"Spiteful words can hurt your feelings, but silence breaks your heart."

I don't know how much I agree with that. Even if C.S. Lewis did say it. (Sacrilege!) Sometimes silence is a gift. Sometimes not hearing is just as good as hearing.

Except when it's not. Sometimes silence is the cruelest form of rejection.

So I'm not sure where I land with this one. Maybe that's why I have a hard time when friends fall silent, when songs stop playing, when the God-ache in me seems to echo.

Does silence mean the worker is focused on his work, or that he's abandoned it all together?

"God's first language is Silence. 

Everything else is a translation."

It's when I hope for communication, anticipate conversation, that silence meets me cold and heartless. Then when I crave silence the most, a dear friend will sit at my side without a word, and I find it to be the most comforting.

When I was in Africa this past summer, I decided to take a clip of the jungle behind our villa. I knew I would forget what it was like.

I would forget what it was like to be ok with silence.

That wild silence that soothes. So I captured a minute of it.

Right here.



And for this reason, I'm gathering up all the voids. All those vacant spaces of thought, of feeling, of noise, I'm pulling together and tossing into this jungle symphony.

The Post-Trip Saga

Anytime I've travel overseas, I go through the same post-trip reactions.

Phase 1:

(Breathe in air outside of U.S. airport with some forced pride)  Wow, I am so glad to be home. Commence the sleeping time. 

A conversation with a friend at that point might sound like this.

friend: "Andrea! You're home! How was {country}?"

me: "It was amazing! I'm so glad to be home."

friend: "Any stories?"

me: "Yes... there was this one time.. when (insert random, inside joke with self laughter)...well, one of the girls... you know, I'll just tell you later."

friend: "Cool. Glad you're home safe."

Phase 2: 

Even though I'm still waking up at 4 a.m., I love {whatever country I just visited}. I am going to go through all of my photos for hours and hours and make every single friend listen to every single story, even though they probably don't care nearly as much as I do. But this thought never crosses my mind. I am still in post-trip, jetlag, half-of-my-brain is still eating rice and beans mode. Sadness creeps in a little here and there, but there's always the photos...

me: "Friend! I've edited my photos! Want to see them?"

friend: "Sure!"

me: "Ok, this one is of Tommy when he went into the wrong house. It was Susan's house and.."

friend: "Ok, wait. Who's Tommy?"

me: "Oh! He's so funny. He's one of the missionaries there."

15 minutes later

me: "... and this one is of that mountain again, except this is at sundown."

friend: "the mountain that Susan climbed and lost her boot on?"

me: "Yes! {insert annoying inside joke giggle here.}

two hours later

me: "And this is one of the boys from one of the villages. I don't remember which one. But he's cute."

friend: "mmhmm."

me: "And this, this... oh man! this is a funny story.."

friend: "I really probably need to go home soon."

Phase 3: 

The United States is an awful place to live. Everyone is vain. Money is the worst thing to ever happen to this planet. God has left us. I am doing nothing to help the world. I am a terrible person and so is everyone I know. I have no purpose for my life here. Someone give me a bed to cry in for a few weeks.

I don't talk to anyone during this phase.

Phase 4: 

(This is about where I land 6 weeks after a trip. Which is right about now...)

Whoa. I flew on a gigantic plane to {country}. How cool is that. I miss them. That was an amazing trip. And I made it home. That alone is pretty amazing. 

Once I hit this point, it's good for me to remember. To acknowledge. To carry the beauty of what I heard, what I saw, what I experienced back here. Bring it back to my home. My conversations. My drive. My heart. It's all part of the same symphony. 

So I keep their notes. Displayed. Where I can see them.

I sometimes just stare at the words, without even reading. I look at the way they write their "k"s and "v"s. I try to hear their story. I remember their faces. The girl who wrote me the pink note is the one in the photo just above. And I remember her. Her voice. Her grace. Her love. It keeps me tied. Connected.

