Dear Lydia,
So I hope the fact that you are reading this as sterile white letters
on the black screen of my blog and not as a handwritten letter smudged with the
finger-prints of my curious children or at very least an email full of rushed misspellings
and semi-colon smiley faces, doesn’t bother you. But while every time I sit
down to write a blog I am paralyzed with false starts and mediocre ideas, my
days are filled with sentences and descriptions I am mentally sending to you.
While blogging often feels like a long-neglected chore I can’t seem to make
myself do, writing to you feels like a delightful luxury I never have time to
let myself enjoy. So I decided to channel my connection to you into this blog. Raw
honesty and unglamorous glimpses of humanity seem to be in vogue in the blogosphere
these days, but when I do it, regardless of how it lands on others’ ears, it
sometimes feels contrived to me. But you have always had access to my
unglamorous sides and openness comes easily in your company. And what’s more is
it feels natural. So here we are. Thanks for being a listening ear.
It feels so right to be back in D, but so wrong to be back here without
you. In all the excited rush of coming back up here for the first time as a
family since December (ten months!) I wondered in my distraction if your
absence would be as noticeable as I at one time feared it would be. But when we
pushed open that rickety bamboo gate and stepped onto the compound, your house sitting
quietly next to ours was a beautiful heartache of a greeting. I haven’t been
inside yet but I see your purple kitchen curtains sigh in the breeze and it’s
hard to think that you are not on the other side of them. Last night I heard a
wooden tapping and honestly briefly wondered what you were chopping up for
dinner.
But I will do my best not to be all nostalgic. Take a moment to lighten
the mood and picture this: Our family of four, travel weary and hot as we pass
through the capital city on our way up here. You know that monstrosity of an
airport - the chaotic visa lines, bored and underpaid soldiers, wide-eyed
Japanese peacekeepers, indignant politician’s wives busting out of their shiny
dresses and throngs of jaded NGO workers with sarcastic expressions that I both
relate to and resent. It’s just as it was in all its glory…except for the new
addition of the infectious disease screening tents pitched over rickity crates
in the muddy patch just off of the runway apron. Mikat and Annabelle are close
to melting (literally and figuratively) and I am praying that the cheap
lollipops I have strategically shoved into their grubby hands will last through
however many forms we have to fill out and the temperature test by the
face-masked health workers. Now imagine a small but ridiculously potent winged
insect flying right up my skirt and crawling up my leg in the middle of this chaos.
I caught him about thigh-level but missed on my first panicky grab giving him
just enough incentive and opportunity to sting the absolute fire out of me. I
will leave the ensuing scene to your imagination, but let me just say I had a dinner
plate sized red hot welp on my leg that night!
But truly, it does feel so good to be back. Yes, as you can imagine the
house is coated is a thick layer of dirt and a few things far worse, and I have
just about given up on the war against rats. They generally stay out of my
bedroom and I make a habit of not going into the storeroom after dark so we
have a truce of sorts. But the house is amazing. The girls room is painted pink
and the kitchen is full of my pots and pans. The solar fridge works shockingly
well and I finally hung the curtains you and I scurried all over Kampala to
have made almost a year ago. They look fantastic. Even with the rats, it still
feels more like home than anywhere else.
We have had a steady stream of visitors who have come to welcome us back.
After so many months away I sometimes find myself doubting if certain
relationships mean as much to others as they mean to me. But when Leila showed
up to wash my dishes this morning she had tears pooling in her eyes when she
pulled away from our embrace. And when Aisha came with several other women you
would know this afternoon, I thought we would never stop hugging. The reunions
have been so sweet; the sweetness is ever sharper with the lingering bite of
fear that the goodbyes are not all behind us.
I sat with these women under the baobab tree for a couple hours this
afternoon. We talked about you a lot. They wanted to hear all about Rebekah.
They shook their head with such sad understanding and said they have been
praying for you - and her - constantly. I told them you are praying for them
too and that you send your love and greetings. If the internet cooperates (it
hasn’t been) I will try to send you a couple of pictures of familiar faces. At
one point Aisha said, “Libby your house has become so beautiful,” and as I quickly
prepared to downplay the cinderblock tin-roofed mansion that I really do love
but often feel guilty about, I realized she wasn’t referring to my house but to
the two filthy blond girls playing at our feet. “God has given you such gifts. Your
children bring joy to your guests. Your house has become beautiful.” And in
that moment I realized that even if we have to leave again tomorrow, today
alone has been worth it. Reconnecting with these incredible people and having
the honor of seeing the world through their eyes if only briefly makes it all
worth it.
Your house too has become beautiful, even if it is not exactly where I
want it to be these days. Thirty feet away seemed like a good distance to me but for
the time being I will have to be content with the miles of ocean between our
front doors. Kiss the people of your beautiful house for me and know that you
are loved by many people far away.
The frogs are loud tonight, the drums are soft and the stars are absolutely deafening.
Blessings,
Libby
