I Never Want to Forget
People told me visiting a third-world country would be life-changing. They were right. I will never be the same. I left home at 2 a.m. on Sunday, June 8th, and didn’t arrive at my hotel in Uganda until 10 p.m. on Tuesday, June 10th. Crossing the globe was hard, but the very next morning—standing in the red dust of Namabasa as hundreds of children ran toward us, singing and dancing—I knew every mile, every airport delay, every uncomfortable moment was completely worth it. I never want to forget that moment. It was a dream come true. For years, I’ve felt a mysterious connection to this little village in Uganda—so much so that I donated the proceeds of a book I wrote to support it. I didn’t know why I felt drawn to a place I’d never been, but on June 11th, I understood: God had already planted the seed of love in my heart long ago. When our jeep pulled into the village with Bishop Abraham, I looked ahead and saw a river of children and women—singing, dancing, clapping, running towar...
