I distinctly remember throwing a pity party
for myself in the 8th grade when a friend (Laura Dubach… cheers to
you wherever you are!)’s grandparent passed away and our whole St. Pius class
was so empathetic and supportive of her. I panicked, realizing that I was going
to a different high school than most of my peers. I couldn’t stop thinking, “When
my grandparents pass away, who will support me if I’m not here at St. Pius? Who
will comfort me?”
Little did I know at the time
that 12 years later I would find myself seated in a circle on the floor of a
home in Kampala, Uganda, surrounded by 22 teenage boys showering me with well-wishes,
advice, and farewells. These boys, filled with years of their own trauma and
pain, are not those I would have pictured lifting me up when my grandmother
passed away on Sunday. Yet, I should have known back in 8th grade
that if I followed the quiet voice of my vocation, this life would continue to
surprise me, and I would never be left alone in my times of loss and grief.
On Sunday I had to tell the boys
unexpectedly that I was leaving Uganda to come back to the US for my
grandmother’s funeral, and that I would not be returning to Uganda any time
soon. I was supposed to stay in Uganda for four more months, but the ticket to
go back is too expensive to make returning a reality.
In these boys’ lives filled with transition
and abandonment, I hated having to be another caregiver who left them at the
drop of a hat. Yet, rather than holding it against me, they were so kind and
supportive. When I received an email Saturday, informing me that my grandmother
was not going to make it, one of the boys sat with me on my bed holding my hand
as I cried for hours (until he eventually fell asleep). When word got out to
the three boys whom I had formed the strongest connection with that I was
leaving, they held constant vigil in my room for my last 48 hours in Uganda.
They would come in, lie down on my bed, and cry, and it would tear my heart
out. We were all painfully aware of the fact that I lingered with them as a
comet, soon to jet off into the distance with no promise of returning soon. I've lived this pain of separation many times before, yet somehow it still catches me by surprise.
 |
| Some of the boys keeping me company in my room hours before I left. |
A few years ago, most of these boys were so
hardened that they simply could not show emotion nor connect with anyone.
Joseph was one of these boys. He could not be bothered by anyone’s attempts to
get through to him. He is the same boy that thanked me for coming back to
Uganda on my first night back, and he and I grew closer each day I was back. On
Monday morning (the day of my departure) he came into my room and sat quietly
on my bed. No sooner had I put my arm around his neck than I began to feel his
silent teardrops running down my hand. He uttered, in a barely audible voice, “When you leave, I will not feel so good. I
will feel so bad. You were the one who would tell me ‘come and we go.’
(When I would take him with me wherever I went). I will be missing you, and I love you so much Auntie Jen. I am going
to work hard and be a mechanic. Then I will build a house in the village and
when you come back, I will take you to visit my house.”
Joseph is one of the boys that could not
articulate a long-term goal for his life if you paid him a million shillings to
do so. Making this goal a reality will certainly be an uphill daily battle that
will likely test every ounce of Amanda’s (the home’s founder) patience in the
process, but the fact that he can now allow others to love him, return that
love, and imagine a future for himself is no small victory. As Father Greg
Boyle states in his book, Tattoos on the
Heart, we have to trust in the “slow work of God”, and Joseph is certainly
a product of this slow but certain work.
 |
| Joseph and I saying goodbye to Oola, Cloe, and Winnie |
After rushing around all day Monday trying
to say goodbye to the people I love in Kampala, I came back home in the
afternoon and Joseph was sitting on our front step, staring at the gate,
waiting for me to come back. He and our three dogs ran up to greet me and he
told me he had been waiting for me all afternoon. I mentioned that my
flip-flops were so dirty from running around all day and he took them off my
feet and went out back to scrub them clean.
A few hours later, he accompanied me (along
with 5 other boys) to the bus park in the center of Kampala to catch a bus to
the airport. As we bused to the city center, he flopped down and laid his head
in my lap as he always used to do when feeling overwhelmed. Once we reached
town, he held my hand and rushed me through the crowded streets, telling me we
had to hurry because he didn’t want me to miss my flight. They hoisted me and
all of my things onto the last open seat of the bus that was headed to the
airport and stood, frozen, shouting well-wishes all at once, perfectly framed
by the opening of the bus door that closed all-too quickly on this chapter of
my life, drowning out their final goodbyes.
As the 6 of us had scurried through Kampala’s
dark streets, shoulder-to-shoulder with throbs of people headed home, dodging
the wares of the candle-lit street vendor stands, I couldn’t help but think
that not too long ago, this scene was these boys’ home. This was prime time for
pick-pocketing, time to dodge police beatings, time to search for leftover food
scraps, time to pull out their plastic bags to cover their slender bodies as
they prepared to rest in the callous arms of the streets that claimed their
childhoods.
Thanks to their brave commitment to
changing the course of their lives, as well as to Amanda’s willingness to
listen to the urgings of an over-zealous college student (me) 5 years ago and decide
to move to Uganda indefinitely, they now have a new home. I will miss them
dearly, and I am eternally grateful to have taken part in a short leg of their
journeys at this home. I have learned from them (and from Amanda) the true
meaning of forgiveness and resilience.
