21 August 2020

“To be calm and quiet by yourself is not the same as sleeping. In fact, it means being fully awake and following with close attention every move going on inside you. It requires the discipline to recognize the urge to get up and go again as a temptation to look elsewhere for what is close at hand.” Henri Nouwen wrote this specifically about prayer and meditation, but it applies to any form of concentrated introspection. I’ve sat down many times in the past few months with intent to write, and every time I try to do so, I get frustrated or overwhelmed and give up. I’m straining myself to resist the urge to escape, because I’m determined to write until I feel some sense of closure and peace. A lot has happened since August of last year, and I have hardly begun to process all of it, so this is my attempt to do so. It’s hard to talk at length about, let alone write about, all that my time in Uganda was to me, so this is going to take a lot of me pushing myself through tears and apathy and anger and all the other emotions it evokes. Here is what I can muster of a recapitulation of the past year of my life.

Last August, I moved to Mukono, Uganda to work for a study abroad program. Upon arrival, I was surprised by the feeling that I had never really left, given that it had been almost 4 years since my time studying abroad as a college freshman. I felt kind of like Lucy coming back through the wardrobe from Narnia after what seemed to her like far too long and finding that hardly any time had elapsed in her own world. I found that I had changed much more than Uganda had while I was away; the fresh smell, the morning light, the kindness of my hosts was essentially the same. I didn’t really have that period of culture shock and adjustment that I had known when I was a student. Instead, most of my fall semester was characterized by a new type of adjustment period. The root of it is harder to pinpoint, but it had something to do with making a switch from the mentality of an independent college student who was primarily accountable to herself, to a working adult with a wide range of responsibilities and upon whom others depended. Those first few months in Uganda stretched, pruned and humbled me. It was a time of dismantling expectations, shifting my perception of time, releasing my tight grasp on routine and control, and allowing myself to fail many, many times. There were also times of wonder and joy, like traveling back to Rwanda with its heavenly lakes and mountains, or hiking gorgeous waterfalls and farmland in Kapchorwa, or exploring city life in Mukono and Kampala. There were moments of hysterical laughter with friends, as well as deep tears and hard conversations. Toward the end of the semester, my mom came to visit for a couple weeks. It was such a gift to be able to show her a place that is so integral a piece of who I am (even if her trip had to end with getting my purse robbed and the ensuing fiasco). After an intense and dynamic 4 months, I went home to the U.S. for Christmas and enjoyed a little rest and family time.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I’ll say that January was the beginning of the best season of my life thus far, and I really mean that. I returned to Uganda refreshed and ready for a new semester, and quickly made some necessary life changes that brought a clarity and peace I had not known in a long time. I was more engaged in my job as a program assistant, I was better at balancing my time between work, play and rest, I was healthier physically, mentally and spiritually than ever, and I was less fixated on performing and people-pleasing; I was fully and freely myself. Of course, it’s easy to glorify a season in retrospect, so I’m sure there were times which weren’t pure bliss, but overall, it was a time of joy and flourishing. February brought more good things; I continued to deepen relationships with students, I was admitted to graduate school, and got to spend an amazing week in the rural district of Soroti. By March, I was still loving my day-to-day life in Uganda, but I was also getting excited about the next season, so it took a little more effort to stay present. I wish I would have known that a couple weeks later, life would drastically and abruptly change.

When I first started hearing about a novel coronavirus, I basically dismissed it, not seeing how it might affect my life in any way. Then, rather swiftly, things started changing, and by the second week of March, we were all paying more attention. On Friday the 13th we received word from the main office in Washington, D.C. that the program was to be ended early, and all students had one week to get out of Uganda. That rainy morning, with all of the students and staff gathered in a little classroom, devastated and confused, will forever be one of my most bitter and painful memories. The following days were a whirlwind of switching students’ flights, saying last-minute goodbyes, and attempting to provide the students with some debrief and closure before they left. In a way, I was grateful for how hectic it all was, because it allowed me to put off thinking about my own plans. But alas, the students left, and I had to face the reality that I should probably get home before things got worse. I bought a flight on a Friday night, and by the following night, President Museveni announced that Uganda would be shutting down the airports and borders the next day. Needless to say, the airport that Sunday was complete mayhem. I found my way through the crowds of anxious tourists and short-term missionaries trying to avoid getting stuck indefinitely (which I secretly hoped might happen to me), and boarded one of the last planes leaving the country.

The greatest gift my 8-ish months in Uganda brought to me was my co-PA, and now one of my dearest friends, Katie. Katie arrived in Uganda a few days after I did, and we quickly became pretty much inseparable. We worked together every day, and when we weren’t in the office “working”, we were walking downtown to the supermarket, or getting coffee at Touch of Class, or sitting by the basketball courts watching practice. Knowing I had someone alongside me who understood all my frustrations and struggles and was available 24/7 to hear about them is what got me through some of the toughest days. We joked about having telepathy, because we often knew exactly what the other was thinking or feeling without saying a word. Katie and I shared moments of laughter and sorrow, anger and joy, and I am endlessly grateful that she was beside me for a season. I’ll never forget sitting next to her as our plane took off, watching the Ugandan soil get further away as we clenched each other’s hands with tears streaming down our faces. Thankfully, the free gin & tonics made the rest of the plane ride rather enjoyable, but we couldn’t shake the bittersweet feeling of having to say goodbye to each other in the Dubai airport. I miss her every single day, but I know we share a bond that no amount of distance or time will change.

It’s a bit mind-boggling to realize I’ve been back in the U.S.A. for almost five months now. I was welcomed home by my parents and moved into their basement in Grand Rapids, and after spending a few weeks quarantining and adjusting, I got a summer job as a pastry chef at a bakery near my house. I passed my free time doing grocery delivery, going for many long walks, relaxing up at the lake cabin, and sitting on the porch with my mom and dad. On the surface, it’s been a rather pleasant spring/summer at home, and I have nothing to complain about. But in truth, it has been a really hard season. I had established a fulfilling rhythm and balance, and given that I expected to be in Africa until June, the transition has left me with a lingering sense of incompleteness and lack of closure. Being abruptly ripped out of my community and home in Uganda, having too much idle time on my hands without school or a full-time job, adjusting to American culture, and perhaps some funky brain chemistry all resulted in depression and numbness. While it’s been scary and dark at times, I trust that I’ve experienced more growth and joy than I can see right now. I’ve learned more about myself and have developed more empathy for those with depression. I’ve gotten comfortable facing and accepting the way I’m feeling, not avoiding or fearing it. I feel that I’m reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m really excited and hopeful for the next chapter of my life. In one week, I’ll be moving into a studio apartment in Ann Arbor and beginning a master’s degree in Sustainable Systems at the University of Michigan School for Environment and Sustainability. I’m eager for a fresh start: to explore a cool new city, to cultivate friendships and find community, to invest myself in the field that I feel called toward, and to have a place of my own for the first time in my life.

There’s a lot about Uganda and the past 5 months since returning that I have yet to begin processing, but I know I shouldn’t force it. I hope that, as I go into this next season with new energy and eagerness, I can allow space for the processing to happen organically and slowly integrate the past year into the tapestry of my life. I’m reminded of a quote by Donald Miller in his book, Blue Like Jazz: “It is always the simple things that change our lives. And these things never happen when you are looking for them to happen. Life will reveal answers at the pace life wishes to do so. You feel like running, but life is on a stroll. This is how God does things.”

From Kahlil Gibran’s, “The Prophet”

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the reassure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.