As we left, all feeling encouraged by the love God had sown into our relationships with Grace, I wondered if He just wanted to grow me, if He just wanted to see if I would say yes. I wondered if, in some small way, I was like Abraham and He just wanted to make sure I was willing to sacrifice it all for Him, only to tell me that I didn’t really have to.
Jja Ja Grace did not move in with us at that time. God wanted to do something else to help Jja Ja Grace, and He had a plan that blessed her and several of the women in her community—and thrilled me. Several days after Jja Ja Grace declined to move in with us, I asked the women in our beading group if seven of them would volunteer to take one day of the week and spend a few hours with Jja Ja Grace, cooking a bit of food and making sure she took her medicine. To my wonderful surprise, not seven, but all nineteen of them agreed to do so.
On Mondays, I went to her house, taking enough food and charcoal for the week and the envelopes of pills. Each day, two or three ladies would go to Grace’s house and wash her clothes, cook some of the food, make sure she swallowed all her pills, and just visit. They loved it, and so did she.
While the girls and I were willing to have Jja Ja Grace move in with us and thereby “love our neighbor,” I discovered that there is only one thing that feels better: empowering people to help their own neighbors.
The women did a remarkable job taking care of Jja Ja Grace, but after five or six months I saw clearly that she needed more care than even her nineteen new friends could provide for her. The once- or twice-a-day visits helped her greatly, but her illnesses progressed to where she needed around-the-clock attention. The time had come to move her in with us, and this time, I felt no hesitation about doing it.
When I realized Jja Ja Grace was suffering with active, contagious tuberculosis, I knew I couldn’t actually move her into our house, under the same roof with my children. So I asked Christine to look for a place as close as possible to our house. Thankfully, she found the perfect spot for Jja Ja Grace, a small, one-room house two doors down from us was available for rent. Jja Ja Grace had no furniture or anything else that required much effort to move; she didn’t even have a stove to cook on or a plastic basin with which to bathe or wash her clothes. We packed all her earthly possessions—her clothes and some blankets—and moved her to our village. I knew she was dying, but she was going to die with dignity, surrounded by love.
Many times over the course of each day, my children put on dental masks and walked over to check on our new neighbor, their beloved grandmother. Whether they took her food, bathed her, or simply sat with her in silence, they treasured their opportunities to minister to her and did so with tremendous affection.
But no matter how hard we loved her, we couldn’t change the fact that our jja ja was near the end of her life. For quite some time, I had planned to return to the States for a few weeks. As the day for my departure drew near, Jja Ja Grace grew sicker, weaker, and ever closer to her final hours. She needed the services only a hospital could provide, and I was thankful to be able to arrange for a place that would care for her in my absence. The girls and I visited her often in the hospital, carrying with us each time we left sadness over her suffering and the loss we would face, but also joy that she would soon see Jesus. I didn’t know whether she would be alive when I returned to Uganda or not, so before I left, I said to her the things I wanted to say.
In God’s plan, Jja Ja Grace was still alive when I arrived home from the States, and she lived several days after my return. I remember holding her hand into the wee hours of the morning just before she passed away. She had reached the point where she simply could not fight anymore. She had, once again and for the last time, deteriorated to being unable to hold up her head. She could barely speak but rather just groaned to let me know she could hear me, that she was still here.
As I grasped her frail hand gently in those last hours, I whispered to her, telling her not to be afraid. I reminded her that even though she was in immense pain, Jesus had not forgotten her; He was preparing her place and soon she would be with Him forever. As I spoke the words into her ear, my heart said a silent prayer, “Soon, Lord. Quickly, Lord. Please. Please, please.”
Just hours later, she went to be with Jesus.
When Jja Ja Grace died, the hospital called me. Selfishly, I was devastated by her death. Selfishly, I hated having to tell my girls that their beloved grandmother was no longer here with us. After I broke the news to them, the girls climbed into the van, and we headed to the hospital. All of us went to Jja Ja Grace’s room, where the body of this woman we so loved was lying on her bed, just as it had been when I left her the previous evening. But now, though a sheet covered her head, she was alive and vibrant again, in the place prepared for her. We removed the sheet just enough to see her face and when we did, though we all wept, I felt great relief for her.
That night, as I lay in bed, I was sad. I missed Jja Ja Grace’s sweet personality and her kisses and her whispers in my ear. More than I was sad, though, I was so thankful for our time with her; and I remain full of love and deeply thankful for her. I am thankful for what we learned from her and what she learned from us, thankful that God sets the lonely in families, and brought her into ours. And I am beyond thankful that she is now safe with Him.
ONE DAY . . .
