Remember that time I had a great desire to blog again? Remember when I blogged once over a 4 month span? Again, I find it preposterous that anyone would care to hear what this [mess of a] girl would have to say. I don’t pride myself on knowing the ins and outs of theological discussions, or even knowing where I confidently stand on all of them… I’m just a girl trying to pour myself out for my God, and, in doing so, trying to make Him facepalm less and less each day. I spend a lot of my time falling flat on my face, but I’m thankful that my weakness[es] only further highlight my desperate need for a Savior.
And I love the art of Story. I am in awe of the way the Master Storyteller weaves us all into The Story and how it can so intricately glorify Him – even [especially] in the chapters laced with brokenness.
Broken people inspire me… and that’s good, because many people I know are broken right now.
It’s been 4 years [this month] since I met them. These people that would soon become my family. They kiss me square on the lips when I give them the side of my face. People who run after my car as I’m leaving, shouting and waving their goodbyes. People who “squeeze hug” me so tight that I can barely breathe. People who teach me Swahili, and try to stifle their giggles as I butcher their language. People who are forgotten and mostly even unknown by the rest of the world. Some were college professors in Africa, who speak 6 languages, who were Pastors to 3000… who are now unemployed, struggling to survive in the assumed “Promised Land” that is [was] America.
“Ayleesabit. America no good. White people – they come. And they go. Come and go.”
I often hear things like, “Elizabeth, what an amazing thing you’re doing for these people. You are saving their lives!” “Extra jewels in your crown!” “Wow, how do you find the time?!”
And, yes… those comments are meant to be encouraging, but most of the time, they make me ache.
No... These people saved my life.
No... My reward is bringing glory to Him.
How could I not find the time? I need them more than they need me.
Lately, I’ve been having these “aha” moments in the middle of spending time with them.
I’ll be sitting in a living room, surrounded by friends that barely speak my language. We laugh [mostly they laugh at me]. And we worship. We worship the God that saves, the God that delivered them, redeemed them, and the God that is still in the business of delivering and redeeming [all].
Sometimes, I’ll be making my rounds… visiting families, going door to door… and I’ll stumble upon a room full of Burundi women on their knees. And we pray. And I cry.
I get the privilege of knowing them. I get the privilege of celebrating with them. I get the privilege of mourning with them. I get the privilege of holding and weeping with a new mama that just lost her 3-month old. I get the privilege of going to G.E.D. graduations for the 40 year old Father who is trying to make a better life for his family. I get the privilege of running-start tackle hugs by the children. I get the privilege of pounding fufu and cassava until my arms are sore. I get the privilege of loving them and being loved by them.
