This morning Mount Kadam wore a wig. A judge’s wig, with white puffy curls that blew behind him in the wind. He monopolizes our southern sky, as we live, sleep and work in the fringes of his robe. He gazed toward the pink and orange glowing horizon unwilling to look us sinners in the face. His anger still hot as the dry season wind. One day, the Lord will open his heart to grief and his cleansing, forgiving tears will water our fields and land. Then he will be wrapped in a mantle of moisture, but for now he accepts the scorching wind and dust as evidence of our broken world full in the face and messing his regal hair.
We’ve returned to Karamoja and are beginning to awaken to our life here. The seasons are in the midst of an identity crisis, so rain one day and unforgiving hot wind the next. I write in the aura of a raincloud, still and sticky. Christopher is back to work at the clinic and I’m back to hassling people for their financial reports. The girls are living up having friends next door all day, every day and one day I’ll get around to inviting them to a tea party per Carmel’s request. We’ve greeted most everyone now and life seems to have a rhythm. In some ways it seems like we never left. In others, we’ve been given new eyes, second chances and relief.
This journey of the Christian life is anything but clear and straightforward. The older I get the less I seem to know; the more the seemingly oxymoronic promises of our savior are the only truth there is. We are broken. We serve a broken world, a broken church, a broken body. Yet somehow brokenness is exactly what we need to know His love. We abide in His love, hoping that no matter what transition or dilemma we find ourselves in, it will shine. For His name’s sake, let it shine!