hatching into a cherubim

As a kid, I devoured a collection of books called The Heroes of the Faith series. These were my first biographies of Christian heroes like Martin Luther, Mary Slessor, George Muller and Jim Elliott. One of my favourite biographies, which quickly became creased from reading it over and over, was the story of Amy Carmichael.

When Amy arrived "on the mission field," she was disappointed by herself and by the missionaries she found there. Surprisingly, they were all fully human -- broken and bickering amongst themselves.

"Wings are an illusive fallacy," she wrote. "Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn't the least sign of a feather. Don't imagine that by crossing the sea and landing on a foreign shore and learning a foreign lingo you 'burst the bonds of outer sin and hatch yourself into a cherubim."

The first time I went to Africa, in 2009, I expected a spiritual growth spurt. I expected to hatch into a cherubim, I suppose. Everyone, it seemed, that went abroad came back with a deepened intimacy with God. I was not ready when Africa shook my faith, when I saw church corruption and power struggles and prosperity gospel and wondered firsthand, "Is this my Christianity? Do I really want to be a part of this?" I was not prepared to have to hear the words from a godly Ghanaian pastor, who somehow seemed to have laser vision into my soul: "Erica, even if the name of Christian is soiled, you cannot afford to lose your own salvation because you are looking at hypocrites." I had expected to solemnly lead people to salvation, not be told I was at risk of losing my own.

Amy Carmichael's words come back to me now, as we are in the thick of our second year in Uganda. Sometimes it feels like my weaknesses are only magnified here, not overcome. As time passes in our close-knit community, as we peel back the layers and really get to know other missionaries here, we see their flaws, too. We see addictions and struggles and tendencies that they have fought for so long. We hear more details of their pasts being shared, and the different baggage that each of us carries. We pray together, we confess to each other, sometimes we cry together.

Sometimes we get depressed, weary, angry that our struggles have not yet been sealed with victory.

Today in chapel we were singing the song "Rising Sun," and the lyrics suddenly washed over me.

Praise Him all you sinners,
Sing, oh sing, you weary ... 
We lift high His glory 
Shown throughout our stories 
Praise Him all you children of God. 

Our great Redeemer
Glorious Savior 
Your Name is higher than the rising sun
Light of the morning 
You shine forever
Your name is higher than the rising sun. 

The glowing purity and goodness of God hit me all over again. He is higher than the rising sun? He is majestic and beautiful and he bothers with dusty, weary sinners? His glory is revealed in our stories?

And I realized all over again that God is not good in spite of the fact that His children mess up. He is not pure in spite of the fact that we still sin. He is not faithful in spite of the fact that we stray. Our witness is not effective in spite of the fact that we are broken. His goodness is unparalled, His purity untaintable, His faithfulness incomprehensible, our witness unarguable because of our sin, our brokeness, our weakness. What a God that can use hurting people riddled with issues, even to be missionaries, pastors, teachers, youth leaders! You cannot capture the depth of grace unless you juxtaposition who you are -- who you really are -- against who God is.

And the phrase that keeps being burned into me, spearing my pride: His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When this girl, who has wrestled anxiety over and over again, can hear about planned terror attacks and honestly say to people that I don't worry, that there has been a gift of peace I don't understand and can't explain and -- you know, you know this isn't me. You know that I've struggled. You know this is God.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When I want to pretend that I'm perfect and mask any doubts. When I think that being a "good Christian" is to hide your issues from unbelievers.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

Maybe we can only lift up His glory if we risk ourselves, step out, and tell our stories.



There's a wideness in God's mercy
I cannot find in my own
And He keeps His fire burning
To melt this heart of stone
Keeps me aching with a yearning
Keeps me glad to have been caught
In the reckless raging fury 
That they call the love of God. 

- Rich Mullins (a guy who wrestled with alcoholism and depression, among other things...)

seeing things the second time around

In grade 6 English we're reading Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. In the novel, a young boy named Brian Robeson gets stranded in the Canadian wilderness when a bush plane flight goes wrong -- the pilot dies of a heart attack and Brian has to crash the plane into a lake. Brian has to learn how to survive with only his hatchet and the world around him.

Today in class we read Chapter 5, the part in the book where Brian, after the crash, has just come to his senses enough to stop and look at his surroundings. He sees only a blur of blue and green -- trees and sky and water. He notices a beaver lodge and the general chirping of birds, but little else. Compared to his life in the city, it seems that there is only empty silence in the woods. With hunger stabbing at him, he looks for something to eat but concludes that there is nothing. Nothing. Only brush and rock and trees and water.

