There is Always Hope

Hopeful William

William stands in the hot Africa sun, squinting up at me.

“There is always hope.” he says flashing a smile.

“Yes, there is always hope.” I agree.  “William, may I take your picture?  I want to remember your story.”

“Yes.  And then I will write my story for you so you won’t forget.”  He smiles again and I feel my face mirror his.

This is William’s story.

When William was thirteen, he and his two older sisters were abducted from school by the Lord’s Resistance Army.  They were enslaved for 4 months, forced to carry weapons and heavy loads of food and other supplies.  They marched all day and slept in the open at night, sometimes marching straight through the nights, never uttering a word of complaint.  Complaining meant death.  Marching meant life and maybe even a little food.

But William was smart, is smart.  He knew he could escape if they were ambushed by the government army.  During ambushes, everyone ran in all directions, firing in all directions, not paying attention to the children.  And so William and his sisters waited for an ambush.  When one came, William ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

William stares at the ground and stops telling his story.  William made it back home.  His sisters did not.  He tells me he is still waiting for word from them.  William is 19 now.  He meets my gaze and I press my lips together, folding them into my mouth, unwilling to say the words that he can't.

Upon returning home, William found that his parents had divorced.  What marriage could survive the abduction of three children?  William's father couldn't stand by any longer and joined the government army in opposition to the LRA.

Shortly after their father joined the military, their mother passed away, leaving William and his older brother to care for each other.  When they would see their father, they’d beg him to stay home to raise them, to quit fighting and take care of them.  But their father could not, could not let the LRA continue to rape Uganda of her children.

William’s father was shot in the arm with a bullet filled with acid and didn't recover from his injury.  He passed away leaving William and his brother orphaned in every sense of the word.

William pauses and I offer my condolences, weak words that can't begin to match the loss of his father, mother and sisters.  William puts his hand on mine.

"All God's servants pass through hard conditions.  Glory, glory be to God who lifts us up."

I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to digest this proclamation of glory in the wake of devastation.  I wonder if I would be so quick to praise God after such hardship.  I know the answer and swallow the ugly truth back down.

William graduated from high school in November, 2011.  He works at that school now as an assistant in their science lab.  He will attend community college or university next year where he'll earn a degree in business.  His brother, now a local pastor, is happily married with seven children.

William smiles talking about his nieces and nephews.  In their faces he sees the future of Uganda.

And it’s a good future.  Because of men like William who know that in the harrowing shadow of loss, there is always hope.

Honeyrun

Honeyrun.  Even the name brings goosebumps to my arms.  It's one of those words that I feel like I have to utter in hushed, reverent tones.  Honeyrun is the towering mountain on the Chico Wildflower bike ride.  We go way back and my memories of Honeyrun are anything but sweet.  There was the time I couldn't ride all the way to the top and had to hoof it for miles.  Then there was the time my pants kept falling down, showing a full moon in broad daylight.  These memories are punctuated by frustrated grunts and unchurchly words spewed while my legs and lungs threatened to collapse.

Today I faced Honeyrun again.  The morning was cool and the fog that sometimes masks the valley below was nowhere to be found.  I'd begun the ride early enough that I had Honeyrun mostly to myself.  I dropped into my lowest gear, spinning slow, careful circles, craning my neck to see the pieces of the valley that had previously been kept secret from me.  The green of the trees was the deep green of growth, of roots pressing down into the soil and drinking deep.  Everything was hushed, save for the quiet rhythm of my legs pressing and pulling my pedals.

Each year, people spray paint messages over the gritty asphalt of the road.  This year someone had spray painted the words "hope and serenity".  As the words passed underneath my tires, I pondered them, savored them in my mouth like a rich chocolate.  Amazingly enough, I was not out of breath and I chatted with other cyclists who passed me or the occasional cyclist that I happened to pass.  But mostly I kept to the quiet of my mind, thinking of hope and serenity.

I thought of how I hoped the crest of the hill was just around the next corner.  I thought of how serene Honeyrun really is before she is crushed by throngs of neon clad cyclists, carving her corners and cursing her voluptuous hills.  I thought of how hope is hard to have in the envelope of grief.  I thought of how serenity has eluded me so much of the year.  And yet here they were, serenity and hope, rising up from the pavement to greet me on Honeyrun.

Further up someone had painted the Olympic rings and the Olympic Creed "Citius, Altius, Fortius."  Swifter.  Higher.  Stronger.  I know the Olympic Creed because my grandmother and I talked about it during the last winter games.  I wished I could send her a picture of the Olympic motto, painted yellow against the black asphalt.  How appropriate to be pressed with being swifter, higher and stronger here on this particular road that was carrying me higher until I touched the top of the treeline.  And the simple act of turning the cranks over again and again was making me stronger right here, right now.  As for swifter, well there's just no hope of that.

And there I was again, thinking of hope and serenity.  I thought of how serene my grandmother looked when she was asleep and I kissed her goodnight one last time.  I thought of Psalm 31:24.  "Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD."  I thought of how my heart was keeping time so effortlessly up this climb.

Before I knew it all of this thinking and pedaling brought the crest within sight.  I was sorry to leave the beauty of the valley, sorry to turn onto a regular road void of words to ponder.  I looked over my shoulder at Honeyrun splayed out behind me and for a second I thought about riding back down and pressing up that mountain again.  Instead I took my heart, full of hope and serenity, and pedaled to the top, making sure my pedal strokes were just a little bit swifter than before.