Gift Exchange

“One must know not just how to accept a gift, but with what grace to share it.”
Maya Angelou


This past week has been a bit of a blur. After two mechanical errors, an unexpected overnight in LA, and a scenic detour through both Seattle and Portland, my plane finally touched down in Bend approximately 66 hours after I left my hotel in Kampala. My family didn't recognize me at first as I entered the baggage carousel area in my new "I Heart LA" sweatsuit, a desperation purchase in the LAX Airport Hilton gift shop.
After a quick nap, I figured I'd be a as good as new or maybe as good as slightly used. Anyway, I thought I'd be fine. Jeff and I both took a nap. When we woke up an hour later, I was fine. Unfortunately, Jeff was not. At first, I thought it was just a "Man Cold," a psychological virus designed to solicit sympathy, guilt, chicken soup, and a back rub. One visit to the ER, a round of MRi's, catscans, blood tests and a spinal tap later, it was confirmed that Jeff had shingles, meningitis, and a bleeding ulcer. He is home and healing. I am playing nurse, a much easier job in Bend than Kasana.
I had intended to write a heartfelt grand finale blog to share with you all. I wanted to wrap up all of my experiences in a beautiful package, tie it with a bow, and send it out as a parting gift to the universe. Jeff's crazy quarantine has kept me away from my computer. Perhaps that has been his gift to me (there must have been an easier way, honey), because it allowed me time to realize that the universe isn't looking for a thank you gift. Patience, Faith, Miriam, Bubeera...the gifts the universe so generously shared with me while in Uganda cannot be wrapped in paper or witty one liners. The universe showered me with the gift of stories, so many heart-warming and heart-wrenching stories in their original unedited, uncut versions. My gift back to the universe has been to pass them on, to create a bridge between these worlds with my words. This week, I unpacked my dirty duffel bag and began washing the red clay earth from all of my clothes, but the stories are still folded carefully inside my heart. They are stained with blood, tears, sweat, jackfruit juice, and rich red clay. They smell of life and of death. These are the stories I will continue to tell, the gifts I will keep passing on. I am realizing that "witnessing the world" can mean listening with our hearts and speaking with our hearts as well as seeing with our hearts. I am reminded of the Maya Angelou quote from an earlier post, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." I am hoping together we can relieve the agony of so many untold stories, the stories of Patience, Faith, Miriam, Bubeera intertwined with the stories of you and me. A neverending story, an everlasting gift.