I've seen a lot of sunsets. Some of my favorites are in Boone, as the sun slips behind the mountains and the colors dance across the sky. Some are in Raleigh, over Lake Crabtree where it's quiet and calm and I know I'm safe because I'm home. Some are in the desert in Kenya, where I was thirsty and happy and moments pressed into my heart as the sun went down and the heat subsided. Some were in Uganda over the Nile; my African home, my peaceful place.
But my favorites were in South Sudan, as I showered with a tiny cup and a bowl under the banana trees, looking out into the overgrown forests that used to be so much more before the war, before all the animals were driven out and the people lost their coffee fields. Now, it seems that all that's left are snakes.
If we had been there, would we have been airlifted out, too? Would we have evacuated or would we have said "no, I'm not leaving," as we grabbed Boy's hand and followed Diko back to the compound to play games. Would we have even had a choice? My heart goes out to the many people who were evacuated that didn't have a choice, and had to leave people they loved behind. And my heart is broken, completely broken for every man, woman and child that had pride in their country on Saturday and woke up to violence on the Lord's day.
I spent July 9th, 2013 celebrating two years of independence in South Sudan with hopeful South Sudanese nationals. We celebrated the youngest nation in the world, and ate pineapples and passion fruit and rice until our bellies ached and we felt sleepy. We watched as the Wadupe Development Committee started making plans to grow more coffee and to get serious about developing the people, their own initiative to bring life to a village eaten alive by war. We supported them, sometimes just by the ministry of presence. And they supported us as we struggled to carry water on our heads and get over bouts of Malaria, parasites and sad phone calls home to the people we missed so dearly.
And we made plans, drew new ideas for the farms and the compound and Emma and I dreamed about what we would do after we finished school. We would come back, of course, before the boys grow up and before we get too tired and cynical. But until then, every day we would hug our boys and laugh with Susan, usually about me and how my hair looked crazy and I was clumsy. And on the day she came up to me in the morning and said her father had died over night, we told her to go home and be with her family, it's okay don't come to work. And that night we heard the drums as Susan mourned the loss of her father. But I didn't hug Susan, because I didn't know if a hug would do anything from a woman so weak like me to a woman so strong like her. Some days I held her baby as he cried, growing so hot from Malaria and probably feeling like his head was going to explode. And her daughter, Winnie, stayed home from school to help her mother, hard at work helping us. I miss our family.
The boys. We never even got to say goodbye. But it was going to be okay because we would come back before Boy turns 12 and Diko turns 11, right? One day they'll be walking back from the market and they'll see us coming on the path and we'll run to each other. Maybe they'll know more English and maybe it won't matter because we don't need to speak the same language to have fun and be a little, weird family that started one week in July of 2013. They will forever be a part of my reality, even if the only news from South Sudan right now is that US planes are being shot and Dinka and Nuer can't stop fighting deadly fights.
I don't believe in giving up on family, or being afraid of Africa or being naive enough to think my plans haven't changed. In the end, these are not my plans, they never have been. For now, I will pray for South Sudan, I will pray for peace, I will pray for restoration for the many families who lost loved ones this week, and I will pray that the people vying for control of this young nation can sit down and think about their actions like grown men and women. And I will maintain a deep hope that one day we will go back, I will go back and give more hugs every day because I finally understand what it feels like to not know when you will see someone again.
The sun will keep setting, wherever I am. But one day, I'll wake up as it rises again, and these are the faces that will fill my heart. One day.
But my favorites were in South Sudan, as I showered with a tiny cup and a bowl under the banana trees, looking out into the overgrown forests that used to be so much more before the war, before all the animals were driven out and the people lost their coffee fields. Now, it seems that all that's left are snakes.
If we had been there, would we have been airlifted out, too? Would we have evacuated or would we have said "no, I'm not leaving," as we grabbed Boy's hand and followed Diko back to the compound to play games. Would we have even had a choice? My heart goes out to the many people who were evacuated that didn't have a choice, and had to leave people they loved behind. And my heart is broken, completely broken for every man, woman and child that had pride in their country on Saturday and woke up to violence on the Lord's day.
I spent July 9th, 2013 celebrating two years of independence in South Sudan with hopeful South Sudanese nationals. We celebrated the youngest nation in the world, and ate pineapples and passion fruit and rice until our bellies ached and we felt sleepy. We watched as the Wadupe Development Committee started making plans to grow more coffee and to get serious about developing the people, their own initiative to bring life to a village eaten alive by war. We supported them, sometimes just by the ministry of presence. And they supported us as we struggled to carry water on our heads and get over bouts of Malaria, parasites and sad phone calls home to the people we missed so dearly.
And we made plans, drew new ideas for the farms and the compound and Emma and I dreamed about what we would do after we finished school. We would come back, of course, before the boys grow up and before we get too tired and cynical. But until then, every day we would hug our boys and laugh with Susan, usually about me and how my hair looked crazy and I was clumsy. And on the day she came up to me in the morning and said her father had died over night, we told her to go home and be with her family, it's okay don't come to work. And that night we heard the drums as Susan mourned the loss of her father. But I didn't hug Susan, because I didn't know if a hug would do anything from a woman so weak like me to a woman so strong like her. Some days I held her baby as he cried, growing so hot from Malaria and probably feeling like his head was going to explode. And her daughter, Winnie, stayed home from school to help her mother, hard at work helping us. I miss our family.
The boys. We never even got to say goodbye. But it was going to be okay because we would come back before Boy turns 12 and Diko turns 11, right? One day they'll be walking back from the market and they'll see us coming on the path and we'll run to each other. Maybe they'll know more English and maybe it won't matter because we don't need to speak the same language to have fun and be a little, weird family that started one week in July of 2013. They will forever be a part of my reality, even if the only news from South Sudan right now is that US planes are being shot and Dinka and Nuer can't stop fighting deadly fights.
I don't believe in giving up on family, or being afraid of Africa or being naive enough to think my plans haven't changed. In the end, these are not my plans, they never have been. For now, I will pray for South Sudan, I will pray for peace, I will pray for restoration for the many families who lost loved ones this week, and I will pray that the people vying for control of this young nation can sit down and think about their actions like grown men and women. And I will maintain a deep hope that one day we will go back, I will go back and give more hugs every day because I finally understand what it feels like to not know when you will see someone again.
The sun will keep setting, wherever I am. But one day, I'll wake up as it rises again, and these are the faces that will fill my heart. One day.
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