It is March 14, 2013 and I have spent my last days at bush camp. I had a lot of mixed emotions about leaving.
Outdoor shower!
I confess mostly I was glad to be returning to a less rustic way of living. Carrying a 40 lb Jerry can of water down hill to an outdoor shower stall so I could pour cold water into a large bucket to wash off with, to stepping into an indoor shower stall and turning on the warm water; well, let’s just say it was kinda hard to teach this 64 year old grandmother a new way of doing things.
Filling up the Jerry cans!
(By the way, the name Jerry cans originated with the Germans during WW II. They came to be called Jerrycans which was a snide name for the German soldiers.)
And concerning that infamous latrine? When I walked away from that outhouse, I never looked back. And that’s all I am going to say on the subject!
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Three parts of my heart!
Of course, there were many more things I was going to miss. First and foremost was my son, grandson, and daughter in law. I was going to miss the opportunities to make memories (I’m big on that) with them. Soon, I would no longer be able to reach out and touch them physically. (Any reaching out and touching them after this would have to be accomplished electronically!)
I was going to miss getting to know the people they ministered with and ministered to. I would not get to experience watching those relationships blossom and become more dear. I would not get to watch the effect that coming to know Christ would have on new believers there. I would not get to be present when God gloriously answered prayers that I knew were heavy on the hearts of my son and his team.
But as I prepared to leave bush camp remembering the high points and even the emotional, physical, and spiritual struggles I endured and being somewhat disappointed in myself because I did not rise above them more successfully, I did not know then that it would be after I got back home before the lessons contained within the whole of my missionary experience would begin to take root.
So, off to base camp we ventured where I would pack up and begin my long journey home. But that wasn’t to be the final event of my stay there. For malaria was yet to strike again!
Being the Mom of a Missionary 