Piles of trash, rundown shacks, and the smell of wet stench filled air. We had arrived in the slums of Kampala. I had always heard about slums, I knew the level of poverty to expect, and yet, actually existing in them felt so much more despondent. It is as though a veil of hopelessness had been placed over my entirety; a hopelessness that I could not shake.
Armored by fear and despair,we entered the slums. The street boys we would be ministering to greeted us. The warmth of introductions wore off when their physical and mental state was realized. They were dirty, but worse, they were high. To combat severe hunger pains many of the boys constantly sniff airplane gasoline soaked rags. They become addicted to the temporary relief and rely on being in that state to help them survive. No one should have to live this way, much less children. Their brokenness shattered me.
Paralyzed by the darkness present and silenced by the scarcity of common ground, I allowed Satan to cloud my perspective. He told me my words fell on deaf ears, my presence brought about more chaos than relief, and this place was too far-gone to be revived. I felt useless, afraid, and spiritually attacked.
As we trudged through the slums my despair deepened. I was broken, uncomfortable, and spiritual warfare was abounding. At one point, the ground beneath us was covered in shards of glass. I looked down to notice the boys to my right and left were walking barefoot, as I was walking in my nice pair of Nike’s. The juxtaposition cut like the shards.
Ashamed of my reactions, I succumbed to the feelings of my flesh. I wanted to be strong; I wanted to be light; but all I could think about was the moment I could escape. I wanted to flee fast and hard from this place instead of poring out to the very people Jesus would live among. I wanted to stay in my bubble where “being Jesus” was safe and easy. Not this. I didn’t ask for this.
As our van later drove us from the slums I couldn’t help but feel relieved, but dread soon followed by the thought of returning in two days.
I did not want to return.
But God met me in my struggle. He pressed on my heart over the next two days to trust him. Trust that he was present in the slums. Trust that he could use me, even if I didn’t feel like it. Trust that I had work to do there, and that He would give me the strength. His voice overpowered the voice of Satan.
“Being Jesus” is not always fun. Most of the time it leads you to dark places. Often you don’t even feel like you are making a difference, but sometimes it’s just about showing up, loving, and hugging the forgotten. It’s about going through the awkwardness of a language barrier, and “just being” with someone who no one wants to “just be” with. It’s remembering that if we have nothing else in common with someone, we DO have the most important thing in common: we are children of God. It’s realizing that prayer is the most powerful weapon we have. Even when our words fail, prayer can bring hope and revolution.
Two days later we returned. This time was different. This time I was armored with prayer, love, and patience. God gave me his eyes and his heart to see his hurting children. What first filled me with fear has now become a part of ministry I look forward to each week, and I can’t imagine my month in Uganda without.
I thank the Lord for restoration in the slums and in me.
