Disjointed Thoughts from an Operation Room

Her arm handled as a fragile piece of art, infectious flesh waiting to be removed, pieces missing. I slowly let go of her hand with her nod of approval as the doctors proceed. Curtain sheets close and dangle loosely on a string. I wait on a stool in the center of a dim operation room. Her screams pierce more than my eardrums. Her mother sits outside shaken, far from the scene. Her father was laid to rest a few years ago after discovering all his businesses were looted during the war. His heartbeat stopped due to the flood of anxiety and stress that followed. I periodically glance at the door, but remain, as if my responsibility has become father-like or my lonely presence means something…

Challenges arise fueling frustrations. Suffering. Pain. News displays war, Iraq, Afghanistan, food crisis, economic slowdowns, protests, and political upheaval. Oppression. Conflicts based on pride, power, selfishness, and vengeful traditions spurge on. Congo’s vast resources raped again. News forgets to display other significant events because George W Bush made some jokes. Southern televangelist with her perfected faux hair, dress neatly pressed, painted face, diamond jewelry makes distorted and empty promises in exchange for seeking hearts and money. Gospel of wealth battles Gospel of truth…no? Am I wrong to be disturbed? Close friend loses his father back home. Will she be alright, is she alright? Malaria round 2. Home…seems foreign and distant. Realization that I’ll be a foreigner in a land I’m supposed to know. In the same moment of thought, I take a deep breath, and try to swallow the tough texture of my own bitterness, my own pride, and my own ignorance.

Is my presence on this stool, in this room, in this town, in this country, on this continent of significance? Is this about me, or Him? Self-righteousness or the true righteousness I wish to seek? Am I contained in a moment that repetitiously sleeps and awakes in the incomprehensible plan we hear and believe. Is this moment to be questioned by me or someone other than me. No…

Congolese grandmother, a saint in these eyes, enters the room to pray for the ill American who finds it easy to “curse his whiteness” and culture. Students surround their injured classmate in community. Visit their teachers. They are courageous, trusting, combating a century old mentality. Conversations focus on how THEY can be transformed and thus bring change to their country. A respected and beloved leader travels far from where his heart is to share an indescribable account and divine work. Doctor friend remains in his country to serve, treating the worse of tragedies in unparallel conditions. Another returns to the hospital in which he witnessed ruthless bloodshed and destruction. Constantly balancing responsibilities, he returns to his home and family, embracing his daughters as loving fathers should. “Fundamentally good” Academic dean, talented beyond belief, humbly pours himself into others. Local UN battalion reaches out. Reconciliation and transformation exists.

Laughing, writing songs about everyday beans and Tangawizi with Congolese family. Telling jokes about the guard that always sleeps. Seeing a University grow, people change, myself change. Football (soccer).on uneven fields. Ruwenzori Mountains catch my attention every time the clouds generously allow their brilliance. Congo skies, creation, reflect something bigger and unseen. Glimpses of a church visible without it’s walls. The Gospel not religion or fundamentalism, but life. Prayers felt halfway around the world. Never ending joyful greetings from children. An appreciation for language, culture respected and held. Home, not found in a building or location. An initiative acts as a vessel of change. That which is good, hearts that hope, eyes that love, and faith that exhales; rise above challenges and darkness.

Anywhere else, I would be bound in plastic, but sturdy chains. I’d be a chameleon to pop-culture (however defined) and those I erroneously revere. I would not be free to explore the invisible character of faith, nor learn to seek God. I would not see truth in clarity. I would not appreciate life or enjoy its adventure. It would not make sense. It would be too complicated to move. I would not understand grace or perceive the humility that comes before wisdom (Prb). I’d remain searching while trapped in my own intricate web of shame. I would feel far from home, and continue to crawl to belief, instead of embracing it.

Screams subside…the Cross recognized.

"curse my whiteness"-taken from lyrics of Brett Dennen

Mouth of Semliki River

Ishango-Hanging with Hippos at 0 degrees

When people think Africa, they think “safaris”. I don’t so much. But, I have an immense admiration for wildlife, the natural environment in general. One of our student’s father works with the Virunga National Park. He joyfully encouraged us to visit a place known as Ishango, about 3 hours south of Beni. I’ve been itching for another escapade, so we arranged a van, packed some kalangiti (beans), and headed out of Beni.

The road takes us closer to the Ruwenzoris. The jagged mountain top grew as we approached. We drove through some forest areas, but mostly along grass and agriculture land. Papaya plantations lined the road along with mud-thatch dwellings and slow villages. After an hour or so on the road, we entered an area where forest followed on the right and grasslands on the left. This natural exchange provided for the gathering of countless butterflies dancing along and across the route. For miles, we drove through this butterfly haven.

We picked up a wildlife park range on the side of the road and took a two-track road through savannah lands. Antelope were seen scattered through out the tall grass. The guide raised his voice to indicate we reached the equatorial line. The sun beat down hard on the land. It was “Africa”, as perceived by most people. For me, it was another setting in Congo to appreciate, breathe in, and admire.

We came to the campsite consisting of 3 family sized tents situated under grass-roofed shelters. Old colonial buildings remained untouched for years, but a few new buildings indicated progress and a glimpse of tourist hope. It was rightfully modest, as it’s location was the catalyst of admiration. Situated on a bluff over looking Lake Edward, the mouth of the Semiliki River, vast forest, and highlands in the background, the frame to small and feeble to capture.

An appreciation of my roots was exposed on this trip. The thrill of seeing Safari-like Africa and the eco-scene it brings did not leave me in a flippant, enthusiastic, response or frame of mind. My eyes stared quietly and my mouth spoke without magnification. It was gentle appreciation, engrained in the same admiration for the natural world witnessed in my youth. Whether watching Hippos lay indolent in a DR Congo river, or embracing the change of life expressed during the fall in Northern Wisconsin, there is something constant and respectful in it’s wonder.