Our Weekly Devotionals

Letter 12 - November 30, 1901

Nabumali Veranda, Bugisu
To her sister Margaret, Yorkshire

My dear Maggie,

The mango tree outside the school has begun to bloom again. Its branches are heavy with green hope. I take it as a benediction - a silent “well done” from the Lord, whispered through leaves.

William is asleep inside. Mary lies curled beside him, her little hand still holding the cloth doll you made. The frogs have begun their usual noisy concert, and I am writing this by candlelight with a cup of boiled tea gone cold.

The other day, I stood alone on the veranda and watched the hills sink into shadow. For a moment, I was overwhelmed - not with sorrow, but with something else. Something holy.

I thought: Maybe this land is no longer foreign to me. Maybe, by grace, it is home.

There are changes coming here. I hear murmurs of governors, of new laws, and English officers with surveys and maps. But Maggie, the deepest change is in the songs sung by girls on their way to fetch water. It’s in the way mothers now pray over their children instead of burning herbs. That is the change I care about.

Annie Cook in Buwalasi wrote last week that her neighbour’s daughter has started a prayer group under the jackfruit tree. And in Mutufu, a widow has been leading women through the Gospel of Luke every Sunday afternoon, sitting on reed mats with borrowed Bibles.

I read again today a passage from Jane Elizabeth Chadwick’s journal - she wrote, “A woman’s faith may be quiet, but it need not be small.” I often think of her when I feel invisible here - when my lessons feel fruitless or my words are too tired to carry.

Even the girls in Sironko are learning to write out the Psalms by hand, copying them with care so they can teach their younger siblings.

As I sat in the stillness, these words came to mind - like a soft cloak:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” - Psalm 23:6

If I never see home again, let it be said that I dwelt in His house, even here, even now.

With quiet hope,
Ethel