I Gave Up

On March 1st I set out on the adventure of a lifetime when I stepped on a plane bound for South Africa.

It was my first time flying. It was my first time out of the country. It was my first "mission trip".

I will never be the same again.

It's like the the tv show "Lost", where the island has a strange pull on all the people that have been on it. Once they leave they're still haunted by it.

That's how it is for me with Africa.

Part of me doesn't want to go back. Part of me doesn't want to see the death. The suffering. The flies. But then I remember what else I saw.

Joy:) Pure, unadulterated joy. Joy in the face of death. I saw people facing an inevitability of death, yet they had something shining out of their eyes. Literally shining. It was Jesus. I saw Jesus shining through death.

I also saw the good that I can do, along with my teammates. We can affect change. We will affect change.

But more than that; these people, these beautiful people, have a hold on my heart. I didn't see it coming. I didn't think it would happen so quickly. I fell in love with Africa as soon as I stepped off the plane.

And then I met my mother. The woman who gave me her bed so I wouldn't have to sleep on the floor. She slept next door instead. The woman whose name I can't even write cause I can't spell it but whose face I will never forget. The woman that continually gave me the biggest portion at every meal. I have never experienced anything more humbling than eating more than a hungry family. The woman who had experienced horrific abuse, yet is beginning to discover the joy of the Lord. She protected me and sheltered me and laughed with me and was everything I needed her to be. I called her right before I left Africa. Her excitement. I can't forget her excitement. I love that woman so much it hurts.

And her beautiful children, whose names I can't spell either. But their faces are burned into my memory like fire. There were four of them and a baby. We would all play together after dinner. I taught them to sing classic American songs and they taught me to sing their songs. Which caused much hilarity among them when I kept stumbling over my words and screwing it up:) We would all dance. I would put in some Christian hip hop and we'd go for it. The eldest girl spoke decent English so we connected in a deeper way. What a confident girl! An amazing voice and dancing ability. She was the leader in the house among her siblings and many of her peers as well. She'll make an amazing mother some day. One of the boys would croak like a frog at me all the time:) We had fun:) We would wrestle and spar together too. Eventually other kids in the neighborhood heard the noise and started poking their heads in the door to gawk at the curious dancing white man. Eventually they would join in and we would have around ten people in that house.

I say house. More like room. Not much bigger than my bedroom. There's a little perspective for ya.

I bathed in a plastic tub twice a day. My mother insisted:)

I'll be writing more about Africa every couple of days. As things and memories return to me. Why the title? I gave up on telling these stories. I probably told them for a couple weeks after I got back and then just stopped.

These stories need to be told. For one, I need to tell them to honor them. For another, I need to tell them for my own sake. I can't keep this locked inside. We should all know about this one way or another. Either we go or we learn from those who have gone.

I can't wait to go back to Africa. And someday I'm going back to see them again. The ones I love. And I don't just mean in heaven.

I'm going back.