Unspeakable Evil

I love writing. But sometimes I am very, very hesitant to share my writing with others. Because writing for me is like sharing the depths of my soul with strangers, not knowing if they will understand my sentiments, agree with my opinions, or even care about the thing that concern me! :) Basically, I don't share what I write because I care too much what other people think about me!

But regarding Africa, there is another reason that I haven't wanted to share my thoughts with you: it is because my heart was pierced in Africa with knowledge and understanding of some evil and suffering that for me were, for some time, literally unspeakable.

I will never forget the first day I broke my silence about one of the horrible things I had experienced. I had been back in the States for less than a year and it was around Christmas time, or possibly shortly thereafter. I had begun working in management at a store in the mall a few months earlier, and the culture shock was outrageous. To simply return to the States from living in Africa was shocking enough; but then to work in retail at Christmas...completely overwhelming doesn't even begin to describe it. For weeks, maybe months, every time I totaled someone's purchase, outwardly I smiled and told them their total, but inwardly, my heart was hurting, broken, and confused as I quickly calculated how many starving children that $50 purchase could feed, and for how long. Though I was living, working, and seemingly functioning normally in America, Africa still filled my heart and thoughts, and it haunted me.

I remember exactly what I was wearing, and where I was standing, when I finally let it out. I had just come into work and the backroom was bustling as usual with people clocking in and out, eating lunch, getting stock. My good friend Stephanie was sitting at the desk clocking out, and she greeted me as I walked in and asked me how I was doing. I think I said something to the extent of "OK...hanging in there," all the while trying to avoid her gaze. One glance at my face told her I was anything but OK. "What's wrong?" she asked. I folded my arms tightly over my chest, as if that could keep the pain inside. Leaning against the nearby shelving, my gaze dropped to the floor and huge tears slowly began to roll down my cheeks. I barely contained my sobs as the words - and the pain - finally seeped out. "They're starving to death, Stephanie. The kids are starving to death." I literally whispered the words. I think I believed that keeping it nearly silent would somehow make it less of a reality. "I know," Stephanie said, "I know."

That marked the first day I spoke of meeting the starving children who had just been rescued from the bush in Uganda...now, another year-and-a-half later, I finally have enough courage to share this with you. It still hurts me, but not in the raw, grief-stricken way it once did. And I am finally beginning to see the loving hand of our Father God in the midst of this situation, our Daddy who sent people to rescue these children from certain death in the bush.

God has brought a lot of healing and truth and perspective this past year. After a very dark period of confusion, anger, and doubt, I have once again come back to a trust in our Heavenly Daddy. I trust that He's in control. I trust that His heart is good. And I trust His decisions, even when I don't understand, at all. And even when it means little babies and children die a horrible, painful death, because they don't have enough food to eat. I am also coming to trust that He let me meet those children - and let me experience so many other heartbreaking things - for a reason...although I have no idea yet what that reason is! Therefore, my telling their story here is a step of faith...a step of faith towards active trust and belief that he let me be a witness because someone needed to hear their story. Perhaps that someone is even you...