Well, I’ve decided to do this a bit differently. I’ve so very many stories to tell, and they’d most likely come out a bit scattered if I didn’t organize them somehow. So, the organization is going to take the form of days. Beginning with today as, well, not quite Day 1 - I had to get there first - but I started journaling in the airport, so I might as well start off my story there. It goes like this:
Pre-Day 1:
Well, I was going to wait till I got to Africa to write, but I’ve been in various airports going on 48 hours. Seeing wave upon wave of faces, none of them familiar. I always knew I disliked airports, but in the past two days, it has grown to a vehement aversion that has me close to swearing that I’ll never fly again. Really, boats are the way to go.
I engaged in a brief, rather polite conversation with the lady whose seat was next to mine on the first flight from Omaha to Atlanta. I also said “hi” to the little boy who sat next to me across the Atlantic. Other than that, it has been a lot of “excuse me”’s and smiling briefly at strangers. I cannot get away from the sound of voices, yet they are none of the voices that matter to me. I am glad that my Jesus is with me, for otherwise I should be all alone, and it is a big world.
I did discover one happy little refuge in the airport “multi-faith prayer room.” The first two I sat in were greatly appreciated for their silence and serenity. In the third, I ran into a Middle Eastern man who, I think, was supposed to be praying towards Mecca. But upon my entrance, he first stated that I needed to remove my shoes, then asked what I was looking for. I left before I could further offend him.
Food is a scarcity. I long for fresh fruits and vegetables to complement the loaf of bead my mother baked for me. But all in vain. You must get fish, greasy and fried, enormous sandwiches with pickles, relish, and other little nasties, or the sickeningly sweet candy that is everywhere. Even if any of this did sound appetizing, it’s all outrageously expensive. But I don’t think I can starve in less than three days, so I am not too concerned.
I have walked until my legs and back are sore, but my feet have been holding up wonderfully. Sleep has been rather fitful - though sweet and dreamless when it comes. I have been so weary and taken up with silently enduring each following step that I nearly forget I am headed straight to Uganda - the country I begged my King to allow me to visit last year. I feel I ought to be enthralled, yet I cannot rid myself of a pensive sort of melancholy. Perhaps this is a gift for now, for I do not think I would wish to search out just exactly how much I dislike these airports and how insufferably lonesome it all is. But I do not think that this stoic philosophy will guide me well with the children in Africa. Dear God, I hardly even know why I am going! Last year, I dreamed of it with bright hope and passion. This year I go - silently, willingly enough, but disturbed in part. I am willing, my Lord, but I do not know why You want me to go. I am praying that in Africa, You will make this clear to me.
“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” - II Corinthians 4:17
