We’re driving -- six hours north in the African country of Uganda -- and my breath catches in my throat when the sun reveals itself. I keep thinking how long the sky is, how it presses on continually with seemingly no end in sight.
I can’t get past how small I feel; fragile, almost. Like if I looked up for long enough, I’d be swallowed up. And yet I’m not afraid of this smallness. It feels like God is holding me.
When I was younger, ten or so, I remember thinking, “God shows up in Africa.” I know that to be true since my time in Rwanda two summers ago, and now today in Uganda. But I also know that God doesn’t show up anywhere, because he never left in the first place. He was always here. It’s taken me longer to realize that.
The evidence of God’s fingertips is inescapable here. He’s everywhere you look: when the sun sets, bright and orange and fiery, exploding dozens of new shades into a watercoloured sky that never ends. And he’s in the night, when the brightest stars are pressed against the sky, hundreds of them, thousands maybe.
You’d be thinking this if you were here too. You’d be thinking how you can’t help but see God. You can’t help it.
I imagine him speaking these trees to life, his mere breath forming blooms from the soil into gorgeous and intricate flowers, animals with long necks and mighty tusks and loping gates that allow them to run. I sit in this car, the roof raised so the stars are irresistible, and I imagine his fingers placing them delicately in the sky.
I wonder why it's so much easier for me to see God’s splendor in Africa. I wonder why I have to take two airplanes across the ocean in order to acknowledge his glory. I don't want this to be the case -- I want to know his majesty everyday, no matter where I may be.
I am a speck on this globe; small and ordinary; entirely overwhelmed by a dazzling grace that I pray follows me wherever I go.
I wanted you to see some of Uganda! Here's a little taste of where I am: