To love a land

I arrived at the park close to dusk, my tall daughter already performing acrobatics on the swing with her friends, my son and small daughter meandering close behind me. We had been there only a few minutes when my Ugandan friend turned to me and asked, “Where are you tonight? You are here, but your mind is somewhere else. Where is it?” I looked at her, and with a smile we both said simply, “Home.” It was a reminder to me that I live in a land of transplants, a neighborhood of people whose origins lie elsewhere. Some, like me, are just passing through, but for others one year turns into two which turns into a decade, and when, I wonder, do those grafted roots take hold?

We recently returned from a two-week trip to Zambia to visit my uncle and aunt and a pile of cousins in a place called Macha, a rural community nestled in the southern provinces of the country. Our travels there and back were epic—our return trip alone required one long bus ride, two plane flights, five taxis, and 29 hours to complete… about the same amount of time it takes to travel from Australia to the United States. But our time in Macha with family was precious. The kids climbed trees and swung around the front porch pole; my good husband went bird-watching and star-gazing; I soaked up the sunny skies and long talks with people I love dearly. We toured the hospital where my doctor-uncle works and listened to his stories of battles waged against measles, malaria, and AIDS. We made frequent trips to a nearby eatery that sold fresh fritters, balls of fried dough, which we dipped into sweet hot tea. And we walked for miles on the reddish-brown dirt paths, down to the dam and up to the water tower, over to the local church and international school, and all around to visit friends of the family, who welcomed us graciously and fed us generously. Some of my favorite moments in the trip came as we listened to the Zambian people sing—the choirs at church, dancing and harmonizing beautifully, and the orphans and boarding students at the international school, who stood around the campfire and belted out songs with voices bigger than their bodies.

One late afternoon, returning from visiting friends on a farm an hour away, we entered Macha in a cloud of dust and in the glory of the setting sun. (It is winter in Zambia now, the cool and dry season, so while I am told that the landscape is green when the rains come, that color now seems a far-off dream. Browns and reds dominate the flat and sparsely vegetated terrain, and the setting sun is an orb of fire melting color across the horizon.) My aunt sat behind me in the van, and as we bumped along the dirt road, she gazed out and said, “At this time of day, I think this land is achingly beautiful.”

I was struck by her comment, not merely by the truth of what she said but by the love behind those words. She spoke of the Zambian landscape as my Ugandan friend and I speak of home; she spoke not merely with the passing appreciation of a visitor, but with the love born of a thousand sunsets—the love of a transplant grown roots in foreign soil.

Six months ago, I began this blog with a verse from Psalm 90, which talks about the God who is our home, our “everlasting dwelling place.” And I still believe that with all my heart—that the God in whom we live and move and have our being longs for us to find a home in him. But in my sojourn of the last six months, I have recognized anew how we as humans are also made to love a land, a place, a patch of earth, to find a sense of belonging within a physical space.

We only have two more months to reside in Tanzania, and the nearer our departure date draws, the more I feel like a homing pigeon. I ache to go back to my childhood home, the place where I lived from age 4 to 18, the lovely patch of woods where my parents and extended family still lives. At 32, I have now lived elsewhere as long as I lived there, and I have called many marvelous places home. But after a season of transience, I long for the settled-ness and security of place I knew as a child. I long for next-door grandparents and deep roots for my children.

Yet, by the same token, my journey as a stranger in a strange place has revealed a layer of grace to the transient life. I understand now how in opening doors to other people and cultures you invite whole worlds inside, and how the inevitable goodbyes are the price paid for the beautiful chance to say hello. So here’s to having a home, by birth or by transplant. Here’s to some dear readers in Macha, Zambia, whose love for that dusty land has carved out an incredibly caring community. And here’s to anyone who has ever dared to love a place and the people in it, fearing loss, facing disappointment, but venturing on in courage and compassion.

May the God who is our home bless your homes, each and every one.