Living in Africa could be an assault on the senses. 

At various moments, the odor of the neighbors’ burning trash stung my eyes. “Hooting” (i.e. honking) at someone’s gate alerted them to your arrival by car—or you could clank the gate if arriving by foot. It also turns out roosters don’t just crow at dawn; it was perfectly reasonable 24/7. Traffic formed a cacophonic sludge of exhaust, locust-like motorcycles whipping in any lane and on the shoulder, and shouting drivers alongside rainbows of displayed produce and backpacks and cellophane packets of spices. 

I began to understand why God told us to pray by going into our closet and shutting the door. Because I wasn’t just wrestling sensory overload. Ministry needs, the round-the-clock shout of poverty, and bids for my attention could be tended ceaselessly—if I so chose.  

Stopping to listen just wasn’t my natural response. 

Is it weird I had to remind myself I wasn’t God? That every need was not mine to heed—nor, dare I say it, was it my call in Uganda?

Because far more than healing one more wound in the name of Jesus, like Paul, I was to “consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord… I want to know Christ” (Philippians 3:8, 10). 

It was, and is, far too easy for my work in His name to sever itself from…Him. To off-road from the steady, straight path dictated by His voice. (My attention span had more similarity to a monkey’s.) 

So in my own times with God, I took a cue from an older friend: to make my goal not just time in God’s Word or gathering knowledge about God, but to hear from God, should His Spirit choose to speak (which, being the Word, He tends to do). To regularly, rhythmically choose solitude, silence, and contemplation of the Word, letting my shaken and stirred soul settle. 

So that One Voice could speak and would be heard.