“My humble place,” Helen said as we entered her home on the outskirts of the city. It’s a bit bigger than my apartment in New York. Concrete floor. Low lighting. Barred windows and a pad-locked gate. Grass in the front yard. Bright blue velvet couches with large, gold doilies. Foam mattress. Separate bathroom and shower room, like Europe. For the past two weeks, I’ve been saying that all I wanted was a hot-bucket shower instead of a cold “modern” shower. And that’s exactly what I have – a hot bucket shower in the small, dark shower room with a concrete floor. And you know what? It really is better than a cold shower!
I wrestle with the notion of finding grace, peace, and mercy in God’s suffering – not because I can’t find grace – but because I can’t classify cold water as suffering; if that’s been my greatest physical struggle, then I haven’t really experienced hardship. I do know that I’m getting tired and I need to pause from wrestling with hard questions to preserve myself. At least my stomach is acting better!
Helen’s grandmother is unexpectedly here for a couple days. She’s led a hard life, growing up in the village and being married at the age of 12 to a man more than twice her age. She only speaks Luganda, the local language, and speaks to me often – waiting for comprehension and response on my part. We don’t get too far because I can only say “how are you?” and “thank you, sir.”
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