After Bible class at a west texas church a man asked “Do you miss it, over there?” He paused for a moment and with a concerned tone in his voice went on with his questions. “Do you even call that home?”

I was taken back by his question because if I recall right, he was an active member of the church that sent us there in 1995.

My mind raced around trying to think of how to answer. What did he mean by “Do you even call that home?”

My answer may have come out a little stuttered. “We...we’ve lived there for over seventeen years! Of course it’s home.”

He was satisfied with that and moved on to greeting people. I felt...my emotions stirring. The emotion was coming from deep inside... I was misunderstood.

It was more than just  the frustration of trying to navigate American small talk which has become harder with each furlough. It was  something I love that was being brought into question.

Between Bible class and sermon, there was not time to  defend or explain Uganda and share about all of the beautiful sights, sounds, forests, mountains, birds, animals, plants, lakes, sunsets and people. Or to share about the precious children who call my name, hold my hand and warm my heart. 

There is not time to tell about my friends and those who have let us into their lives. Or all of the bumps and potholes that we have gone through on this road together.

So, I like a respectful Ugandan stayed quiet.

Seventeen years ago we moved to live in Uganda and now Uganda lives in us.