Beyond the humor. After the grappling for what life looks like after traveling, these keep my heart tied with them. Small links in a giant chain that pulls against depravity and injustice for love and change, justice and mercy. These are my links. Shining, strong and they keep me here. And there.


Amazing, right?

Returning to Life

Deep sigh.

This Texas air fills my lungs. It's not pure like the air out in the Bush in Uganda. That air is like sweet oxygen candy. This air is a little warm, maybe some carcinogens and it's a little thick.

I'm trying to rest. To do the thing that I used to take for granted. Just moments ago, my daughter intentionally threw herself violently onto the floor. She kicked her feet into a wild toddler fury and arched her back with a scream.

Why? What on earth could possibly induce such a reaction?

Oh you know. Something major. Like... the denial of a piece of gum. Or... the fact that she ate the rest of her granola bar.

Major earth-shattering, life-changing things.

Settling back into normal life takes some adjusting after being "on the road" for a month. I find myself waking up, mumbling something like:

whoa, hello routine. nice of you to try and barge in on this day. 

you're rude, barreling into my morning, clanging your bells, whistles and vacuums until i rise to meet you. 

can't you see i'm trying to rest? can't we put off the (dishes, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, baking, bill-paying, phone calls, work, relationships) until another time?

no?

well, i hope you can find something to keep you busy until the mid-morning. because i'm ignoring you and going back to bed.

But life doesn't work that way. It keeps rolling. The ship is sailing, and we are on board, raising sails to catch the wind. Catch the air. Fresh or not, it's there.

So I sigh. I'm waving at you. Ready for the next chapter?

Just One Second While I Catch My Breath

Did that just happen?

In a way, that's how I feel. After whirlwind two weeks spent in Uganda, I'm Stateside again, feeling like I need to find my sea legs. It's almost impossible to put it all into words.

For example, how do I even begin to tell you about Mark (with me in the photo above). How do I express his sweet joy, in spite of recently losing both parents.

His frail body that squeezed mine so tight, I thought I might crumble.

There aren't words for their pain. Definitely no words for their cup overflowing joy.

I asked one girl what makes her afraid and her response was, "I don't fear. I have Jesus." They say stuff like that, and my faith feels small. It feels weak.

So I will process, meditate, rest and return with more.

In the meantime, the fall is filling up with some really exciting and fun news. I can't wait to post the updates here! Stay tuned.

p.s. a great, huge hug and jump while kicking my heels to my amazing girlfriends who blogged while I was gone. I mean, how stinking amazing are they?!


p.s.s. my forehead looks massive in that photo!! dear lord. five fingers, easily.

my heart is full.

happy end-of-summer fun!

a quick update.

you just get into the swing of things. that's life. it doesn't matter if you're in the United States or Uganda, life has a rhythm and you can fight it, or jump in.

the flow of sleep. to waking.

of planning to follow-through.

greet strangers and give love.

enjoy meals and laugh.

take moments of solitude, look at the world as God reveals himself in Creation, breathe.

waking to sleep.

see, it's not that much different. at least in those vague terms it's not.

in less-than-vague terms...

• i'm pretty sure i smell. like.. stank. it's a mix of sweat + OFF bug repellent + kampala city smog. it's not a pheromone, that much i know. if it is, it's designed just for mosquitos. the ones that snack on me after i shower or during the night, even under the net. but you know what's great? no one really cares. like, really. it's just not a big deal. (can you just agree with me on this and say really it's not a big deal? yes, andrea. no one cares. can you? just this one time? thanks.)
• once again, i'm refreshed and surprised at the love and hope in the Ugandan people. they love their God. they worship without shame. their need is not an obstacle to celebration. there is great need, but there is also hope. and joy beyond circumstances. that's more than i can say for myself on many occasions.
• the bush of Africa is a whole other experience from just the main cities in Africa. did you hear me? whole. other. experience. good lord, i've got notes for "next time you're in the bush..."

To Old Mountains and To-do Lists.

Hello Sunday morning, you wild rascal you.

