My soul is restless, yet here I stand in a sea of calm, unsure how one could contradict another while simultaneously providing some kind of parallel to remind me of a lost face, a face I left behind so many years ago. This face has a warmth deeper than the dark eyes it holds, seeing through my rich shoes to give me something lasting, some kind of wholeness, but not a false satisfaction like this sterile room with four walls. The face here is white, full of purity or some kind of worth as it searches my complex soul for a sign of revelation, waiting, hoping to read my mind and give me his word that everything will be okay. But his okay is defined by a full stomach and a blanket to keep his head warm in his over-conditioned two-story home. My home is back by the red floors of Uganda, beneath a blanket of stars hidden by the mosquito net around my head. The room speaks for itself, no decoration or end table necessary. This water is dangerous because it hasn’t been filtered through a man-made system of security. The food is unsafe because we wash dishes with that water and the people are uncivilized for consuming the only form of physical nourishment they can and I, I am fuller here than I am in any sanctuary. Where is my god? Where is your god; hiding backstage afraid of what the crowd will say when he reveals the truth they don’t want to hear? Is your god willing to lay down fierce words in a place of refuge? Or is that him, cowering in the face of opposition, whining with the wolves, crying at the rain, whispering something sweet into an innocent ear and all with a composed sense of accomplishment, like nothing in the world is wrong. He is safe if they can’t see him shaking. I saw Him, and He wasn’t wearing white or walking down a road paved with gold. His hair was disheveled, His body bone dry. He was on His hands and knees talking lightly, weeping with the empty case of a lost child in the slums, His tears falling down the face of one of His own. His hands mirrored what I already knew. He didn’t reassure me that everything was all right. He didn’t try to carry me away because He knew I was broken, and that in that brokenness there was something to learn. There is always something to learn. We just sat there, He and I. His silence told me more than any word and in that moment, I knew that my heart had found its home, amidst gun shots and red eyes, trash-filled streets and rainy summers, in between diseases, among hungry mouths, aching for a change within the breath of the Earth, surrounded by the only hope left for this world, the children who give it something to mourn over. Even when morning breaks, He recites their prayers. He remembers everything. In the short amount of time that I spent in that beautiful, restless world of the less fortunate, I knew that this man was not just my god, but the real god, the only god, the One who patiently sits back and waits for us to let go of the white walls holding up a building with air conditioning and a man waving a book in the air, giving us time to forget the senselessness of it all and get into the real heart of this world. Can we let go of the rest?