By the end of Hatchet, Brian has become a part of the woods. He can differentiate between different birds, find edible plants, wake up from the slightest sounds in the night, sense the presence of animals, and predict changes in weather.

After reading the passage, I told the students to watch for the changes we will see in Brian, and as I was talking it hit me how much Brian's transformation reflects some of the adjustments I've made in Uganda.

When we first arrived over one year ago, I didn't see very much. Everything was a blur of dirt roads and sloping shacks and bodas and taxis. It sounds ridiculous, but the couple who oriented us actually had to teach us how to remember where we lived.

"Everything will look the same to you," I remember Bill saying, standing there in his khaki shorts and T-shirt, looking infinitely more comfortable on Ggaba road than us newcomers felt. "Look for those two billboards, then you'll know that's your road. Remember you live in Kansanga, past Kabalagala."

It sounds embarrassing, but for the longest time I had a hard time remembering people. The guards from the school all looked the same to me -- black men wearing the same uniform and sporting the same haircut. When our Heritage night guard would arrive in the growing darkness of evening, I would often greet them with a smile, ask how they were doing, and then turn and hiss under my breath to Isaac, "Who is that again?"

I also had a hard time with Ugandan women. I realized that my brain had learned to tell people apart by their hair. As soon as I "remembered" a Ugandan woman by her hair, she'd changed it! Tight braids could turn to shiny waves overnight. When people talked about the physical features of different tribes, I was at a total loss.

[ I should note that I am not very observant to begin with (I would make the worst witness at a crime scene). I should also note that a few weeks ago a Congolese French teacher at Heritage confessed that he got me confused with one of the American teachers for the entire school year last year. He pretty much only saw blond hair. (So I'm not the only one who struggles!) ]

When we first moved here, I got a little irritated with people saying things like, "Listen to your gut. Don't get in the taxi if it feels wrong. Use common sense."

Use common sense? I had no common sense. Getting on a boda with a strange man wearing no helmet felt wrong. Getting in an unmarked car that I was told was a private hire felt wrong. Hearing strange noises at night felt wrong. Sticking a pen in a socket to make the plug fit felt wrong. It seemed that I was constantly suppressing my gut feelings.

This year, I realize how far I've come. I don't see a row of shacks strung along a dirt road; I see a chapatti stand, a seamstress, or the place that always has good cucumbers. I look at the same Heritage guards I was confused by last year and see completely different features, shaking my head and wondering how I ever confused them. I notice that a sign has changed or a new place that sells cell phone credit has gone up. Noises in the night are no longer unnamed; I can hear Molly crying, or the Muslim call to prayer, or the ice cream man bicycling by, or the neighbour's gate opening, or a Luganda radio station playing the football match. I don't think that every day is "the same" and that the weather never changes; I find myself saying things like, "It's a bit chilly this morning." (Oh no -- what will happen when I go back to Canada?)

Slowly, I'm also gaining a bit of a "gut feeling" that I can count on, to help me sense potential danger or alert me to any changes.

Power outages? Normal. 

Random man hitting on me? Normal. Random man who gives me a totally different "gut feeling" and causes me to cross the road? Not normal. Getting in a taxi? Normal. Getting in an empty taxi? Not normal. Kids openly using the word "beaten" to describe the discipline at home? Normal. The kid next door regularly screaming for extended periods of time? Not normal. People staring for what I deem to be awkward lengths of time? Normal. Kids in ragged clothing and bare feet? Normal. Thin man in rubber boots herding cattle (with humongous horns!) in front of my gate? Normal.  Kids running up and talking to me, a stranger, and grabbing my hand? Normal. The power going out for a day? Normal. The power going out for a week? Something to talk about. Giving money to a young woman begging on the streets of Kampala? Not appropriate. Giving money to a guard who you've known for over a year when his house burned down? Appropriate.

Hail storms? Not normal. 

Using squatties on a road trip (BYOTP)? Normal. 

Cramming in a taxi and suppressing all feelings of claustrophobia? Normal. 

Even though I can sit back and realize how much more I see here, how much knowledge I've gained, I know that it's a learning curve that I've hardly mastered. Maybe that's why a part of me loves living in Uganda -- it's always interesting, and there's always more layers to learn.

Once any other kids outside of another little shop, now our friends Winnie, Flo and Comfort.