Monday, April 25, 2011

USA, here I come!

Check out my speaking schedule for the USA. Can't wait to see you all!  Let me know if you wanna catch up over some Starbucks. Yum! :)
Love, Sarita 


May 10- Land in San Francisco, CA (stay until 22nd of May)

May 17- Imani Jewelry Party, East Bay, (Near Pleasanton)

May 18-Tyson's birthday

May 19- Imani Jewelry Party- San Francisco, CA

May 23- Land in Virginia

May 25- Imani Jewelry Party, DC/Northern VA, 7pm

May 26- Meet supporters/churches in NOVA

May 27- Charlottesville

June 1- Horizon Church, Harrisonburg, VA, 7pm

June 3- My birthday

June 5- Harvest Renewal Church, Richmond, VA 10am

June 8- Fly to London

June 9- London

June 10-Belgium

June 26- Fly back to Uganda

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Love Is a Battlefield

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I know how God’s heart breaks now.
I know the fault lines and the wrinkled scars, I know where the flesh is still tender.
I know the jagged points, and the parts that wear a weary smile. And the parts that are blackened with pain like the charred remains of a grass-thatched home.
And I know the angry parts too.
The ones that are bruised crimson and blue with injustice. I know how He takes them all into His heart and holds them there. I know how He cried when I cried when we lost the babies, or had to give back our children, or were persecuted for wanting to help.
How it hurts Him when those we try to love are indifferent.
And I know He holds the joy there too. The future joy, the rains yet to come, the time when heaven will touch earth again and give birth to the dreams we carried through muddy fields and drought.
The scars. I feel them all. I trace the ridges on His heart like a lover’s bullet wound, or the corner of my husband’s dimpled mouth. Beautiful to me. We huddle close through the pain.
He is near to me there, whispering grace in the stillness. He tells Bible stories to bolster my faith.
Be strong, my love, be strong.
His greatest gift wasn’t the cross.
It was the way He took it all—all the abandoned children, all the hardened hearts, all the back handed slaps, and the babies who died too early. All our coldness and our pride and the ways we yearned to do it all ourselves.
He took it all and He still gave—His love, His body, a battlefield of sacrifice.
If it didn’t cost, everything, then it wouldn’t have been love.
The love that greets the widows every morning with a smile, and holds the children close even while they cry, and fixes the husband’s dinner before he gets home. The love that refuses to give up even when they run away, or offer coldness, or are ungrateful of the price that’s paid.
The love that says, I will stay and I will stand though persecuted and criticized for this one radical belief: that this war will not be fought with swords, but with love.
And a measure of faith.
He promised. He promised me. This year, a recovery of what’s been lost. And I will not let the pregnant dreams, or the veiled threats, the rising costs, or the broken women still learning to live as daughters, break my backboned hope. David with his 400 men, taking back what’s been stolen.
They can take. But they cannot beat the love out of me. And we do not shrink back.
We gather the cool, hard stones in the early darkness.
This is my home now too. Gulu, a city of let blood.
We’ve made a pact together like sisters clapsing hands in the woods.
I will die loving the people of this place.
I dream a picture of what will be.
I see their toothy grins handing me crayola drawings. “Mommy, you first see.”
My little emissaries of light.
Yes, I see my loves. I see.

Sunday, April 03, 2011

As silver....


I don't mind the storms in Africa. The thunder thick clouds, the wind-whip and the rumble. 

A split spark of lightening in the blue-bruised sky.

The ferocious thrashing of rain in sheets. The way it washes the dirt clean.

The way the rainy season makes the world reborn. 

And the calm green after. 

But I mind the storms of life. The waiting for miracles. The splintering questions.

Why, Lord?

“I have refined you, but not as silver is refined, rather I have refined you in the furnace of suffering.”

Isaiah 48:10

I spend Friday with Jesus asking Him the questions. Crawling up into His arms, a weary child, a woman in need of comfort. Not knowing why, after prayers, a mother is forced to go to Sudan to sell herself for money and leaves a girl behind, not knowing why the attacks come, or why the miracles feel sparse and my faith dry. Not knowing what to do with a 13 year old girl who shows up at our doorstep afraid to be given away in marriage. Except to keep her. But the numbers seem endless. 

And the guilt of blaming myself is always crushing. It never seems enough.

And He comes. He always comes.

I lean slow into Him and learn. 

I am learning the way absence makes the hunger, insatiable. How the seeking for Him becomes strong. How I learn to need Him more than anything. And can never get enough.

And something else is born here. A strength of spirit. 

My husband comments on it. How what used to devastate me, no longer does. 

That the emotions are calmed into patience. 

How the torrents and the tirades have ceased. How the anger has dissolved into trust. How the disappointments are left at Jesus' feet. How the laughter can still come in the middle of crisis, in-between tears. How the grief seems not so heavy with Him carrying it.

How I am learning to choose joy. 

To ignore the loud grumble.

Somewhere, a part of me is growing up. I marvel at a maturity I didn't know was there. 

When did I become an adult?

As silver...


These tests, somewhere making the soul bright, burning in clarity.And God makes the heart soft again. Makes the muddy world green. 

Injustices melt away at the sound of His voice. Emotions become peace in His presence.

And Heaven is pregnant with the swell of shed tears, ready to burst forth 

a new season.

You will find me praying, make me ready for it, Jesus, 

make me ready.