Give Until There’s Nothing Left to Give
When God wants to teach me something, He seems to send an innumerable amount of lessons until it becomes abundantly and undeniably clear. Throughout the course of the trip, I have learned countless lessons about control, God's character, rest, blessings, grace, and so many others, but this time, the lesson was about giving, and it manifested itself in just about every possible way.
It started a week or two ago through the ever-present topic of school fees. I knew before ever coming to Uganda that kids were often forced to drop out of school or were never even able to attend because their parents or guardians couldn't afford the minimal fees. I knew these things, but somehow over the course of the 2 months that I've worked at Makobore, where boys wear nice uniforms, learn and sleep in relatively nice facilities, and have all of their basic needs met every day, I seemed to lose sight of that reality. And then I had conversation after conversation with boys who have been disowned and left to fend for themselves at 16, or don't think they will be able to return next semester because their single mom has little to no income and is trying to put 4 kids through school, or are fasting from lunch for 15 days to plead with the Lord to answer their prayers for school fees. And suddenly, it all hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn't, and still don't really know what it will look like, but I knew in those moments that I would do whatever I could to help these boys. From the time I was in preschool until I hung my college diploma on the wall a few short months ago, I have been abundantly blessed by parents who made it a priority to provide my siblings and me with the best education we could receive. I never realized how much I took it for granted until I came here and watched boys study tirelessly, squeezing every drop out of their education whether their teachers showed up or not, or heard them thank God for the gift each new day of school is, or joined them in praying for their school fees, taking their burden on as my own. Though the logistics are still being worked out, and I am a poor, jobless college graduate with little money to my name, I know that I have been blessed abundantly to be able to pour those blessings back out on others. The picture of the early church in Acts 2 selling everything and giving to everyone according to their needs opened my eyes to see that much of what I have may have been given so that I would share with others, putting my faith into action and actually sacrificing something of myself for the sake of others.
Little did I know that this lesson would be learned most clearly through my rain jacket. But I have seen time and time again that God can and will choose to work through any and every thing, and I have learned to look for Him in the most unexpected places. Several days ago, on one of the "colder" mornings that result from the previous night's thunderstorm and ever present rain clouds,
I was walking to school when I passed a little girl named Trust who couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 years old. As I watched her in her sleeveless uniform dress, skinny arms hugging herself for warmth and shivering, I reached into my bag and pulled out my rain jacket to wrap around her. I knew which school she was going to, and that she would turn off the road before I did, so most of me expected her to take it off and return it before she left. And then I watched her walk away, turning around to wave goodbye, sleeves flapping because it was so big on her. And in that moment, the thought that crossed my mind wasn't that she was walking off with one it my most prized possessions as a missionary living in Uganda's rainy season, or what I was going to do during that day's inevitable torrential downpour, but that I wished I had more jackets so that I could give them all away. In that, I was overwhelmed by the understanding that it didn't matter what I was going to do without it, because little Trust needed it so much more than I did.
Needless to say, after this and the school fees, I thought I had figured out all there was to know about giving. But if there is one thing I've had to humble myself to admit, it's that I don't know it all- that God is never really finished teaching, so I am never really finished learning. As I sat in the boys' fellowship on Saturday afternoon, listening to one of the students teach on loving our enemies and giving without expecting to get anything back, I started to realize that maybe I didn't haven't it all figured out. Maybe the lesson I was learning wasn't just about giving away money and rain jackets, but giving of myself, whatever it cost.
As He normally does, God started sending a handful of circumstances for me to start putting that into practice, driving the lesson home. The biggest and probably most heartbreaking of which came on Sunday at the village church in the form of sweet little Talent Ruth. Like most of the kids in that village, she showed up to church alone- parents, if she even had them, nowhere to be found- in tattered clothes and smelling like she hadn't bathed in weeks. As she ran over to me, huge grin on her face, I scooped her up in my arms only to hear the pastor tell her she wasn't a baby, didn't need to be held, and to get down. Needless to say, his words fell on deaf ears and only served to make me hold her tighter, pulling her closer as my heart broke for the hundredth time over the neglect these kids feel every day. I sat on the most uncomfortable church bench for 2 hours with her on my lap, back breaking and legs numb, none of which compared to the pain of being able to feel every bone in her malnourished body when I tickled her, or being able to sense how desperate she was for physical touch as she buried her face in my chest, running her hands all up and down my arms. She stared up at me with her big beautiful eyes and huge smile, full of joy and innocence despite her circumstances. And I knew from that moment on that I was going to give all that I had and all that I was for the sake of making her feel loved.
It doesn't matter that I only have a handful of interactions left with her, that the lack of love and care for children is so inherent in this culture that I will leave and her life will most likely go back to one of neglect ad hurt. It doesn't matter that she may never remember these moments, that she may not understand when I tell her that Jesus and I love her. It doesn't matter that she is just one kid out of dozens in this village, thousands in this country, millions in this world in desperate need of redemptive love not doesn't matter that there is only one of me, with two hands to hold. I could choose to sit in the crippling realization that I will never be able to feed all the hungry, clothe the naked, love all the unloved. I could let that discouragement and helplessness keep me from doing anything at all. Or I could choose to give everything I have to the few people that God has given me to love with the few blessings and love and attention I've got.
I will spread the love of Christ to the drunk man yelling unintelligibly in my face and the crazy old woman squeezing my hand too tight, despite knowing they will probably never understand or remember what I am saying, and despite the village pastor and this culture as a whole telling me they are a waste of my time. I will hold all the children and pay all the school fees and give away all that I have. I will sacrifice my comfort and safety and security and preferences and whatever else it takes, whether or not I ever reap the rewards or get anything back. I will fight with all I am for the few short weeks we have left here. But I know it cannot and will not stop there. It will continue when I leave this place, in going home, in following God wherever He calls me next. In everything I do and everywhere I go, I will give until there is nothing left to give. Because really, what other option is there?
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