Usually I'm prepping for a day of singing and worship, but today I'm enjoying Sunday's leisure under an overcast sky. Old mountains rise, sending their breeze down to me, circling through windows and around porch chairs. Blueberry muffins in the oven, and familiar routine seems to be catching a flight on the wind, running away from me.



It's the last day before I leave the country. I'm entitled to these simple indulgences, right?  (Almost... last-minute runs to the store to pick-up last-minute items even though this trip is not even remotely last-minute.)

I'm headed to Africa tomorrow, and while I'm out my sweet, beautiful, precious girlfriends might be/will be/if they have time could be.. posting here on this blog!

How fun is that? 

Since At&t broke the news to me that text messaging will be my only affordable way of communicating, I gave up the idea of blogging while in country. I'll write some to post when I'm home, but while I'm out, my Texas sisters will step in with some beauty, wit and charm.

Now, I'm headed back to the cool breeze and blueberry muffins... and to this little delight who will not be by my side for this adventure.



To say I'm excited would be... premature. (Insert annoyed sigh --> here <--)

Because I'm still anxious. Nervous. A tad worked up. My brother promises me that somewhere over the Atlantic, I'll find my peace and sanity and find that perspective will finally come. I guess, until then, I'm going to wring my hands slightly and my heart will race just a little too fast.

While I try and relax. Try to not worry. Try to not fret.

Until the Atlantic rolls under me....

Quiet on the Set

In two weeks, I board a plane to Uganda.

Before then, I feel like I'm trying to walk on water. Sometimes floating. Sometimes swimming. Sometimes sinking.

So if my blog is quiet for the next few weeks, that's why.

I'll be back soon in full force.

With photos of peaches, rosy cheeks and summertime.

And then autumn leaves, geese and apple pie.

In the meantime, pray for these faces. These hearts.

These beautiful dreamers and givers of hope.

Going Even When It's Not Easy

Tickets are booked. Travel arrangements are in the works. I sit with her on our carpet and point to the tiny little country on such a large continent.

"Uganda." I point there and she tries to repeat.

"OO--da."

Close enough. In about 4 weeks, I will bring her to New York to spend two weeks imagining, pretending, playing, napping, eating and sleeping with her cousins of all ages. Maama and Poppa will be her delight while I board a plane with some anxiety and an adventurous heart.

It's one thing to travel as a single, non-attached person. It's a whole other sacrifice to kiss your baby goodbye and travel across the globe. Last year, she picked that time as her chance to start walking. My teammates consoled me in saying, "Don't worry. You'll be there when she starts to drive."

So I'm planning, prepping, sewing. We still need lots of help for The Pillowcase Project. You can help. Start sewing. Send pillowcases. Come to our fundraiser. [There's more info here]

She spins the globe and I'm a little sentimental. A little stamp of "Fort Worth" blurs in the colors of a world that really isn't that big. Hong Kong. Dublin. Guatemala City. Istanbul. I imagine the day she sits down with me and grabs this globe, and says, "Mom. I'm going here." The colors will probably blur a bit, and I'll remember when I watched her walk for the first time over a choppy internet connection from somewhere deep in Uganda.

Hoping that the steps I take today lead to lessons in walking for her. Lessons in standing in what you know you're called to do, even when the world spins.

You're a true beauty...

That's what I told these girls. These beautiful faces.

They who enjoyed life, barefeet in muddy red earth and worries that would trump my own. 

Still, beauty and hope persevered.

I want them to feel pretty.

Just like my daughter spins in a tutu and points at her feet in ballet flats.

That kind of beauty.

So that's why I started this... please support us and spread the word!

Website: thepillowcaseproject.blogspot.com

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Facebook Page

I Have Some Ideas to Do Things That May or May Not Matter

I had a meeting today with a good friend and assistant in The Pillowcase Project.

We used big words and important sayings like "micro-enterprise", "fair trade standards" and my least favorite, "accounting." (Say whaaaaaa?)

