Dear Uganda...

Leaving Uganda was so, so hard. I can't even put into words how painful it was to leave. And it was - painful, confusing, uncomfortable. I think I am still in shock! Often, missionary counselors explain the process as that of a plant being uprooted and replanted - sometimes roots break and the new pot, even though there is more room to grow than that of your smaller pot, can be uncomfortable at first. But even this idea can't capture the complexity of leaving Uganda. It's kind of like ripping off a band aid from your arm; it can painful, sudden, happen quickly or it can be an agonizing, slow, and drawn-out process. You can never really be prepared for such a transition (Oh, I am so tired of that word). I never really thought that the day would come when I would actually leave Uganda. It's been my home since I could remember, and I just always envisioned me living there forever. (And yes, Uganda will always be home in a way no matter how long I stay outside of its boarders) But it's as if a part of me has died since leaving Uganda. Something is missing. And truly, it's a process of grieving over something lost. Grieving over the life, the relationships, the days that will never be the same. All I have to hold on to is memories - memories of times I wish would never end.  

Craft shopping one last time in Entebbe.

Goodbye, Uganda. Thank you for accepting me as one of your own. Thank you for giving me a home, a community, a church. Thank you being the perfect world for my imagination. Thank you for teaching me your culture. Thank you for showing me that a simple life focused on God does exist in this busy world. Thank you for all that you've taught me over the years and for molding me to who I am now. All my love, Grace.

Look out Michigan, here I come! 

While preparing to leave and processing what it means to say goodbye to Uganda for a time, I came up with a couple things people don't talk about when you first step back into your passport country. (This is just three things out of the hundreds!) 

• The first thing that many people don't mention is how foreign you feel a country that is supposed to be your "home". Missionary kids spend most of their lives in a different country or countries. Even though they look like their parents and may even have the same accent as their parents, many mks don't share their parents' culture. For example, I look and sound American. My blonde hair and white skin don't allow me to blend in in Uganda no matter how hard I try. However, no matter how much I resemble other Americans or try to use American phrases in the right context (which doesn't happen often) I will never be fully American simply because the majority of my life was spent in a different culture. Upon arrival to the United States, most people expect me to feel at home and for everything to feel familiar. However, this is just not the case. The first couple days are the hardest as I usually feel like a fish out of water (Look at that, I used an American phrase!!!). I feel like a foreigner simply because my "home country" is not my home. There is always a sense relief when I return to Uganda; everything feels familiar. 

•  The second thing is how invisible you seem in a room full of people who look like you. As I mentioned above, I am used to standing out everywhere I go in Uganda. Living in and visiting rural villages, I am usually one of the first white teenage girls seen. And my long curly blonde hair surely doesn't help me blend in. Walking down the street in Uganda, I feel like I have a spotlight on me and no matter how hard I try to blend in, it seems as though all eyes turn to watch me. Let's be honest, we are pretty entertaining trying to speak the language and participate in normal life; it's got to be funny to watch. Coming to America, I feel so small, so invisible as many people have the same skin color as me and half of them have blonde hair. I know I am not "just another white person with blonde hair", I am completely unique, and I do have something special to offer. But coming from a community where I can count on two hands the amount of white people around me, I do feel slightly invisible. 

•  The last thing that is ignored is how scattered your brain is because you can suddenly understand all the words and conversations around you. I never realized that I actually felt this way until I looked back on the many times I stood in the American immigration line in the airport. In Uganda I am used to hearing a different language being spoken or shouted around me. While I can understand a good amount of this language, I can easily tune it out because I have to concentrate in order to interpret the words into English in my mind. The first days after arriving in America, my mind is very distracted because I can suddenly understand every word from every conversation around me without having to translate in my head.