For the last couple of days of our trip we headed a little deeper into the heart of Uganda and visited a national park adjacent to Murchison Falls. At the time I didn’t understand why those two days were so important, but in retrospect it is perfectly clear that without that decompression period my head would have flown straight off of my body and would now be residing somewhere in the middle of Lake Victoria.

So the decompression time, it was good.

In fact, it was one of the most memorable, wonderful, hysterical, inspiring times of my whole life. I felt absolutely enveloped by God’s grace. For real.

The first afternoon we were there we made a trip to Murchison Falls. We had to take a short ferry ride, then a much longer (and bumpy) van ride, and I sort of expected that we’d tackle the falls like the Griswold family tackled the Grand Canyon in National Lampoon’s Vacation. We’d walk over to the edge, stare for a couple of seconds, snap a few pictures, then head back to the vans.

So you can imagine my surprise when I hopped out of the van and heard the following words: “we’re going to take a 45-minute hike.”

A HIKE.

A HIKE?

Y’all. I was wearing Crocs – which I intially thought would be quite sensible for standing on some dirt and looking at some water and stuff – and some very large, dangly hoop earrings. Not to mention my glasses.

So obviously I was dressed for the occasion.

We started up the first hill, and since I am by nature a pretty fast walker, my strategy was to get up the hill as quickly as possible. However, since the hill was at angle I’m approximating to be around 90 degrees, my speed was quickly diminished by the sheer effort of putting one foot in front of the other.

In fact, I was a little incredulous that I was being asked to climb this particular hill WITHOUT THE AID OF A ROPE, but I was bound and determined that I was not going to be the 30-something mama who couldn’t keep up with the rest of the pack.

And do you know how long I was “bound and determined”? For a full minute. Oh yes I was.

And when that minute was over? I looked back at Shannon, gasped for air, and said, “Gotta. Stop. Minute. Breathe.”

She looked at me and said, “Yes. Hard. Steep.”

And then I said, “May. Die.”

I’m telling you, we were right at home on the side of that mountain. Just like a couple of housecats in the middle of a rodeo.

Somehow we made it up to the top of the hill (MOUNTAIN? MOVE OUT OF MY WAY!), and we started a downhill trek that was fairly simple, except for the fact that there were a lot of rocks and we had to make our way down the rocks and THERE WEREN’T ANY RAILS OR ANYTHING.

Also: if you step in mud while wearing Crocs? The mud will seep into your Crocs. And it will be very squishy.

After about thirty minutes or sixteen hours, we finally made it to the falls. And oh, I must confess that the view was stunning. Even if I had to sweat and stuff to be able to see it.

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By the way, I cannot believe that I just put a picture of me WEARING A BASEBALL CAP on the interweb. There is no question that my mama will be horrified. But I had to have something to protect my lily-white scalp from the blazing African sun. And I figured that my options were either a baseball cap or, you know, skin cancer. So I went with the cap.

I continue to stand by that decision.

Even if my head looks like a prize-winning melon.

There are lots of sights and sounds from Uganda that will stay with me forever, but for some reason last Tuesday’s home visit seems to be on constant replay in my mind. I can’t think of anything in recent memory that has affected me so profoundly, and every single time I close my eyes to rest or to try to sleep, I see a mental slideshow of that afternoon.

We went to see a 21 year-old mother and her little boy. Their home is in a small village, and to get there we had to walk through several narrow alleyways that are bisected by drainage ditches. Three families share one outdoor restroom – which is located behind this brick wall.

This is the young mama praying while she held her little boy; I will always remember their sweet faces.

The home next door was empty, so I asked the Compassion worker who was with us if I could take some pictures. For whatever reason, it struck me as completely surreal.

When our home visit was over, we walked slowly back through the village.

A couple of hours later we had a worship service at a nearby Compassion project; several mothers and children from the village were there with us. And when I saw the mom we visited walk to the front of the church to sing for us, I thought my heart might explode right then and there.

She lives in a one-room house in the middle of a remote, impoverished village.

I live in a way-too-many-rooms house in the middle of American suburbia.

And I wonder if I’ve ever known the kind of hope that she has, if I’ve ever experienced a faith that’s as pure and unencumbered by the things of this world.

The woman and her friends were singing a song they’d written about how Compassion has helped their families. They see every meal, every vaccination, every mosquito net, every dose of medicine, every bit of help from Compassion as God’s provision for them. They are deeply grateful.

And I get ticked off in the grocery store if my favorite brand of coffee is out of stock or if the line at the deli requires me to wait more than two minutes for my sliced turkey.

Perspective. It’s a mighty good thing. And that day – in the middle of a remote Ugandan village that has no power, no running water, no telephone lines and no cable television – I found tons of it.

I pray that I never forget.