Ok, so that last one isn't a "big" or "important" word, but it still is not on my list of favorites. (And yes I have a list of favorite words. I'll save that for another blog).

I like being involved in something that is a lot bigger than myself. It virtually makes it impossible to take any credit. Like a built-in humility check.

Which makes me remember the one time I was 13 years old and I played a song at my church for a "special" song (remember those?). I really botched the thing, screwing up chords, forgetting words and ended the song in a heap of tears with some story about how God was humbling me. The church applauded my attempt and honesty, and as I went to make a quiet exit off the stage, the front of my dress caught under my shoe and I tumbled down the couple steps onto the lower level. The room went silent as I wailed in utter embarrassment. How's that for 13-year-old moments?

Anyway, back to now, 14 years later. Wow. That's a long time.

This season is all new for me... the responsibilities feel considerable, the to-do lists long, days feel shorter, wallets feel tighter ... you get the idea.

All that to say, a few months ago I had some ideas to do some things that may or may not matter to the rest of the world. Then instead of waiting for the golden opportunity, I took the leap...

Let's see how this currently-vague season goes. Stay tuned!

The Week So Far

1. These girls are on my heart and mind almost constantly. Joan and Nakimbugwe. I miss their smiles and beautiful hearts. Their honesty and wisdom at such a young age. As I think about dresses (The Pillowcase Project), about Uganda, about traveling, about my own family... it's easy for me to get overwhelmed and feel completely incapable of doing any mite of good. So I just remember and know that in some moments, that's really all they need. Someone to remember them. To know them. To acknowledge their existence as valuable, precious, important.


2. The stories they told me, of such things I could never imagine. Death, disease, poverty. But never once did they beg for pity. They just asked to be heard and seen.


3. Back here at home, I'm trying to make sure I don't waste that which I do have. This means attempts at preserving, canning, pickling, and using way to much vinegar to the point which my husband practically begs me to stop.


4. Prepping a workspace for photos, for inventory, for my own sanity. I don't paint to make money. I paint because I love it. Because of this, I don't stop painting just because I'm not selling anything. This creates a space issue. So the wall has become a secondary storage space. Lord help our walls.


6. Breakfast on the go. Ever had a Tangelo?


7. At the center of it all, my family. This little one who has learned to grab a paint brush and "paint" while I work on home projects. She who "reads" when I read. "Sings" when I am humming. It's all too wonderful.


8. The produce co-op. I have never before needed to find so many recipes that incorporate fresh veggies. It's worth it for sure, but I feel really guilty when I can't use every last potato and onion.



9. Sometimes produce just leaves the picture all together, and sweet vanilla crepes end up on our plates. No complaints here. I'll take them....


10. From the hum of the mixer...



11. To the sweet delight of raspberries.



12. And finally... nothing beats discovery. Actually, maybe just rediscovering. Snow is pretty awesome when you're a kid.

New venture

Hi all! Please take a moment to stop by

The Pillowcase Project

and consider helping us out with this project!

filling us up

i can't see the end of the line.

that's the only thing that's running through my mind at that moment. children stretch down the basketball court and because of my height, i can't see if it ends there or keeps going. all i know is i see almost 700 eyes on us. on the windows that are dishing out dinner. we are like a machine, passing plates and bowls as fast as we can. hot broth spilling on our hands. bits of poshu (a corn flour mush) occasionally tumbling over the side.

