Today was the first day of Spring semester, and I’m already feeling the weight of it. Not because my classes have any heavier work load, or crazy hours, but because of the content. My spirit is heavy with the same heaviness I feel when I watch the news reports about Haiti or spend a couple days wandering around Manila. The feeling of being helpless. Of not being able to do enough. Or comprehend the enormity of the problems surrounding me. The feeling of being hopeless. Lost. Of asking, “How?” and “Why?” and “What if?” even when I know I have the Hope of the world.

More than that, it’s the the feeling, the thought, that maybe I don’t really know what the problem is. Maybe I’ve been lied to. Maybe my perception is completely distorted, not even a reflection of reality. The realization that maybe I am a little more racist than I thought. That maybe I am selfish and prejudice and a little bit ugly inside. Please don’t try to make me feel better about this, I’m just being raw and open and real and writing my thoughts as they come. By no means is this an attempt to get people to help me feel better about myself.

From the time I was little I have loved Africa. I hate to say it that way, but it’s true. I hate it because I hate it when other people that I consider to be ignorant and less educated on the topic than myself say that they love it. I hate it because they treat Africa like a country. Or they have a fantasy about changing the world and rescuing a starving, impoverished child. Sometimes I have myself convinced that my reasons for loving Africa are better, more developed. I’ve been there. I’ve lived there. But even in saying these things I lump it all together, make it one entity. Maybe because I know that’s how people in my culture relate to it. Because if I say “When I was in Burundi…” or, “My friend Sarah is a Teso,” there is usually no one who can follow my story.

Why do I love Africa so? Because I see her beauty and her potential. Because my whole life I have prayed for her. Because I believe the the message of Jesus really can change her when it’s not twisted and used to abuse people. This is true of many places though, including my own country. People here are messed up and need Jesus’ message too. And while I may not have prayed for the United States as much, I definitely have spent many hours praying for revival here as well. So why is my love for Africa deeper? Why do I sometimes hate that the color of my skin is not black? The need is everywhere, so why this distant land?

The truth might be that I need Africa more than Africa needs me. That might not be just my truth, but the world’s. Maybe that’s why we inhibit her progress by “helping” her. We give, but only so we can take more, and only when our requirements are met. But even after years of our giving, what change do we see? We feel better about ourselves, both individually and as “the West” because we are moved by some images of starving children and throw our money at them? We feel better because we’ve done our good deed to “save the Dark Continent”?

I have a feeling this semester might produce more questions than answers. It’s a scary process. Hard questions must be asked. I don’t even know what I just wrote and will probably need to delete this tomorrow. For now, I will wrestle these questions until I fall asleep.