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“Is it true that in America there are so many sweets they line streets and everyone can pick them up and eat them whenever they want without ever paying?”

The question was posed to me on my last night in Zana by a girl in her early teens. We had just finished playing our tenth round of Jenga after eating super together. It took my friend Levi and I a couple of minutes to explain that yes, in the States there are sweets aplenty—far more than we should eat in a lifetime—but we do have to pay for them.

After saying our good byes a short time later, I returned to my room to finish packing. I found myself still mulling over the girl’s question. It wasn’t the first put to me regarding the wealth of America, and though we were getting ready to fly home, it wasn’t the last either.

A matter of perspective

It doesn’t matter who we are, or where we come from. Each of us is subject to our own perspective. It’s the lens through which we see the world, and is largely shaped and formed through our own experiences.

Sometimes those perceptions end up being a little cloudy.

One of the most common misconceptions I discovered while in Uganda was that in America there are no troubles. We all live in mansions, wear the latest fashions, hook up with the first beautiful person we see, and drive the most expensive cars. When many hear “American” they automatically think “money.” And by money they mean no hardship, no harm, and no heartbreak.

In America life is perfect.

I won’t argue we have it pretty good here — far better than many of us realize. But all I have to do is drive down my own road to see that we also have hardship, harm, and heartbreak just like the rest of the world.

On the street corner stands an old man. His jacket threadbare, his greasy hair slicked down by the cold drizzle. He isn’t holding a sign, but the haunted expression in his eyes cuts me to the core because I’m as powerless to help him as I was to offer long-term care for the people I met in Africa.

I don’t know what misfortunes brought him to this place. Was it a series of poor choices? Has he, like me, been unable to find permanent work? Is his spirit completely crushed, or is there yet a tiny ember waiting for a gentle breath to touch it and create a new flame?

Coming to a new understanding 

Before I left for Uganda a number of people told me how much they admired me for giving up time and comfort to share with complete strangers in another country. My first day in Zana the same thing was said of our group and I felt a twinge of guilt. At the time, I wasn’t sure why. All I knew was I didn’t feel that I was making a difficult sacrifice by being there. For me it was a privilege and an honor.

Now that I’m home and have had time to think, I believe I figured out what bothered me. We view it as a noble thing to take our charity across borders, but how often do we carry it across the street? We donate towards food and education for starving children in third-world nations (and rightfully so!), but how many in my own community are going to bed with an empty tummy tonight?

While the poor of the world are pitied, so often here in the US they are scorned. I discovered that for myself at a young age and spent my entire young life vowing to escape that stigma. It took traveling abroad for me to realize how backward my thinking has been.

When asked what the greatest commandment of all was, Jesus responded: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all of your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Putting that knowledge to work

For too long my perspective has caused me to look overlook the needs of those nearest to me. Like my sweet-loving teen I’ve seen America as the place were we have all the means necessary to take care of ourselves without help from anyone else. We just have to make it happen. Those who don’t do so bring their misfortunes upon themselves. I’ve learned for myself this past year, that isn’t always the case.

Rather than being part of the solution, I’ve been part of the problem. And this is something I have to choose to change in myself. What does it matter if I travel the globe aiding others while ignoring those hurting in my own hometown?

One thing I learned in Uganda was the most valuable gift you could give anyone is your time. Even if I don’t have a spare penny, I do have a smile and a kind word to remind even the poorest drunk that he is a person of value. He is not forgotten. And he is never truly alone.

Reflections of a returning traveler

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?

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?

A Ugandan field of maize (corn). Photo by Bruk Marsh.

 How do I capture the metallic scent of the moisture-laden air and the thickness of the red clay that clung to my every step, creeping from the soles of my shoes up to my ankles and dotting my skirts with its stain?

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?

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.

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?