"where is his plate?" ginger shouts into the kitchen. she is frustrated. i notice the "he" she speaks of. a small boy. maybe 6. maybe. tears have welled up but not yet spilled. he watches as bowl after bowl after bowl passes him by. his own lost in the shuffle of the kitchen somewhere. last night we ran out of food. i'm sure he can't help but wonder will it be me tonight?

he doesn't know we've purchased enough for the rest of the week. but darn it. where is this kid's bowl?

ginger shouts again into the steamy, bustling kitchen. i can't believe this, she mumbles as she passes another plate on, and reassures the young child again. it's coming sweetie. you have food coming.

i continue passing. children i have played with, joked with, laughed with, danced with... they wait. they barely make eye contact with us as we pass on their plates. broken, spilling, plastic, leaking dishes. i'm struck with the reality that these are children. in africa. who may or may not have parents. a home. a regular meal.

the sinking feeling that this is not right. it's not just. it's not fair. it's just not right.

eventually the young boys gets his meal. triumphantly ginger passes it on, thrilled to come to his rescue and he runs off to eat and still have some sunlight to play with his friends.

the emotions overwhelmed me at that point. dinner ended and i made my way back to the team. it's not just me. i sit and cry. and cry. and cry. ginger shows up after a few minutes, placing one arm around my shoulders.

it got to me tonight too, baby. it's hard. she nods. the stars are out now. it's dark and no one can see the endless stream of tears down my cheeks.

we're all getting wrecked at one point or another on this trip. i imagine the idea of us all bawling uncontrollably, inconsolably. words not making sense. no one to bring comfort. just a bunch of adults weeping over injustice, conviction, pain, selfishness.

we soon came to recognize the tear-streaked cheeks of one another. or the quiet reminisces, staring out the window that say "just let me be for awhile."

this is africa.

dancing

830 in the morning. breakfast was served, tea spilled on the ground making puddles for tiny feet to splash through. banana peels tossed aside among egg shells and pieces of bread. i can hear the rhythm from the basketball court. children scurry from swingset to slide, from step to perch. they see me coming and run for hand, arm, leg, waist. gripping, pulling, squeezing, asking.

and the music gets louder the closer i get to the giant, tin-roof building. windows cracked for air and no fan in sight on this humid African morning.

but it doesn't seem to matter.

the music overwhelms my internal conversation and the tiny ones that beg at my sides. they are dancing. all of them. each and every single one. arms raised, feet pounding, hips moving, hands clapping. dancing. because they want to. because the earth moves under their feet. because music is the language of their soul.

it was more than i could handle, or even anticipate. beauty. i just smiled, as big as maybe i've ever smiled. and watched. they filled the stage, the rows, the seats. no reason. no direction. no event planned or facilitator watching over them.

just pure life. running from their hearts to the tips of their fingers and toes.

dance with us! they cried, and i felt ashamed of my own inhibitions, hesitations. they grab my hands, looking up into my face, "watch me!" as they took a simple step from side to side, to movement, to laughter, to hugs.

they are enjoying life, and inviting me to do the same.

arrival in entebbe

Stepping out of Entebbe Airport was like a dream. Something about the clear air, darkness ... lacking of familiar American shops, people with places to go and things to see.

Here, already I could tell, it's different. It's dark. no parking lot lights. A foggy sky hinting of only a few stars. Hillsides cast a darker shadow against a moonless sky. And the air. It's cool. It's fresh. It smells like trees and earth. We loaded our bags into the two vehicles. I can't make out what they are, but it really doesn't matter. They are our way to sleep.

I climbed into the back of what I derived to be a Land Rover.

We pass a part of Lake Victoria and the fragrance of water bounces across the inlet, to surprise us on the breeze. The 40 or so minute drive back to Kampala could only be described as a live painting, a circus for the senses. People are busy. It's 9:30 at night and crowds are shoulder to shoulder inside some streetside shops. Tiny lanterns light circles of friends, strangers, women, children, who gather to do whatever it is they do on a Friday night. Random pool tables are scattered, sheltered under wooden huts, lit with dim fluorescence and tiny kerosene lamps. We are not that much different, though we are very different indeed. Restaurants. Groceries. Electronics. Tiny TVs scatter flimsy countertops, several gathered to observe the colorful broadcast. Women wrap children in arms, scurry across medians and four lanes of traffic, baby nuzzled close. The closer we get to Kabalagala, the less the air smells of earth. The more it smells of man. Diesel. Kerosene. Gasoline. Trash. I am reminded that EPA compliance doesn't really matter here. The thick air strikes me, a dull headache throbs from behind my eyes. Or maybe that's from the 24 hours of travel I've just completed.

