hugged these girls. You know what I want? I want them to be in my Bible study. I want to pray over them; give them a home. I want those younger ones to be the ones I babysit; the ones I tuck in at night, have dance parties with, read books to, give baths, and clean up messes for. I want them to be at church with me on Sunday morning. I don't want to face the fact that they will be taken advantage of. That they will sell themselves. That they feel hopeless. That they might have been beaten minutes after they left me. That they might die without knowing the God that created them so very beautifully. They just desire what we ultimately all do: Him. Oh, Jesus, please bring them to you.
There is nothing I want more right now then to be in that village.
I just want them to know Jesus.

These girls will not have a chance at life until their ''Fathers'' {if they have one} stop spending all their income on alcohol and women. Jesus can change that. And how I beg Him that He would.
Will you join me??

If I don't experience this trip again, if I let all the discouragement to phase me, I'm not letting this trip be what God wants it to be. He wants me to share what He did... Not keep it to myself!
He doesn't promise that people will understand. He doesn't promise that people won't hurt my feelings when I'm telling another story. But, after all, He doesn't promise easy living.

It is extremely easy to say, ''Tim and Kim's Family Group.''
It gets harder to say, ''________ family.''
And even harder thinking about holding their hands... and hugging every single one of them goodnight under the stars.

It makes me wonder about how we treat His story. We twist His sacred Word and I'm worried about my stories?! He inspired writers to put down about His Son's life. The life of the Man that saved the world. That came to earth as fully man, fully God. He knew how we as humans would misinterpret His Word. How we would not believe Him; How we would use His ''stories'' for our benefit.
Yet, to save the rest of us, He had to... and wanted to anyway.

I don't know why God let me behold so much beauty. I don't know why He let me live my dream in Uganda. I don't know why my heart is so very twisted for these village people right now. I could tell you what I think, but I won't. He knows... and in time He will reveal it. In His timing. For now, I will pray.   

''A broken heart He does not despise.''

It's hard when people complain about the heat. It's hard when little kids beg for a new toy when they have a house full of ones like it. It's hard when I know someone isn't telling me the truth when they say they are ''good.'' It's hard when I see empty praise, empty prayers. Since I have this passion though, God will use it... If for anything else, for me. If He wills, for someone else as well.

Allow yourself to see a face not a burden. Allow yourself to open your heart.
There is something in your life that God needs you to open to Him.

This is where our healing begins. And maybe even their's, too.

Yes, Lord, yes.

In Abba Father,

1 comment:

  1. Emilee...this post made me cry. I love your heart for Uganda. I'm definitely not tired of reading about your travels in Africa, please don't stop writing about them. God bless :)