July 20, 2010
I am twenty years old and have fourteen children and four hundred more who all depend on me for their care. Who are all learning to love Jesus and be responsible adults and looking up to me. The reality of it all can be a bit overwhelming at times. However, it is always pure joy. There is a common misconception that I am courageous. I will be the first to tell you that this is not actually true. Most of the time, I am not brave. I just believe in a God who will use me even though I am not. Most mornings, before I even get out of bed, I am overwhelmed with His goodness, with His plan for my life; I stand in awe of the fact that He could entrust me with so much. Most days, I don’t have much of a plan. I might have to take a friend to the hospital or I might have a meeting with the principal at school. One of my children could wake up with a fever and I might be in my pajamas all day cleaning up vomit. My dog might have puppies in the bathtub or I might have to perform minor surgery on a neighbor. We could have some extra people in our home or maybe just a monkey that my children insist on nursing back to health.
I don’t always know where this life is going. I can’t see the end of the road, but here is the great part: Courage is not about knowing the path. It is about taking the first step. It is about Peter getting out of the boat, stepping out onto the water with complete faith that Jesus will not let him drown.
I do not know my five-year plan; even tomorrow will probably not go as I have planned. I am thrilled and I am terrified, in a good way. Some call it courage; some call it foolish; I call it faith. I choose to get out of the boat. Sometimes I walk straight into His arms. More often, I get scared and look down and stumble. Sometimes I almost completely drown. And through it all, He never lets go of my hand.
Lord, may we choose you every moment of every day. We want to be fully committed to You. We want every day to become a day we say “yes” to You. We repent for lukewarm-ness, from mediocrity, from normalcy. We want to shine so brightly for You that others can’t help but see and feel your love. Let us look at every encounter as an opportunity to show your love.
Lord, on the days where helping just one more person seems like too much, help me to choose You.
On the days when Satan whispers “You can’t save everyone, why are you trying?” let me choose You.
On the days when it would be too easy to pop in a movie for my children instead of reading Scripture with them, let me choose You.
When harsh words are easier to find than kind ones, let me choose You.
Father, like Paul, I know what I want to do, what I should do, and yet I find myself failing and discouraged. Thank You for your grace. Thank You that You who sit so high would look low upon people like me and use
us as a vessel for you. How blessed we are to even be called servants, to be able to share in your kingdom and share your love with others. Thank you for the cross, where you have given us peace and holiness. Father, we long to say Yes to You.
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ALWAYS ENOUGH
I believe there is only one truly courageous thing we can do with our lives: to love unconditionally. Absolutely, with all of ourselves, so much that it hurts and then more.
I am so thankful for my children’s example of loving their neighbors and welcoming them into our home without blinking an eye. They see a baby who needs love and carry him off to feed, bathe, and dote on him as if doing so is the most normal thing in the world. They see a stranger who needs a home and beg me to let her stay. While I am starting to feel overwhelmed, they are feeling overjoyed at the prospect of helping someone else. We face urgent situations frequently; we see devastation sometimes multiple times a day, but my children continue to love, to hope, to believe we can help make someone’s life better. Oh, what I learn from their beautiful hearts.
I would like to say that as I become more and more surrounded with sorrow and destitution, it gets easier or less painful. But it doesn’t. The brokenness of this world does not become any less sad. Each and every time, it is overwhelmingly devastating that people have to live, and die, like this—like my girls and I see happening around us. While it does not get easier, I have found that I am able to face each situation with a little more hope. I always hope my friends will live here on earth with me, but I tell them with a new sense of urgency about Jesus because mostly I want them to live with Him, experience His profound, unconditional love, whether here or in heaven. I see the sadness, but I also see the redemption.
I have learned along my journey that if I really want to follow Jesus, I will go to the hard places. Being a Christ follower means being acquainted with sorrow. We must know sorrow to be able to fully appreciate joy. Joy costs pain, but the pain is worth it. After all, the murder had to take place before the resurrection.
I’ll be honest: The hard places can seem unbearable. It’s dark and it’s scary, and even though I know God said He will never leave or forsake me, sometimes it’s so dark that I just can’t see Him. But then the most incredible thing happens: God takes me by the hand and walks me straight out of the hard place and into the beauty on the other side. He whispers to me to be thankful, that even this will be for His good.
It takes awhile sometimes, coming out of the dark place. Sometimes God and I come out into a desert and he has to carry me through that too. Sometimes I slip a lot on the way out and He has to keep coming back to get me. Always, on the other side is something beautiful, because He has used the hard place to increase my sense of urgency and to align my desires with His. I realize that it was there that He was closest to me, even in the times when I didn’t see Him. I realize that the hard places are good because it is there that I gained more wisdom, and though with wisdom comes sorrow, on the other side of sorrow is joy. And a funny thing happens when I realize this: I want to go to the hard place again. Again and again and again.
So we go. This is where our family is today and where I hope to stay—loving, because He first loved us. Going into the hard places, entering into the sorrow because He entered for us first and because by His grace, redemption and beauty are on the other side.
I really did want to go to the hard place again and again. But I had no idea that, as God taught me about suffering and joy and wisdom, He was actually preparing me for my hardest place yet.
October 29, 2010, will stand in my mind forever. This day when all hope seemed lost, when even faith in the One who created me seemed shaky. It was the day when the world seemed to fall apart, never to be put back together again.
