There's No Place Like Home

Well, she did it! Erin has purchased a house and for the next few months, before leaving for Uganda, I get to help her make it her own. Now, for those of you who don't know Erin, she is the person I have shared life with for the last 8 years. To me she is a soul sister, a constant source of encouragement and the person who will forever be called "best friend." She and I started off as college roommates and now we're family. And as I celebrate with Erin in this monumental accomplishment of becoming a homeowner, I am also acutely aware of something sad inside me. Grief. With the joy of this new home comes the end of our life together. We will soon separate to honor the calling God has on both of our lives. The next months will be a time of transition and letting go. It will be painfully sad and beautifully fun too! I'm sure this season of transition will be full of late night giggling sessions, deep conversations over pizza, Sunday afternoon naps, bursting into song with our morning coffee in hand, paint fights as we decorate the new house, negotiations about who will take out the trash and a thousand other things that fill up our everyday life. I cannot deny the rich joy I feel to be moving to Uganda in June, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that there is sadness there too.

A kindred spirit from Duke Divinity School (Hey Dominique!) has just started her own blog. She titled it "Remember Home." In her first post she reflected on the words of Jesus. "'Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to sleep.' No home, house-----white picket fence to point to." She goes on to reflect on the 34 million refugees in the world and the sacred responsibility of hospitality. And in the middle of reading this blog I was reminded so clearly and so simply that God is calling me away from the place that has been my home in order to participate in the radical hospitality of a community called Bunga, Uganda. I don't know what this will look like, but I hope it will involve deep conversations, bursting into song, giggling sessions and my arms open wide in order to be and receive a tangible reminder of God's love. Because strangely enough, no matter our geographical locations, it's in God's embrace where we are all welcome. It's home. And there's just no place like home.

Goodbye Sweet Moses

I've been avoiding this blog. I just hate what I have to say. But I feel like you should know. The baby we were so privileged to love and take care of for a week this summer died in October. It was Malaria, and it was completely curable. I wrestle between my anger and my sadness over the loss of his life. He was so new to the world, and even in our short time with him, we dreamed big about his future and talked about the ways in which we wanted to stay in his life. I remember the last time I saw him. Shelly, Sarah and I had driven to where he was staying with relatives in order to take him a fresh batch of formula. But really we were all just itching to see him. For the first few minutes it was as if he had not known us at all. It was as if he had forgotten about the package of coconut cookies he almost finished single-handedly or the Sunday afternoon of snuggling with me in the loft or the warm water basin baths or the three sets of arms that rarely let his body lay idle. But within a few minutes his giggle returned, and we were all able to wrap our arms around him once more before having to leave.

I cannot imagine that loving and letting go will get any easier once I am in Uganda for good, but what a precious gift it was to lavish love on Moses for those few days in the summer. Thank you Moses, for being so easy to love. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. May the loving arms of our Lord hold you til I get there.