So, I think I have a story to tell. I don't know who it belongs to. Maybe it's mine, maybe it's theirs, maybe it's yours. Mostly, I think it's ours. You donated. You prayed. I went. And we loved each other. I loved people harder than I thought I could, and they loved me so well that I broke into little pieces and gave parts of my heart away. Big parts. Bigger than I could imagine until I came back to America and realized I wasn't going to wake up and say good morning to Susan, or drink tea with Gerald, or laugh with Peter and Christine, or cook Chapatis with Mama Evelyn, or go to Hamuza's house for Posho and Beans, or listen to Kijabe tell his stories, or feed our pet monkey, or give Boy and Diko hugs and kisses every time I saw them. I don't deserve the love I received over the past 84 days, and I think I'm still trying to process it. But, I think have a story to tell.
So here's a little bit of it.
On May 12th, I said "goodbye" to my family and embarked on the biggest journey of my lifetime...so far. I set out with a single backpack and a lot of prayers and just went. I didn't go through an organization or a specific charity, I just went. I spent 21 days in Kenya, 28 days in Uganda, 34 days in South Sudan, and 4 hours throwing up in the Rwanda Airport. And it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I got Malaria, a staph infection and some unknown parasites that have made me bond with doctors and bathrooms (TMI? TIA.). "What happened then?" you ask. Well, in Africa they say that my once small heart grew three sizes this summer (grinch reference). And it was the best, most joy filled and life defining experience I could have ever dreamed of.
I've written about Kenya and Uganda in my previous blog posts, although looking back through them I've realized that it was impossible for me to even scratch the surface of everything that happened. But for now, it will have to do. This post is dedicated to South Sudan, the country that knocked me down, beat me up and then brought me back to life all at the same time. There is an interesting relationship between me and the baby country of South Sudan, I must say. On the one hand I didn't appreciate Malaria, having mice as roommates, taking 9 hours to drive 70 miles because our driver had never actually driven a car before, smelling like Adolf Hitler's conscience, undergoing constant spiritual and physical exhaustion, or washing my body/dishes/clothes in the same basin Emma and I threw up in multiple times each at three a.m (sorry Billy and Allie, bad things happened. A lot. Especially in East Africa when you sometimes accidentally drink the water before sterilizing it...). On the other hand, none of that mattered because I met two little boys who made me forget my weak diva-self every time they showed up to play.
Meet Boy and Diko, the highlight of my summer.
So here's a little bit of it.
On May 12th, I said "goodbye" to my family and embarked on the biggest journey of my lifetime...so far. I set out with a single backpack and a lot of prayers and just went. I didn't go through an organization or a specific charity, I just went. I spent 21 days in Kenya, 28 days in Uganda, 34 days in South Sudan, and 4 hours throwing up in the Rwanda Airport. And it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I got Malaria, a staph infection and some unknown parasites that have made me bond with doctors and bathrooms (TMI? TIA.). "What happened then?" you ask. Well, in Africa they say that my once small heart grew three sizes this summer (grinch reference). And it was the best, most joy filled and life defining experience I could have ever dreamed of.
I've written about Kenya and Uganda in my previous blog posts, although looking back through them I've realized that it was impossible for me to even scratch the surface of everything that happened. But for now, it will have to do. This post is dedicated to South Sudan, the country that knocked me down, beat me up and then brought me back to life all at the same time. There is an interesting relationship between me and the baby country of South Sudan, I must say. On the one hand I didn't appreciate Malaria, having mice as roommates, taking 9 hours to drive 70 miles because our driver had never actually driven a car before, smelling like Adolf Hitler's conscience, undergoing constant spiritual and physical exhaustion, or washing my body/dishes/clothes in the same basin Emma and I threw up in multiple times each at three a.m (sorry Billy and Allie, bad things happened. A lot. Especially in East Africa when you sometimes accidentally drink the water before sterilizing it...). On the other hand, none of that mattered because I met two little boys who made me forget my weak diva-self every time they showed up to play.
Meet Boy and Diko, the highlight of my summer.
Diko, looking fierce and courageous like the warrior he is.
Boy, dancing his heart out. He is the real Superman. I couldn't ever take a picture of him cause he never stops dancing!
