I have considered a hundred
different ways to start this post and have rejected every single one of them. Even
now I wonder just what I should say.
How do I even begin to express the
surprise of being greeted at the airport by what seemed like half of the Sign
of the Dove Congregation and being swept up into hugs by people who were as yet
strangers but would soon become closer than kin? How do I put into words their
generosity as they gathered our baggage from us and carefully led us to the
waiting vehicles with admonitions never to step in front of a moving vehicle
because they don’t always stop for pedestrians?
How do I describe the darkness of
that first night as we rocked back and forth up a rutted clay road, shoulder to
shoulder, trying to take in what little I could see by the light of the
headlamps? The blaring music as the Muslims celebrated their holy day? The
armed guard as we pulled into the hotel? The excitement as we explored our
temporary homes, weariness briefly forgotten, and found the perfect bed in
which to rest?
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| Ugandan Sunrise my first morning. |
How do I paint the wonder of those
first rays of sun pouring over hills densely populated by homes built of
intertwined branches, mud bricks, and tin? How the wide leaves of the palm and
the plantains swayed gently while deep-throated birds I had not yet seen cried
out in a manner similar to a chattering monkey?
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| A Ugandan field of maize (corn). Photo by Bruk Marsh. |
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| A woman prisoner who is also fighting cancer with no treatment. The vast majority of women in prison are held unjustly, often as the scapegoat for another. Photo by Bruk Marsh. |
How can I convey the countless
conversations I had with men and women from the other side of the globe who
were just as surprised as I was at how similar we are when we look beyond common
perceptions and view each other with the eyes of the soul? Of the shared grief
and joy. The same hopes and dreams.
How can I express what went
through my mind when a child asked me for a half-empty water bottle to take
home because even when surrounded by water, good water can be hard to come by
for so many? Or when women brought me a plate overflowing with food they’d
carefully spent the day preparing and wondering if what I was being offered was
worth a week of their own refreshment?
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| Storms are sudden and severe. This was after only a few minutes of rain. Twenty minutes after the storm ended, the water was gone. |
And the sounds! The morning and
evening calls to prayer. The way the wind whipped across the countryside,
bringing with it rain and thunder so monstrous in volume one could shout in her
neighbor’s ear and still not be heard. The children shrieking “Muzungu!” and
parading before the cameras, all begging to be seen, to be touched, to be
known.
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| Afternoon at a Children's home spent playing games and singing songs. Photo by Bruk Marsh. |
When people ask me, “What was your favorite part?” how do I pick a single moment? And how do
I tell them that as thankful, blessed, and proud as I am to be American, I feel as if I’m actually a stranger
here and that my home is in that little village in Uganda where I know there
are a score of people anxiously watching for my return?
