Last week I had the privilege of celebrating the
independence days of both the United States and South Sudan. Eager to get back to my usual team
duties, as soon as I got off the mini MAF plane and unloaded my trunks of
supplies, I headed over to the team house to adorn its walls with star cut
outs, mini flags, and glittery signs.
I’m a bit rusty in the holiday décor department, but the effort was
there. Amidst all of my gluing,
drawing, and cutting, I thought more carefully about what freedom really
means. I think it’s easy to take
Independence Day as one of the more lame holidays that gives people a chance to
eat meat and watermelon and watch fireworks. I’ll admit it’s at the bottom of my list. However, returning to Africa during this
season has made me vastly more patriotic than I’ve ever been. America, despite
all its bravado and self-indulgence, is a great country of diversity and opportunity. It is also a country that has learned,
in a relatively short amount of time, how to get things done. It has its weak points, its areas of
oversight and immorality, as every human nation does; however, it is a safe
country, an energetic and driven country.
I’m still not at the point of putting patriotic bumper stickers on my
car, but I am grateful to live in the
United States, where freedom is known.
Freedom is also an important idea for the people of South
Sudan. The people in Mundri are
always saying, “feel free,” when I come to visit them. They want me to feel at home, feel like
I can join their conversations and eat to my heart’s content. Formality is a sign of distance here—to
take off your shoes, lie back, and talk about the current health of your
mother’s sister is to take a step towards the Moru people in freedom.
Ironically, since being back in Mundri, I have not been able
to feel a sense of freedom. It has
nothing to do with the gracious and hospitable people of South Sudan, but
everything to do with my own insecurities. I have been paralyzed by a fear of failure in my work
here. I have been nervous about
meeting up with people who I haven’t seen in two months. I have felt pressure to reach a certain
level of productivity that I never seem to achieve. And, worst of all, I have not felt the freedom to approach
God with all of my fears and worries.
I tell myself, “This is just who you are. You are an anxious, fearful person, and there’s nothing you
can do to change who you are.” I’m
giving sin too much power—letting it shackle me to the ground in helplessness
and self-pity without even considering the love and power of God.
My team is studying Ephesians, which has been encouraging my
heart about the truths of freedom in Christ Jesus. Paul writes,
In
Him and through faith in him we may approach God with freedom and confidence. I ask
you, therefore, not to be
discouraged because of my sufferings for
you, which are your glory.
- (Eph.
3:12,13)
It is difficult to give myself the freedom to make mistakes,
to be my own imperfect self. I
want to do big things here in Mundri, but I need to be sure it is for God’s
glory and not my own. Luckily, I
have the Moru people here to encourage me to “feel free.” There are the South Sudanese teachers,
who thank me profusely for sharing my model lesson with them, even though I
feel like my lesson bombed.
There’s Agnes, who hugs me and holds onto me for a good five minutes
after having not seen me for nine months.
There’s Panina, the Ugandan owner of the town fashion store, who would
rather have me chatting with her about life than buying up all of her
consignment shirts. There are the
professors and students at Kotobi Teacher’s College, who invite me to all of
their ceremonies and programs—even when I’m not currently teaching there. There’s the Bishop, who gives John and
me his blessing and prayers when we fearfully tell him that we want to pursue a
“dating” relationship in a conservative culture. And there’s neighbor Howa, who drops the water bucket she’s
been carrying and runs up to hug me.
These friends all teach me daily what it looks like to freely love and
accept me as I am. I am so
grateful for them.
The people of South Sudan don’t have the resources or opportunities
that the people of America have.
Most were born here in Mundri Town, Western Equatoria, and they will die
here. It is easy to feel weighed
down in a developing nation; however the Moru people chose to live life in
freedom. They have their own
nation, separate from the Arab-dominated North. They have fertile land to use as they wish—to plant clusters
of g-nuts and rows of tall maize and construct mud homes for their growing
families, with the sweeping blue sky in the background. Most importantly, they have freedom in
Christ. They feel the freedom try
things that may fail, knowing that they are still loved by their community and
by their God just the same.
The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, for he has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor;
he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to those who are bound.
-Isaiah 61:1
No comments:
Post a Comment