When we arrived in Kamuli (town in Uganda) late at night, I began to feel sick. By the next morning, I had a fever—my body ached, my head throbbed, and my eyes were heavy. I tried my best to participate in our morning worship session, but it was a struggle. One of our leaders pulled me aside and prayed for me, asking the Lord to teach me through the sickness. He encouraged me to focus not on what was happening inside me, but on what was happening around me.
As the day went on, I tried to stay prayerful and aware—paying attention to the movement of people, their expressions, their energy, and the atmosphere around me.
That same day, the Kamuli community played a soccer match against our Kenyan/U.S team. I brought a chair and came to watch. Crowds of young kids gathered around to see the game. One little girl—about six years old—came and sat on my lap. The moment I looked into her eyes, I could tell something was wrong. Her silence didn’t seem like simple shyness. It was the kind that comes from pain.
As I held her, I began to feel the heat radiating from her body. When I touched her neck, I was shocked. Her skin was burning hot—especially her arms, face, and neck—even though she hadn’t been in the sun. I had never felt human skin this hot. I gently poured some water over her to cool her down. Eventually, she laid her head on me and started to fall asleep. Each breath came with a wheeze. She was so, so sick. I hugged her as we both fevered and tried to stay awake for this game.
In that moment, so many things came into perspective. This little girl would go home and likely not receive any medical attention. She wouldn’t have three different adults tending to every detail of her illness. She wouldn’t have a community of friends checking in, asking if she was okay.
When the game ended, her mother came to get her. She placed a chubby baby—her sister—on the back of the feverish girl, and they walked home. In Africa, pain and sickness are not pauses in life. They are something to be carried heavy on your shoulders as you continue with your responsibilities.
As we walked back, my eyes filled with tears, blurring my vision. Mr. Garner encouraged me to look at the conditions of the homes we were passing. A lot was put into perspective that day. Upon reflection, I’m deeply thankful for the way the Lord used my small sickness to open my eyes. I’ll forever be praying for that beautiful, God-fearing community.