So we are here. In a small, humid white room. One mosquito net hangs from the ceiling. I have found my Ambien and am ready to bid goodnight to Kampala.

the rains in africa

on our final day in africa, a storm rolled into kampala, uganda. we spotted this cloud in the sky. notice the resemblance? it's unreal to me... but i saw it with my eyes. it's legit! i snapped a few shots with my iPhone...

notes from the journey

hello readers! i'm back from Uganda. i journaled some along the way and have decided to share bits and pieces with you.

here are some thoughts from the beginning:



it looks like a quilt, I mumble to him. He's Dutch, each word lilted with an edge and a flip of his tongue against the sides of his teeth. It makes my American accent sound so... boring. so plain.

I already feel far from home. The drama. The questions. The eyes that search my every move and doubt my sincerity. Fear my authenticity.

It's good to get away.

And this man next to me, in his wrinkled khakis and blue button up, reminds me that I'm far, far, far from the place I call home.

I think of Africa. I wonder what it will smell like, what will my heart do when I step onto the soil and mix my toes into the red earth, thick with pain and dry with yearning. My impatience for morning coffee seems offensive when someone mentions how the Ugandans are praying for rain. How they need water to drink. Effortlessly, we drink. We live. We play. Without much work we reap. Without sweat we enjoy the fruit of labor. As if we owe nothing. Earn nothing. Are in debt to no one.

"There's rain in the forecast," he says, thumbing through his iPhone and I sip languidly from my ice cold Diet Coke. Are we this far removed from the rest of the world?



Europe is ugly too. This is something I note as we fly in. Junkyards hidden behind tall pines and hedgerows. Backyards unkempt, stuffed behind cottages and red-roofed homes. I don't know why I imagined the Europeans not being dirty at all.

Tiny prayers choke me, sneaking out my lips over clouds and in strolls around the airport.

jesus be with me.
jesus make me worth something.
abba i belong to you
please don't let me live my life in vain

Things I fear, wonder, hope, doubt. sometimes this is all my prayer life consists of. These tiny moments of words tumbling out of heart, hitting pavement and echoing back into the silence.

Take a moment please...

in light of my crazy, late preparations for uganda, i'm sharing a few bits of things that have uplifted me lately. if you have time to sneak away and soak some truth, inspiration, love and gratitude in... then enjoy these with your favorite hot (or cold!) beverage...

My little bird sister, you owe much to God your Creator,
and you must always and everywhere
praise him...

and you are also indebted to Him for the realm of the air
which He assigned you.
Moreover, you neither sow nor reap, yet God nourishes you,
and He gives you the rivers and springs to drink from....

Therefore my little bird sisters, be careful not to be ungrateful,
but strive to always praise God."

~ St. Francis of Assisi

Here, Ann Voskamp talks about finding gratitude, finding joy and admitting that we truly have and are nothing without our loving, passionate, filled with furious longing for us God. Spend a few moments and soak in some honesty and beauty through her eyes>>> And turn your volume up, because the music adds to the moments!

My own mom has started telling her story of finding beauty in life, even when you don't expect to find it! She has been married to my father for nearly 40 years. They've had their ups and downs, but I admire her for her spirit and the beauty she weaves out of her own struggles and revelations. Through my mom's eyes...

I have a dear friend who has the privilege of capturing new life as it shines its light on two expectant parents. She is able to find the moments... love it. I always am reminded of the simple and NOT so simple moments of new life, of expectation, of fighting for the good things, sticking through the pain when you're not sure you're going to make it, then discovering such joy on the other side. Keri freezes these moments in time.

The next time you hear from me may not be until after I return from Africa; the red-earth, lush earth of Uganda. Sometimes I feel like part of my heart is already in Africa. I may just be surprised to find a piece of it waiting for me there.