Uganda | So, Grow
I have been back from Uganda for a total of six weeks now. Six weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all. Returning from Uganda was so so so hard (and still is some days). Loathing glances were cast at the smog filled LA skyline as I ached to see red dirt and green trees. I took showers and was confused at the ease of hot water pouring down from overhead. I could only stomach the thought of bananas and rice and beans. The world felt so loud. I hardly slept the first week back, jet lagged and head racing with memories.
These six weeks have felt like a tornado attempting to unearth what was planted in my heart in Uganda. In Bombo, I felt so much love and gave so much love. It is almost impossible to not open up and let down walls in that environment. This opening up allowed for old things to be dug up and my soul prepared for something new.
After leaving behind my Bombo clinic family, I went on safari to conclude my time in Uganda. It was three days of unending vistas, beautiful clouds, and searching for animals. One morning we piled in our safari cars while it was still dark. As the sun dismissed the stars, bursting over the curve of the horizon and into the sky, my eyes were draw to the thin blades of grass dancing together.
For miles and miles I watched the grass, thinking of how a seed once buried was now standing tall to welcome the each new dawn. I wondered how the seed felt at first when it was being blown in the wind with no resting place, maybe airborne because of some destruction it didn’t want. Then, it was set down on red damp earth from the evening thunderstorm, and as animals walk by it was pushed into the soil and started to dig down. It began something new.
I think we forget after destruction and upheaval is the prime time for new things to be born. The land is cleared. The ground is eagerly waiting. We are handed a new season with all the possibility in the world, but we greet it with all the resistance in the world. What feels like barren land is where the new things grow. Just as the grass must fight its way up from the dark and cold dirt, so we must do the work of pressing roots down deep in order for the beautiful bloom to come.
New does not mean known. But graciously, things align and we cannot deny something new is on the horizon. Just because we can’t see the end, doesn’t mean we should discount how clearly everything is telling us, get ready, go, grow. Growing prepares us for what’s next. It’s a chance to build courage and character. So when spring does come, we are fully ready to embrace the sun, to stand through the scorching summer, meditate in the cooling fall, and regain energy in the winter. I crave things that last and the lasting things take work. Going through unknown beginnings and still believing in the faithfulness of spring equips us with a faithfulness we would not understand if “new” was handed to us.
The seed can’t close up in fear and grow and similarly insulating because of unannounced, unplanned breaking will do no good. This season is about becoming. It is hard to know what this new season holds and why it’s here now. Maybe there is finally space or it is finally the right place. Maybe because when hands release from tightly gripping what shouldn’t be held, we can receive the gift we’ve been searching for. Holding on may seem easier, but it is exhausting and leaves no energy for the work of strong and steady.
This period home from Uganda has challenged me to not put up walls and insulate in fear of opening up to the magnificence of new. So I will look at the blades of grass, the lilies of the field, these little things that show a greater design than my own. It is time to grow, knowing what lies ahead is far greater. This is hard work. It is courageous work.
Let the light in, let the grace fall, all the questions will not have answers, but there is always the ability to take a step in faith. So, grow.
