Nomad's Pub

I sit here on the cool cement terrace, surrounded by the palm trees and beautiful tropical flowers and shrubs, breakfasting on Blue Bonnet covered toast and freshly brewed, steaming coffee. Below me rests Kampala, nestled softly in the morning mist covering the valley, like a sleeping child bundled up against the dark and cold. Kampala—the City of Seven Hills, as a sign by the parliament proudly declares.

From my vantage, the quietness of the morning seeps into my consciousness till I feel as much at peace and rest as the city below appears. Even at this early hour, though, I know that should I wander into its closer precincts, I would find it very much awake—teeming with life as the markets open, the hawkers raise their voices not yet hoarse, and the matatu’s honk their way through already bustling, narrow streets.

But I do not wander down, and instead continue to sip quietly from my coffee, aware of the awakening city but far removed from its fray.

It is strange to me sometimes, this city. Strange in its striking familiarity. If I believed in reincarnation, perhaps I might believe myself to have lived here once before, though this city as it is cannot be that much older than myself today.

Coming here—breathing this air and pacing these streets—why? What brought me here? Yes, my studies. Yet, why here to this place particularly, at this present time, this very now?

I watch the dawning sun poke its still gentle rays through the mist, light spreading slowly across the valley floor, reflecting off the minarets of the mosques and the windows of the high rises. Beautiful. Can I say more to describe it?

I know I came here seeking vision. A vision. I know not of what. And I am aware that, like the dawn, a vision is indeed creeping slowly—stealing softly—into my heart. Though I cannot as yet see in its light, I begin to feel its growing presence there.

Tell me, I asked someone the other week, what does the map of your life look like? She, a woman of strength and character, whom I deeply respect even after so short an acquaintance, replied she did not know, except that it all seemed very disjointed to her. This feeling I know well. Has my life not also seemed this way? Been this way?

Here I sit, nigh on 22 years, and the map of my life has taken me to seven countries already—this being my eighth—in which I have lived or studied or worked for varying but deeply relevant periods of time. And how many continents does that make now—4! And how many different schools and educational systems? How many cultures and languages? And what—what, I ask, have they all in common? Have they anything? My life, yes, also seems very disjointed. Even who I am one place many not be—usually is not—who I am in another, at least not at first glance.

Now here I am, in this yet another world. In this city where it seems I have somehow seen or known or understood or faced everything without having ever set foot on its red earth before. What, what hidden treasure does this place, the “Pearl of Africa,” have for me? I will not go away unsatisfied.

And that—might that be the key? Such a simple concept; satisfaction. What makes us satisfied? In the places I have lived, I have surely not always tasted the sweetness of satisfaction, of contentment. Yet who is at fault for that save myself?

Looking at the city, I know I can as easily be satisfied and joyful—content—here as dissatisfied and unhappy. Here or anywhere, even.

I believe that life is always offering us its fullness, and the great blessings thereof, but as with any offering, they must be first accepted to be enjoyed. I do not think everything in life is good or easy or comforting—my own tears would quickly make a mockery of such a lie. But I do believe, fervently; passionately, that there may spring good from the greatest evil; flow joy in the midst of deepest sorrow; peace in the worst uncertainty; and satisfaction in the most difficult of situations.

Vision is not seeing but believing. It is inexorably tied to hope. Hope is what we hold onto when all else fails. Hope in what? That answer determines whether our hope itself will fail and we fall into despair along with its ashes.

Joy springs from a faithfully held hope—a hope that is faithful and fails not; a hope we cherish and hold fast to no matter what, no matter where. Joy then, is not easily come by, but it is the most natural result, and perhaps the greatest reward, of a faith-filled, faithful life.

In a film I watched growing up (Anne of Green Gables, I think), one line in particular has long stood out to me; “To despair is to turn your back on God.” I do not know at this particular moment that I agree entirely with this definition, but I do agree that despair occurs when we fail to hold onto hope—onto the only hope which will not fail us, and the many promises of that great hope.

When we find ourselves beginning to despair, to feel hopeless, and to wander in the darkness of our own minds, we must stop and give ourselves a jolt. To what are we facing if we no longer see hope?

Hope is unshakeable, infallible, if it is the hope of God. And that being such, then it has not moved. Thus if we do not see it anymore, that fault is our own. Hope does not depend; it is dependable. God is dependable. He Is, and He alone.

And now I go back; back to the me sitting on a terrace overlooking a strange and strangely familiar city, deep in the heart of Africa. Back to the me seeking after a new vision. After a vision. After God’s vision, for my life. Do I know yet what it is? Have I “found” it yet? No, I think not, though again, I do believe it is beginning to grow in me.

But for now, for this moment, for this me looking out at the glorious sunrise over the hills, maybe there has been at least a lesson learned? Something spoken in the silence here?

I can be content; I can be discontent. I can have joy or I can reject it. I can choose to like and eat a certain food or I can wrinkle my nose and allow myself the displeasure of disliking it.

It is a simple thing… that life and love and peace and joy and true satisfaction do not revolve around where we are, what we have or do, nor whom we are with; but rather how we, in the deepest, greatest, most central part of our very being, our ousia, abide. Do we abide in the hope of God? This is our daily; nay, our moment by moment and breath by breath decision. And it is this choosing, this willing, this being that sets for us both the course and the satisfaction of our lives.

Our lives may be disjointed. We hurt; we ache, we puzzle and cry. We fail to understand. We get caught up in everything we are taught—both deliberately and unconsciously—matters. We hold on; fight, plot, and scheme; reaching for the light and groping blindly in the darkness. We forget, and so we lose.

But the truth is so simple.

Satisfaction is not in what we make in, of, or bring to life, but in accepting with open—if not yet joyful—heart the life God gives to us, and living that life in the hope of His unbroken and unbreakable promises.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,’ declares the Lord.” ~Jeremiah 29:11-14

“‘I took you from the ends of the earth, from its farthest corners I called you. I said, “You are my servant;” I have chosen you and have not rejected you. So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’” ~Isaiah 41: 9-10