Congo.

There’s more forthcoming than what I’m about to write. The thing being I’m still so tired that it never seems to ever come out like I want it to. People ask and the words that come out feel just that-tired. Amazing, life-changing, incredible, beautiful are just too simple. For every person who asks me, I feel like I could sit them down for coffee and still stumble over how simplistic everything out of my mouth feels. It feels like it isn’t over, even though I can see my empty suitcase from where I am in my bed. It still has red dirt on it, but it snowed here in Maine the other night.

It took malaria to give me words.

I still miss it like crazy. After all this, if you handed me a plane ticket right this second,  I’d pack my bags. Malaria taught me to pray for Africa. And trust me, I’m not that much of a saint, I prayed plenty for my own healing. But it taught me to pray against the anxiety and hopelessness, and the exhaustion. The fact that this wasn’t a death sentence for me is a matter of my privilege, and it’s that privilege that makes the injustice make me more angry.

I won’t ever have to worry about dying in a waiting room because I don’t have the money. 

Malaria taught me how much my God loves Congo. Malaria and a travel show on Netflix on the Congo. I tell my mom, it still feels like it wasn’t real, like it was all some dream. And as I watched this show, from the border crossing to the distinct French, the color, it all came back and I cried.

God, it’s so beautiful. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? 

God loves the Congo. Like he loves me. Like he loves his bride. That’s all I could think of as a watched last night, this is what God’s love looks like, seeing beauty where no one else would. Seeing hope where no one else is. I realized his justice even more as I sat there looking and listening to what felt like.

Remembering that hope is the most stubborn force in the planet.

to be continued. 

 

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