Most of the girls and I were involved in homeschool. I was helping four of the girls with math problems at the kitchen table; Prossy was reading quietly near us; and the little girls were playing happily in the backyard. Thankfully, my mother was visiting from the States and was busy doing our laundry. A woman I had never seen showed up at my house with a man I recognized as the government social worker who handles all the adoption papers for my girls. His face was grave as he explained to me that this woman was Jane’s biological mother. Years ago I had searched for her, wondered about her, prayed for her to come for her daughter, and she had never answered our advertisements or our prayers. She had abandoned her baby girl when she was only three months old and never returned. Now she wanted Jane back, for some reason she seemed unable to explain.
I don’t remember much of what the social worker said to me, except the shocking news that Jane’s birth mother wanted Jane back. He went on to explain that, even though we had done everything correctly and legally to determine that Jane was abandoned, there was not much we could do to stop the birth mom from taking her. He reminded me that as a foster parent, I have very few rights in this country, and most courts would probably rule in favor of the biological mother. He said he had to take Jane into police custody until we could go to court. As I listened, unable to believe that this was really happening, he instructed me to go get Jane, pack a bag for her, and take her to the waiting police car.
As the other girls watched silently, I went to the backyard and held Jane so tight; I wept and called out to Jesus to please, please help us. I carried her inside and told her she was going on a little trip and to pick out some clothes; she carefully chose her favorites. I ran and got Jane’s toothbrush out of the cup where it sits with mine and Grace’s and Patricia’s, and put that in her bag, along with some snacks.
Jane’s sisters, who didn’t know exactly what was happening, continued to watch quietly; some began to weep and in their own unique ways, they kind of said good-bye. Grace was hysterical, and I was so thankful that my mom was there to hold her.
A policewoman took Jane from me and put her in the car that would take her to the police station in her biological mother’s home village, six hours away.
I sat down in our gravel driveway and wept.
After a few minutes, I went inside and gathered the girls and my mom. I explained as best I could what was happening and promised that I would do everything in my power to get their sister back. We sat in a circle on the floor, and we prayed and wept and prayed some more.
All I knew about a possible next step was that I needed to appear in court in Jane’s birth mother’s village on Monday. But Jane was taken on a Friday, and I couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing for the entire weekend. So, on Saturday I gathered the girls together and we sat in a circle on the floor again and prayed. A family friend was going to stay with them while I went and got their sister back. I hugged and kissed each one good-bye, then began the long drive to the village with my mom and Patricia in tow.
The weekend in the village felt like hell—full of lawyers and arguing and maneuvering in court. Monday morning, November 1, 2010, the matter was settled. Custody was granted to the birth mother. For more than a year, I had been a mother to fourteen wonderful girls and for the past two years, I had been the only mother Jane knew. And now she would live with a different mother, in a different home, so far away.
The whole day is a blur when I think about it. But little sharp moments are forever etched in my mind. When I finally saw Jane that day, I squeezed my little girl as tightly as I could, and I put a pink dress on her—one that matched the one Patricia was wearing. Her soft hair was matted and filthy after a weekend in police custody, but she stuck a flower in it anyway, hopeful even in this terrible situation. As lawyers argued, she entertained her baby sister and shared her ice cream with anyone who wanted a taste. She held her head high and tried to smile. She told me not to cry, that it would be okay. She is only four years old. And there she was, so brave, so big, so beautiful. I was—I am—so proud of her.
I was watching Jane and Patricia play together under an orange tree when my lawyer told me that custody of Jane had been granted to her birth mother; she would not be going home with me. I
nearly collapsed, unable to catch my breath and unable to look at my daughters, who had no idea what was in store for us.
Once the custody decision was made, Jane’s birth mother took Jane and left, telling me on her way that she would call me if she needed anything. Brokenhearted and devastated, my mom, Patricia, and I began the long drive back to Jinja and I tried to wrap my mind around how in the world I would tell Grace her “twin” sister was not coming home.
I didn’t think I would ever be able to breathe again. Not that day; not ever.
We arrived home late Monday night, and Tuesday morning, my twenty-second birthday, I didn’t think my legs would be able to carry my body as I willed myself to get out of bed, overwhelmed with pain and heartache. I looked around and I did not want to be this person; I did not want to be this woman who had to grieve the loss of her daughter. I did not want to be a woman who had to walk her children through the grief and trauma of losing a sister. I did not know how. And I am still learning. Sometimes, I still do not want to be this person. But I am learning how to be this person with grace, because this is the path God intended for me. It came as no surprise to Him. Even this, for my good.
I marvel when I think about the timing of my mom’s visit and the fact that she—the one person I needed most in the whole world—was with me when I had to say good-bye to Jane. I’m not sure I would have been able to deal with it without her. She was the glue that held my family together for those first few days after we returned home without Jane. She was the one who kept the family going when I could hardly get out of bed.
Kisses From Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption Page 21