Between jet lag, being sweaty, un-showered and hungry, humility has most likely greeted our group of travelers by the afternoon of the first night.
Despite how we are ready to kiss the ground and finally be in the village, the two day trip is always loved (by me at least- I know I have my quirks). However, I usually get antsy thinking about doing ONE thing upon getting to our village, besides hugging every child, and that is: sneaking into the chapel before dinner that night.
Regardless of what you believe, I promise you that your heart will be still in that chapel.
The actual structure of the chapel is really nothing fancy- just a small room made of brick.
You walk in, shoeless. The floor is covered in straw mats, you pick a spot wherever you can find one, and you sit silently. Everyone faces the front of the room, where on an altar sits a monstrance containing the Eucharist. People pray, journal, lie down, or just sit in silence. It's captivating and unlike anything you will ever experience.
This year, as soon as I arrived in the village and had a chance- I stepped into that chapel.
About three seconds after I sat down, I felt thick hot heavy liquid drops rolling down my cheeks.
I had been carrying a lot of grief on my heart, and I brought it all the way to Uganda to lay it at the feet of Jesus.
It was a moment of true inner suffering and I was allowing myself to experience it, opposed to pretending it was not there.
Over my silent prayers, I heard a deep cry followed by moaning of a girl lying down right next to me. She was probably around sixteen. She looked deeply ill, and was obviously in a lot of pain. Hospitals in Uganda won't serve you, unless they know you can pay, so since most people cannot pay they do not even go. I had heard about family members bringing the dying into the chapel, but I had never seen it before.
I reached out to hold her hand, and she stared at me as my salty tears rolled down my neck. I hated myself for allowing my own grief to continue while I watched her helplessly suffer far greater than me. Yet, I knew God brought us together through our grief. United in our suffering, we wept.
My new dear friend passed away the next morning in the chapel, while my sister Florence was with her. What my sister experienced was heart wrenching, but it was also the resurrection of the suffering.
While Jesus is the BEST person to suffer with, He did not intend for us to suffer alone. He wants us to hold each other in our suffering. He gave us two arms; one to hold our cross and one to help another hold his or hers.
While Jesus is the BEST person to suffer with, He did not intend for us to suffer alone. He wants us to hold each other in our suffering. He gave us two arms; one to hold our cross and one to help another hold his or hers.
This story I shared reminds me that regardless of which dot we are on the giant world map, we can be united in suffering. It sounds a bit morbid, I know. But, what I'm trying to say is that we are all enduring something difficult. We each have our crosses, our reasons we mourn, our burdens, our losses. It's so easy to push each other away in these instances (as I often do), but lately I'm trying to unite myself with those around me. I'm being honest, I'm being vulnerable, I'm seeking community.
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| "The" Chapel |
