I haven’t blogged in a bit because there’s so much to say but I have been struggling to find the words. I have about five other posts I’m in the midst of trying to write, but this is what’s on my heart right now.
There’s this crazy dynamic here on an almost daily basis of hope and heartbreak. They coexist in every day here…here at Ekisa, here in Uganda, and I think in this whole big world, but I just see it more in my everyday life here than at home.
We go to the eye doctor with four of our children because we need to have their vision checked. We think they’re pretty bad off but we have hope that they all still have a bit of vision left and want to find out how we can aid that. We walk away finding out that one of the girls has an optic nerve that is completely dead. She is seven, and she will never see. Heartbreak. We find out that two of them have lost most of their vision, but not all of it. And we find out our newest little addition might be able to recover some of his vision and not lose it all if we can get him some glasses. Hope.
My friend runs this amazing malnutrition program that helps nurse children back to health…they come in so very tiny, and leave fat chunky kiddos. It’s beautiful. She and my friend D and other volunteers and their staff labor every day to give all they can to make these kids well. People know this woman can care for very sick children, so people bring her not only malnutrition cases but all kinds of sick kiddos…and she never turns them away. Because how do you say no? She cares for them and takes them to the hospital when they need it or keeps them in her home and does her all. She fights with everything in her for children to survive and to thrive, because she knows they are His. They discharge healthy kiddos and joyous mamas so many times. Hope. After hope. On Friday, D and I walked into the hospital to check on a child our friend was caring for and to see how she was…we walk in upon her with a weeping mother, and our friend kneeling at her feet, praying over her, trying to offer comfort. There was no blood in all of Jinja for this baby, and she passed away a few minutes before we got there. To be that near to death is something I have never experienced. And my heart broke.
We take two of our children to the hospital in Kampala to get heart scans. We want to make sure that their hearts are a normal size. After waiting for seven hours, we see the doctor, get the scan, wait a bit more, and we receive the beautiful news that their hearts are totally, completely normal! Hope! Right before we go in to see the doctor, a body covered in a sheet is rolled right down the hall in front of us, with wailing family preceding it. Heartbreak.
I have never before experienced these two coexisting so near to one another. I don’t really know how to handle it most days. All I know to do is to turn to my Savior. To hold onto His promises. To run to my refuge and strength and know that even when the mountains tremble and they fall into the sea, even when the pillars of the earth shake and my heart is both broken and joyous, He is my Strong Tower and my Hope. He never fails. And HE IS MAKING ALL THINGS NEW! This dichotomy I walk through over and over brings me to this beautiful place of knowing where my hope and trust is, and that it is in Him alone.
Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord. –Psalm 31:24