No census for we

Did you know that military families do not fill out a census? I guess the big dogs already have our information and we therefore aren't allowed to be counted among the county we live in.

This is a bit strange to me because a few months after we moved into our home on Eglin AFB, I let a nice old man into our home to answer some questions on his laptop for a "pre-census." Any idea why they would take that information but not this information? If he was on Base, he had to be allowed to be there. Right?

Majorly confused by that one.

Speaking of the census, Broward County here in South Florida has signs up all over the place encouraging people to participate in the 2010 census so that their vote gets counted. I can't imagine how much money the county is spending to ask people to get counted so that they get the funding they needed. But it must be money that they deem worth it in the grand scheme of things.

I realized that being in South Florida is emotionally draining for me -- that I am not the same person here that I am at home. Being out of my routine is part of it I am sure. But I think a big part of it is the hustle and bustle and crime and chaos and traffic and long lines and homeless people and poverty stricken children. It's the rudeness behind the wheel and the lack of eye contact when you pass someone on the sidewalk. Each and every one of these things reminds me that the world is not the bubble I have created in my mind and on Base and in the home I share with my husband and boys.

This is not a comfortable feeling.

How quickly I can forget how good I have it. How good we have it.

It's all relative of course.

I flashback. Africa in 2007. Nigeria. (If you didn't know me when we visited there or didn't know my blog when we visited there, please take the time to read my reflections post by clicking here. It will give you a glimpse into the time we spent in this country.)

It was only three years ago that JB and I were there, walking and living amongst people who lived their faith every minute of the day because that was all they had to live.

A few Tylenol given to a woman lying on an old cot in an open air hut evoked ten minutes of prayers of thanksgiving for the gift we had bestowed. It was only Tylenol. But to this woman, it was a few hours of pain free rest.

A mother asked our friend Ajit to please help her little boy. Ajit spoke with her but then turned to me and told me that the little boy had a disease of the liver. He would only survive with a liver transplant of which there was none available in a country like Nigeria. "Will he die?" I asked, already knowing the answer. He was only seven years old. His eyes were yellow and his stomach distended. He probably did not live until Christmas. Unless there was a miracle. And when it comes to the way these people prayed, I never had doubts that there could be one.

A free clinic caused lines so long I could not see to the end of them. When our American doctors took a lunch break, they sat down and waited. And we left at the end of the day, there were still people in line who had not been seen. We were reminded that if we got burned out, we did no one any good. So we had to stop at some point.

I went to use the restroom and a man offered to clean it for me first. Afterwards he asked me if I was a physician. Could I help him? I wasn't, but due to his kindness in cleaning the restroom, I brought him to my husband. He was resourceful. He was getting through the line that he'd never get through.

I met another woman who had never in her life seen a white person. Her hand shook as she reached it out to me to touch my skin. She was terrified.

Infertility was a grave burden to these beautiful people. They saw children as a necessity and infertility was seen as incredibly devastating. Each person who met JB and I would always ask where our children were. I would tell them we didn't have any. They would say, "How long have you been married?" When I said ten years, their faces would drop, and they would ask me if I knew Jesus. "Yes, of course," I would tell them. And then they would tell me they needed to pray. This happened dozens of time throughout our Nigerian adventures. It even happened in the security screening at the airport when we were leaving! At one point, an entire room of people stopped to pray for me. Dr. Chris recorded the date and time and woman who had prayed somewhere because when I emailed him two years later to tell him we were expecting a baby, he reminded me of the date they prayed and who prayed and what she had prayed.

Faith was all they had. And as a result, it was as big as they were. Huger than we can understand. It's easy to say you have faith when you can go to the grocery store or doctor or dentist and get your problem taken care of without a moment's thought. But when you can only rely on God, you really have to rely.

Burn victims in the hospital's ICU were only able to have their bandages changed if their family paid additional money. Their meals and changes of sheets on their bed were the responsibility of the groups of people who loved them lining the courtyards outside the walls of the hospital. The ICU required us to take off our shoes upon entering. There was nothing electrical in the entire room. I am not sure what made it an ICU.

While there, you couldn't help but be reminded that you are incredibly fortunate. That life for everyone is not like the life you live.

Returning to South Florida is nothing like Nigeria. Please don't misunderstand. But it is still a reminder to me of how much our world needs Christ. And that is painful. It pricks you. It reminds you that you are not doing enough. That you need to do more. That people need Christ. It is sad to me. And I don't like to be sad. I think my bubble is a safe place to be. My bubble makes me forget that not everyone has their housing paid for and their basic needs met.

I think it is good sometimes to not be comfortable.

Isn't that when change occurs?