Thoughts on Being Home

Sometimes I hesitate to write anything to you because I know how poorly I am able to convey all I have seen and felt. Sometimes I hesitate to write because the pain, joy, fear, or hope is still too much to share. Sometimes I hesitate to write because in writing I have to admit to, verbalize, and even re-experience that which I am either recovering from, or hiding from.

Sitting at the table here in Colorado, surrounded by Rebekah’s family, the movie Hairspray playing in the background, sipping on a glass of ice water and holding onto a warm cup of coffee in the other hand, I remain hesitant. Rebekah’s mom gently asks if either of us have written anything about being home yet, and I am ashamed to own that I have not.

So here it is: I miss my kids.

It is kind of a hollow feeling in my chest. If I forget to be here, my mind takes me there, and it gets hard to breathe. This should be old hat by now, having left Ug twice before, it should be no big deal. Weak. For the first time I have experienced full blown jet lag; the kind where the walls, floors, and furniture looks crooked- angled, and hard to lean on, walk on, and sit on. The kind where both Rebekah and I wake up at 1:30 in the morning, but pretend to sleep, not talking, not acknowledging the wide awake state until 5 am when it is acceptable to get out of bed. Yesterday we fought hard to stay awake all day. We were rewarded with waking up at 5:30 this morning. Finally, a night’s sleep.

Travel started at 3 am Wednesday morning. We woke up and quietly began our last minute preparation for leaving. After dressing we stripped our beds, stuffed our pj’s into our suitcases, and I went to wake our boys and girls. The boys were already awake, listening to the radio- I don’t think they slept.

By four we have carried our six bags, our four carry-ons, and our jackets up the hill to the truck. A small gathering has begun. The driver was told to be at the truck by 4:15 so we could leave. He is not there. I struggle to remain pleasant, to keep focused on the kids who are really struggling with our departure, to not become angry at the driver. By 5:30 he comes. No apologies. No explanation. We climb in the back of the truck, bracing ourselves for the cold mountain air that will soon grip our bodies. Various local teachers and neighbors looking for a free ride to town pile in. The driver begins flying down the mountain roads and now I am angry. Some kids have come with us to give us a “push” to town and now they are in danger along with us. He slams on the brakes to pick up a farmer with five sacks of potatoes. He charges the man a fee for transportation. I bang on the window and tell him to slow down. He makes a snarky comment about “time” and I take a deep breath. Now he is time conscious, now that we are sure to miss our bus for the day as we will reach town an hour late. He continues to stop along the way, picking up paying customers- something that is both inconsiderate and illegal.

We reach town after seven, the bus we wanted to take leaves at seven. We regroup, re-plan, and the kids unload the truck. Storing our luggage at the hostel we start walking looking for plan B- a car heading in the direction we want to go. Before heading to Kampala Thursday morning, we wanted to see some people in a town about an hour away. We had committed to meeting them at 8 am… we reached by 10 am.

The meeting concluded we return to Kabale town. The driver is still there, having spent the day driving around delivering the people and produce he picked up along the way. Rebekah and I had committed to paying for the truck fuel and had agreed on the amount with the head master. We give the driver the agreed on money for fuel and he calls the HM- not enough money according to him. He won’t admit that he used the fuel on personal errands, and is now demanding more money. I call the HM, we agree to add some more money, and I bring it out to the driver. He then demands money for lunch. That’s when I forgot to be loving and kind and just flipped. ENOUGH! He is demanding lunch money in Rukiga- speaking only in Rukiga, even though he speaks English. I call him out on his behavior; I tell him he was wrong for being late, for making us miss our bus, for endangering us and our children as he sped carelessly along the dangerous mountain roads. I told him I knew how much money he made that morning, and I knew that he was planning a similar act for the ride home and he could use that money for his lunch. I tell him if he wants to argue, he can argue in English or leave. The student he brought with him looks at me incredulously. He cracks a smile and then sternly tells the driver they should go. Rebekah is holding onto my arm telling me to calm down. I am not shouting. I am not waving my hands like a crazy, I am merely speaking truth. Enough is enough. As the driver and our student leave I take a deep breath. It is time to go home- time to stop being treated like a money bag, time to stop allowing people to do the wrong thing with no accountability.

The remainder of the day is filled with more goodbyes as we are still playing the role of the strong ones, hugging the crying kids, listening to last minute fears and worries, writing notes of encouragement, and touching base with everyone we needed to.

Thursday morning we are up at 6 in time to dress and head to the bus. The staff from the hostel is up early with us to carry our bags and escort us to the bus. They “have no words” but can only show us they are “friends” and will miss us by standing with us as we wait to load the bags and get on board. A sweet gesture made by genuinely sweet people.

After a 10 hour bus ride we reach Kampala and find a car to take us to the next hostel. We are tired and avoiding eye contact as both of us are near to tears. We go to bed early.

Friday we head into town to go to the dentist and run some errands. Kampala is hot. By lunch time we head back to the hostel and settle in for the night.

Saturday morning we are up early to head back into town to meet a driver at Watoto church. He volunteered to take us to Bbira village that morning for just the cost of fuel- a generous and kind thing to do. We went to Bbira to see my mom and dad’s sponsor child Richard.

Sunday is spent resting and repacking, preparing for Monday’s flight. For those of you who have flown internationally, you know that it is literally like time travelling, a bending of reality, speed is relative. It messes with you.

Now it is Thursday morning and I am just starting to feel settled – or at least feel less “in motion” which is nice. My thoughts turn towards home and towards family. My mind and heart turn inward as I struggle to grab hold of a life line as I am tossed about and overcome by waves of missing my kids, missing my family, loving being with Rebekah’s family, loving being in a place I am comfortable to call home and trying to look emotionally stable.

Another time I will look into what home and family is, but for today I will just take a moment to say- I am thankful.

Thankful for my family, my friends, my children, and for being in CO safe and sound. God’s Blessings to you.