BY SARI FORDHAM
NAMED THE GUAVA TREE IN OUR BACKYARD Bertha, after a great-aunt
I half remembered. Bertha was my favorite climbing tree. Her branches started
out low and extended toward a brilliant sky. My older sister, Sonja, and I would
scamper up the trunk, toes pushing against the gray bark. Once at the top, we
would sit for hours telling stories and eating guavas. Our legs, brown and dotted
with mosquito bites, pumped the air like pistons.
My parents were missionaries in Uganda at Bugema College (now
Bugema University). My father was tall and thin. His wavy hair inched past the
collar of a dark suit. Between classes he marched up and down the hill to our
house. Once a small boy announced that he had seen Jesus passing. My father
must have looked imposing, almost holy.
In contrast, my mom was small and girlish. She wore sundresses
and liked to sleep late. She had grown up in postwar Finland and hadn't seen
a banana until she was 10. Now she dried bananas, cooked bananas, sliced bananas
over cereal; she even made banana juice.
For six years we lived at the top of the hill. I was a baby
when we arrived, ready to start first grade when we left. It was an enchanting
childhood. We had no television, no telephone, often no electricity; water was
precious, and snakes were plentiful. It might not sound like paradise, but for
an inquisitive child there was much to see and do.
Our house was surrounded by a lush tangle of trees, shrubs,
and elephant grass. The colors were brilliant. Every tree seemed to flower,
from the pink bougainvillea to the creamy plumeria. Bright yellow and red birds
swooped by the house while monkeys chattered high in the trees. Amid all this
was the slow-moving chameleon. It was naturally green, but it could change to
red, yellow, or black. I loved to carry one on an extended finger, setting it
on different things—watching it adjust to new environments.
At night our family gathered around the dining room table. It
was our special ritual. Sonja and I would be damp from our baths. My mom would
pass around mugs of hot chocolate.
It was dark outside. Bullfrogs croaked in the jungle, and an
occasional owl would hoot. The yellow glow from the lamp cast long shadows across
the wall. Our faces, alive with warmth, leaned toward one another. We were together
in the same way that people are when they go camping. With what seemed like
miles of jungle around us, we were completely isolated from the rest of the
world.
I was 7 when we left Bugema. I didn't feel sorrow; instead,
I was wiggly. My nose pressed against the window of our Ford station wagon.
I couldn't comprehend that I was saying goodbye. I couldn't foresee that it would be years before I came back.
I couldn't know what I would lose.
How Life Changes
Now I'm 27, and I'm finally returning to my home in Uganda. The sun is high
in the sky when I step out of the bus. The clouds that had threatened rain earlier
have blown north, revealing a canopy of blue.
I'm dusty from the two-hour trip down red dirt roads. I'm stiff,
rumpled, and thrilled to be here. I tug impatiently at my dress. In many ways
I'm the same kid who loved to climb trees.
But so much else has changed. A year ago my mother passed away. My father just
got remarried. My sister lives in South Korea. And I've recently finished graduate
school. The changes of this past year have left me reeling, unanchored.
Now I gaze at Bugema University, and I don't recognize a thing.
The lawn is neatly trimmed, and palm trees line the sidewalk. It's registration
day. Students chat in front of brick buildings. I pull out my camera and snap
a few pictures. I could be anywhere.
I don't linger on campus. It's our house I'm anxious to see.
It doesn't matter that someone else lives there. It doesn't matter that life
is a stream, that you can never step in the same water twice. I'm beyond deep
thoughts. Like a little girl, I just want to go home.
My breath catches as I near our hill. House and trees and pastures
are beginning to make sense. Here is where the dairy was.
Here is where Sonja and I spilled the milk as we carried it home. Here
is where our family took Sabbath afternoon walks. Here is where we lived, a
family.
I walk faster as I plunge up the hill. The slope is gentler than I remember.
But the crunch of the road and the loamy smell of trees and dirt are the same.
The canopy of leaves is so thick that the road is plunged in shadow. Only tiny
patches of sun spill through.
Questions for Reflection
1. What are your most pleasant childhood memories? What
people had the most positive influence on your young life?
2. If you could go back to a particular time in your
life, what would it be? What made it special?
3. How does the knowledge that God led you in the past
make it easier to face the future?
4. What memories are you creating today to which your
friends and family will look back with fondness? How does being a Christian
help in creating those memories?
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There's a bend in the road, and beyond in the open sun is our
house—squat, square, with bricks as red as lipstick. The water tank glistens.
Orange, pink, and creamy flowers hang from lush trees. I lift up my long skirt
and walk dreamlike toward the house. I long to see moments of the past replayed—like
clippings from some mystic movie.
Would I recognize the two little girls tearing across the grass?
Or the young mother with clothespins in her mouth, hanging up the wash? It's
startling, but she would be only a few years older than I am now.
A teenage boy rounds the corner and catches me taking pictures.
The current owners of this house are at camp meeting, but they have invited
me to look around. Their son doesn't seem to know. "Good afternoon,"
he says quizzically. "Are you lost?"
"Oh, no," I reply. "I used to live here."
The explanation seems inadequate. "I lived here when I was this big."
I hold my hand down near my waist.
"Welcome," he says. His face lights up like we're
long lost friends. "Welcome home." He waves his hands, encouraging
me to look around.
I circle the house like a hungry lion. The jungle has been cut
down on three sides, revealing a newly built primary school. Noise from the
children's lessons blends with the singing birds.
As I pass the garage, I decide to search for Bertha. I'll climb her, I think.
I'll slip off my sandals and leave them at the base of her trunk. I'll push
my toes into the cool bark. I might even shed my good manners and eat a guava,
biting into the pink heart.
But Bertha is gone.
When so much else has changed, why should one tree make a difference?
But it does. I want to sit down on the grass and weep for everything I've lost.
But I've always hated crying. Instead, I stand frozen like Lot's wife, forever
looking back—longing for what I used to have.
Ever since my mom died, I feel like I've been living my life
backward, pushing my thoughts to how things were, wishing for what can no longer
be. I used to be a happy girl, but now I hate the present. I miss my mother.
The sharp pain of losing her has been replaced with an empty ache. I don't have
the strength to live in the present. I know it's not good to long for the past,
but how do I let go? How do I go on living? How do I face the future, let alone
make choices about it?
I remember a Bible verse I memorized when I was a child. "And,
lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world" (Matt. 28:20).
I sit down in the shadow of my house and allow myself to feel
the warmth of God's love. Surrounded by the past, I focus on now, on here—on
the breeze touching my face, on the singing birds, on the voices of children,
on God's presence, on His promise to stay with me always. Always. Even to the end of the world. I sit on emerald grass and gather courage. Soon I will walk down the hill and start living.
_________________________
Sari Fordham wrote this while she was an intern with ADRA/Uganda. She is
now earning a postgraduate degree from the University of Minnesota.
