On a Sunday morning, a few weeks ago our family woke up ready and excited to make the 1 1/2 hr drive to worship in the village of Nyalakut. The village church had been planning a special baptism service and were anxious for us to arrive. So when Hagen woke up saying he wasn't feeling well, I was caught in the "Good Mom dilemma". Should I stay home with him? Wait on him with Sprite and a thermometer? Should we go anyway? Hoping he will feel better as the day goes on so we don't disappoint the village that has been waiting for a visit from us for months. I hate those moments when I am suppose to be able to make the "right" decision. The one that later on in the day your husband says,"I am so glad you made that decision. You are so wise". At which point I smile and nod humbly. This morning I made the decision to go anyway with the promise of sitting by Hagen on the ride. We were all of 45 minutes out of town when his temperature spiked and he started really not feeling well. (The second guessing of my "right" decision began now) By this point we had picked up an African man who was to attend with us and he had informed Josh that he, Josh, was in fact the preacher for the services today. This now made it impossible to turn back. We arrived at the village and were escorted to the front of the square mud structure where church was held. I tried to sneak in the pillow and bottle of Sprite I had for Hagen as I positioned myself behind the podium, on the wobbly bench that was our seat. The preacher's wife got up and began to lead amazing worship songs sung in a mixture of Swahili and Lugisu languages. I absolutely love the worship here in Africa. As the service went on Hagen began to get so uncomfortable that I decided it would be best to move him to the car. At this point, I am fairly sure it is malaria again and I know there is nothing I can do for him until we get home. I make him as comfortable as someone with a 104' fever can be laying in the back seat of a truck in 90' weather. The village children that couldn't fit inside the building were outside with me, peeking in the windows trying to catch a glimpse of the sick little white boy. I decided to try to talk to them. They decided to just stare at me. So in the highly respectable "Me Tarzan, You Jane" style of communication, I pat myself and say "Denise". Then I point to them awaiting their wonderful African names. They respond with blank stares. I am obviously getting nowhere. Hagen by this time has fallen asleep so I head to the back of the church to listen to Josh and make sure my other kiddos aren't making faces or sleeping as they sit facing the church listening to their Dad preach. As I stand there listening, I feel a tap on my arm and turn to see the children I had been trying to communicate with. They say "Madam, your son is vomiting." My first response, I wish I could tell you was to rush to the truck to aid my puking child. I did respond that way, but only after I said, "Hey! you speak English!" They laughed at me, and I ran to help Hagie. News soon spread about our sick son, and at the end of the service, the preacher got up and addressed the church. He spoke of how when white people get sick, they close themselves and their families in their houses. They don't let anyone in or let anyone help. He spoke of how much we must love them to bring our sick son to them today. He spoke of how important it was to us to bring the love of God to them, that we would not stay home and close them out. They truly felt His love that day. They got to lay hands on Hagen and he was blessed by being prayed for by African brothers and sisters who love the Lord. The humble nod came from me later that night, but not because I made the right decision .... I made the wrong decision that day, by mom standards, but in doing so I realized that my decision in the hands of God is always the right one.
In the Last 10 days my family has seen glimpses of amazing and wonderful things. In Kenya our hearts were captured by the children who grabbed our hands and shared the day with us at the Children's Home. In Karamoja, with wide eyes we observed what a tribal people looks like untouched by civilization. (And when those glimpses didn't meet the minimum clothing criteria, my children enjoyed the view of my hand over their eyes :) But today I saw a glimpse of a red balloon in a tree. Probably unnoticed by anyone walking by below or by those swinging a machete to cut the grass in the yard across the street, but from my kitchen window I saw it and it made me smile. It was held tightly in the hands of one of the local children. They climb the tall Mango tree across the street and hang out there where the can see everything we crazy mzungo (white people) do behind our fence. My kiddos enjoy playing with them and every once in a while we hear a slight knock on our gate and the kids come in with some amazing gift they have made for our children. Once it was a car made of wire and bottle caps. Once it was a girl doll made from banana leaves, followed a few days later by a boy one. Once it was miniature statues of animals they had sculpted out of termite mound clay. My kids proudly display these treasures in their rooms. However, Josh, (the hubby), began noticing that our kids were getting really good at accepting gifts and not very good at giving them. A little disturbed by this, He helped them to understand the importance of giving and not just receiving. To which they replied, "Ok Dad" and headed on their way, probably back to the latest game they had concocted that involved Star Wars, a princess(my daughter may play with the boys, but it is always on her terms), and balloons brought from the States. We were left wondering if anything we tried to teach them was able to hang out in their cute little noggins long enough to affect their hearts. So when I glanced out the window and saw the red balloon it made me smile. They did hear. A red balloon shared may seem like a small thing, but when it arrives in a package that still smells like America, it becomes a treasure. A treasure worth sharing. I can think of another treasure worth sharing. One that still smells like heaven and wants nothing more than to be given to someone who will hold on tightly with both hands. Grateful to be here to share that gift, and for the glimpse of Him today in a red balloon. Hope you enjoy these pics of our recent road trips :)
