If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Ugandan people since I’ve been here, it’s that they are strong, in every way it’s possible to be strong. It’s not at all uncommon to see 5-year-old lugging around their one-year-old siblings on their backs or hips like they’re feather-light. Women carry enormous baskets of bananas and pineapples on their heads, hands-free, without breaking a sweat. We drink the water or eat the lettuce and we’re in bed for three days; they get malaria on a regular basis, like it’s the common cold, and don’t even take the afternoon off. They live in a country that’s been ripped apart at the seams by a 20-year war and a vicious HIV outbreak and yet their spirits are resilient. They seem unbreakable.
There is something fierce in the hearts of the Ugandan people that reflects the fierceness in the heart of God. They live in houses and huts that most Americans would consider unaccetable and still they press on, every day, living with purpose and dignity and hope. They don’t just survive; they live. They grow their food, raise their babies; they sing, dance, laugh, and welcome us into their homes and their lives with arms wide open.
I guess the truth, then, is this: life abundantly comes from above down, inside out.