I don't have words to express how much these two little kids mean to me, and I have even fewer words to express how it feels to wake up and be thousands of miles away from them. All I can say is that whenever I was with them, I felt so alive. They radiate joy and adventure and acceptance and most of all, life. They are like the Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Fin of South Sudan. I feel like they should have their own theme song or adventure show. And I feel like Boy should have parents. But they don't, and he doesn't. They just have each other and their gang of friends and siblings that are tough as nails yet easier to love than a puppy who can't walk up the stairs cause his legs are too small.
Diko is one of the toughest kids I've ever met. He's not afraid of anything. He runs almost everywhere he goes, has the biggest smile, is constantly sweating on his little nose, dives into elephant grass to catch the end of the fleeting goat rope when most people (like me) tip-toe for fear of tiny snakes called COBRAS, and is the first and last one at the library reading with Emma even though he has dyslexia. He is seven and his playground is banana tree forests, coffee fields and the rural heart of South Sudan. And his best friend is Boy.
Boy stole my heart the minute he opened his little mouth, cocked his chin to one side and let out the best laugh I have ever heard. Right then at that first moment I knew I never wanted to say goodbye. I just wanted to be his neighbor forever and grow up all over again with him. Boy never stops dancing. I mean, never. I don't have one single picture of him standing still because every time I pulled out my camera he started shaking his hips and waving his hands in the air like a little African Elvis. Spending even ten minutes with him made me forget that he was an orphan or that he was poor, according to leading experts on poverty. I think I forgot so easily because where there is a lack of biological parents there is an abundance of people who love him more than he may ever know, more than we even know ourselves. To an outsider who only has the opportunity to read about Boy's life, they would probably say that his life is a tragedy, that the world is against him. But to someone who has spent even just a few moments in his presence they would know the truth -- that God is bigger than the world and choosing joy beats tragedy any day. 8-year-old Boy taught me more in 5 weeks of playing under the African sky than 14 years of sitting in a classroom. He taught me how to live and how to dance to his song.
I lived life with these kids for 5 weeks and slowly the hardest place for me to go became the hardest place for me to leave. I have two brothers who live in South Sudan now. Two brothers who are running through the coffee fields every day. Two brothers who are learning to read and write, even if sometimes Diko makes his d's into p's and Boy drops his book and starts dancing. Two brothers who look into the same stars I do and pray there is someone looking back.
But now my two brothers and I are separated by an ocean. And it's okay because what began as the adventures of Maddy turned into the adventures of Boy and Diko and Maddy. The plot has thickened, and the title of the next chapter is this: Return.
I love you, Boy and Diko.
Diko is one of the toughest kids I've ever met. He's not afraid of anything. He runs almost everywhere he goes, has the biggest smile, is constantly sweating on his little nose, dives into elephant grass to catch the end of the fleeting goat rope when most people (like me) tip-toe for fear of tiny snakes called COBRAS, and is the first and last one at the library reading with Emma even though he has dyslexia. He is seven and his playground is banana tree forests, coffee fields and the rural heart of South Sudan. And his best friend is Boy.
Boy stole my heart the minute he opened his little mouth, cocked his chin to one side and let out the best laugh I have ever heard. Right then at that first moment I knew I never wanted to say goodbye. I just wanted to be his neighbor forever and grow up all over again with him. Boy never stops dancing. I mean, never. I don't have one single picture of him standing still because every time I pulled out my camera he started shaking his hips and waving his hands in the air like a little African Elvis. Spending even ten minutes with him made me forget that he was an orphan or that he was poor, according to leading experts on poverty. I think I forgot so easily because where there is a lack of biological parents there is an abundance of people who love him more than he may ever know, more than we even know ourselves. To an outsider who only has the opportunity to read about Boy's life, they would probably say that his life is a tragedy, that the world is against him. But to someone who has spent even just a few moments in his presence they would know the truth -- that God is bigger than the world and choosing joy beats tragedy any day. 8-year-old Boy taught me more in 5 weeks of playing under the African sky than 14 years of sitting in a classroom. He taught me how to live and how to dance to his song.
I lived life with these kids for 5 weeks and slowly the hardest place for me to go became the hardest place for me to leave. I have two brothers who live in South Sudan now. Two brothers who are running through the coffee fields every day. Two brothers who are learning to read and write, even if sometimes Diko makes his d's into p's and Boy drops his book and starts dancing. Two brothers who look into the same stars I do and pray there is someone looking back.
But now my two brothers and I are separated by an ocean. And it's okay because what began as the adventures of Maddy turned into the adventures of Boy and Diko and Maddy. The plot has thickened, and the title of the next chapter is this: Return.
I love you, Boy and Diko.
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