What’s God’s will here?
What do You want me to do?
The cushions on our new couch were still stiff as we sat in the living room of our apartment with our team months after our family landed in Egypt. Cups of herbal tea steamed on the coffee table.
Our friends asked us how we were doing in our transition and I shared about the ups and downs, attempting some humor about a meltdown I had over burned chickpeas.
The phone connection sounded a bit like Oliver, one of my closest Ugandan friends, was crushing newspapers on the other end. I held the phone an inch from my ear.
But I didn’t miss what made my hand fly to my chest: “Aisha…she passed. It was just too late. Things were already too bad.”
Near the end of my second short-term missions trip, I–a lowly teenager–was surprised to find that conflict with other global workers was a serious difficulty for those I was staying with.
Now, as the spouse of someone aiding conflict resolution in the field, this surprises me not one iota.
One year after my family arrived in Uganda, I sat in a gentle sunrise on our porch, overlooking a corner of our neighborhood–and evaluating my expectations overseas.
The same cookfires exhaled ribbons of smoke to the sky. The same lorries trundled down the street. Passersby trudged by in the same hole-y clothes and well-worn shower shoes.
When my husband John was younger, he hated hardware stores. (Work with me here.) He hated all the hooks sticking out of the walls to hang things on. To him, it felt like those hooks were headed straight for his eyes. It was an odd weakness that followed him to adulthood.
Yet years later, as we lived in a remote village in Ethiopia where John was working on a water project, he began having trouble with his eyes–a malady seeming particularly unfortunate following a lifetime vulnerability.
Our family had been in Ethiopia for about two weeks one February when we decided to visit the village where we’d soon be living.
My husband John is a water engineer. Our task was to put in a water system for the Tokay area and surrounding villages. We had just begun language school in Addis, so our skills were limited–but we were excited to see the village where we’d live for the next three years, about four hours west.