I opened up my journal from Burundi tonight. And as I glanced across the pages... gazing upon my heart on paper, I was amazed by all that I have forgotten. Or try to forget. And as you'll see if you keep reading, the sentences are short. Simple. Brief. The flowing, eloquent verbosity present in my journals from Kenya is gone. I was becoming completely overwhelmed. I pray that as you read these words, that you'll let yourself go to the green fields of maize... between a ridge of mountains. On the shores of an ancient lake.
I told the people in this story I would tell the people of my country about them. And this is a beginning.
Yesterday, I walked past a little girl with no arms and no legs. Lying in the street. And that made me think a lot.
We had to go back and forth yesterday between the bank and immigration. Bujumbura has got to be one of the poorest cities on earth. I am completely overwhelmed by all that I see and feel here in this city. Right now, it is so hard to balance the ideas of just enjoying God and being dazzled by the world and creation with all the death, pain, and poverty by which I am surrounded.
I have somewhat become dead again. Numb to feeling things for these people. When we walked by that little girl on the street, I barely looked because I'm so used to it and because it was just easier to glance away like all the other mzungus do rather than take it all in. Let the emotion hit me. And now, that breaks my heart. I'm having trouble shaking the discouragement from the last couple of days.
The girls and I just got back from visiting two places today with Rev. Felicien Juma and Rev. John-Baptiste Sigoma. The first place we went was about 15km from Bujumbura. The area was a farming community before the war with over 500 families. But then, it became a battleground. Homes were destroyed... people fled... and the entire generation from my age to age 40 was completely wiped out. Gone. I talked to a young man the other day that had 25 siblings before the war and has 8 left.
In 2005, the men started coming back to try and rebuild. It has taken three years and the community is half the size that it was before the war began. We walked around and tried to love on the
kids a bit and listened as Jean told us the history of the war.
What do you do with things like this? With stories of people whose lives have been so destroyed. My God... they have nothing. Nothing. Sometimes I make excuses about people being ok with where they are and how
development like we understand it is such a negative thing. Yeah, ok it is. But no matter what, wit modern technology and medicine, people should not have to live like this. These people are not happy... they are hurting. They struggle to survive. Their world is one of hunger, disease, pain, and survival. Or the lack thereof.
The second place we went was different.... It was a little place on the shores of Lake Tanganyika that was a repatriate community. These people had fled Burundi at some point during the five or six wars since 1968. Many of them don't know where they are from because they were born somewhere else or they were too little to remember. One joked with me that if we ever write a book, we should entitle it, "Rivers run through our houses." or "Lost in our own country." Yeah, not funny.
The children. Were starving. These people have little hope. Do we even understand what that means? The children broke my heart... distended bellies, protruding belly buttons, sad eyes. These kids didn't even beg for money. They just wanted to rub my hair... hold my hand... and be next to me.
These people have nothing and are getting help from no one. All they have is that which they grow or catch. And there is a problem with lots of kids because obviously there's no money or education for any sort of
birth control. One family recently lost a little boy from sickness. They said his entire body was swollen as he died. It is so sad.
At the end of our time at the repatriate camp, we all stood outside the door to one of the houses... Jill, Bethany, and I each said something to the people. I told them that I would tell the people in my country about them and that we would never forget them. I was at a loss for words. How do you talk to people like that when the camera in my hands is worth more than their entire community.
While we were leaving, I felt like the worst person in the world. Walking away, back to a bed, and a roof, and food... leaving them with words like "I'll never forget you."
For those of you who have gone. Who have seen. Who have felt. May you NEVER forget. May you feel it once more. Let it hit you again. I wrote this tonight to reconnect to the big picture. May we never forget where we have been and what we have seen. The people we hugged and loved. For them, and for us, may we never forget them... Instead, let us be people of purpose with intentional lives.
Though I may try and push it away, when I come across these words, and the images roll over me like a rogue wave, I know I must turn around and go back. To be with people and to love them. Never stop dreaming that we can fill this world of ours with love... that we can make a difference. And today, love someone who isn't expecting it or doesn't want it or isn't used to it. May we make it our passion to be the change we wish to see in the world... making the world the kind of place God dreams it could be.
grace and peace to you.
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