The River

A five minute Tuesday, as I’ve missed several weeks of writing!

For the lunch hour, I hung suspended between my life then and my life now. And for a brief moment, I felt like I was home again.

What does one make when her bishop from Rwanda comes for lunch? I’ve never been to Rwanda but there was that moment when I was nineteen, when I looked out past the tarmac to Lake Victoria, breathed Africa in and felt alive like I had never before. There was a moment that becoming the hands and feet of Jesus to others radically different had nothing to do with desperation or poverty or guilt or anything except the overwhelming reality of life. Of joy. Of entering into the stream of God that brings only delight. All that can happen in an instant on portable stairs after two days in various airplanes and airports.

And it can happen again when the lilt of eastern and central Africa returns in the presence of one’s bishop. When the table is piled high with chicken stew and rice and beans and sweet potato and biscuits and bananas and chai. When the stories chronicled in that lilt make you think for days and wonder aloud with your husband about how Africa has changed you and if you’ve changed even the tiniest square inch of her with your presence.

Because it isn’t about where for me. Or even who. This ache that makes me weep to return to Africa is selfish is many ways. It is about joy. About a waterfall of grace that pours down like you can’t imagine in a desert. When our bishop knelt on our floor, we knelt with him. And he prayed for us. The best part? That he prayed again for God to give us our needs and protect us from our wants. “Don’t lead us to our wants, our Lord.” Please, Lord.

I want comfort and ease and peace and nothing. scary. ever. again. I want to forget how my five year old ended up in the corner last week crying, “They’re going to kill me tonight,” when the neighbor’s satellite TV repairman peaked in our front window in the dark. I want to forget what it was like to live with a panic room. I want to forget the rocks thrown. I want to forget the inconvenience. The running out of water. I want to always have hot running water. I want to think hot running water is an inalienable right. I want to live in a house that doesn’t accumulate dust in a week, much less by the end of a day—enough to write in on the floor. I want to avoid people radically different. I want everyone to think like me, talk like me, dress like me and accept that I want to run outside for no other purpose than running. (Except then I don’t want those things.) My wants go on and on.

Underneath them all is my deepest need. There is a river whose streams bring joy. I need to live by that river, wherever I live. That river flows across time zones and for me, it has always brought me with it to other places. My only need is drink my fill of the abundance of that river, to be drenched in the fountain of life wherever I live.

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