When Mama Claire asked me to attend church with her, I had no idea what I was getting into. The day was about as surreal as they come and one of those days that words will not come close to revisiting. I met her at 8am after she worked the night shift at the Baby Home. She told me it was a long walk, but knowing she did it every day, twice a day, I figured it couldn’t be too long. It was. We walked briskly for a little over an hour. Conversations covered her tragic family history, alcoholic husband, journey to learning about Jesus, reflections on scenery and the likes. Her English isn’t great, so looking back, it’s a wonder we covered such an array of topics.

Mama Claire is a really astounding woman. She comes from Gulu, the part of northern Uganda I’ve mentioned before. I’m actually going there tomorrow morning through the weekend. I’ll travel the eight hours north with two Mama’s from the Cottage, as well as three other housemates. Gulu is home to the LRA, who still controls the war, child-soldiers and refugee camps that house hundreds of thousands. It is one of the most dangerous and blood-staining places in Uganda. Given that so many Mama’s from the home have deceased husbands, children and lives there, I am honored to visit. Our days aren’t terribly agenda’ed, but we will stay with the Mama’s and visit a few contacts, including some at the World Vision Child Soldier Recovery Center. They have counseled over 12,000 children from a lifestyle of brutality and killing, to one that experiences life again. There’s a book called “Girlsoldier” and the movie, “Blood Diamond,” which seem to provide quite a good portrayal of Gulu and these atrocities.

Anyway, back to Mama Claire. She had her first child at 14 and additional ones at 17, 18 and 21. She is now thirty, but looks closer to forty-five or fifty. I wasn’t prepared for her home. The Mama Claire I interact with every day couldn’t possibly come from this ghetto. It was awful. At most, her house was the size of my bath and laundry room…with six people living there. She told me it was their living, sleeping, resting, bath and dining room, with an embarrassing laugh. A neighbor came over to say hello (as did the rest of the village’s neighbors I think) and asked if she could show me her home. Mama Claire walked me there and explained on the way that this is what she had been saved out of by God allowing her work at Amani. The ghetto got worse than I thought it could. The kids got more naked. The boys more awkwardly built from heavy labor and the girls wore tattered dresses and boots twice their size to protect from boiling water they transport every day. Mama Claire told me this cluster of about twenty moms and their children (dads are nowhere to be seen) work together and are lucky to bring in $1 each week. The kids could never dream of going to school, let alone having a meal on the table every day.

After visiting these neighbors, we walked about another thirty minutes to Mama Claire’s church—New Life Baptist. Though three hours long, it was really special. The sermon came from John 15 and focused on friendship, both of which have become really meaningful topics to me this year. There were probably about 100 in attendance and many of the songs were in English and the sermon translated (not sure if this was because a Muzungoo was present, or normal…guessing the former). At one point I had to go to the bathroom…the hole in the ground out back, walled by corn stalks and bugs, had to suffice.

After church we stopped by Mama Josephine’s, whose house is about half the size of Claire’s—with eight living there. We stayed there about an hour, drinking Fanta and Coca-Cola. Knowing this would be my hydration for the day, I gladly savored every sip. Leaving from there, we went to Mama Santa’s house, where about sixty women were gathered on her lawn for a bead-making-meeting. It was quite a sight—a load of multi-aged women crammed on a canvas of sorts, with a background of palm and cassava trees. These women have found a way to take pages of magazines and fold them into these stunning pieces of jewelry, purses and belts. A couple girls I live with have recently started an organization called Nubi (“Hope”), which will package and sell the products in the States, with prophets going to school scholarships. All the women are from Gulu and as you can imagine, have really compelling stories. About midway through the meeting, a bunch of kids started dancing and some of the Mama’s joined in. Soon enough, we had a hand-drum and a full-on dance party right there in Mama Santa’s backyard. They all “shook it like it should be shaken” and laughed at me as I shook like it shouldn’t. It was a blast.

Mama Claire and I hurried home for what turned out to be a delicious dinner her fourteen-year-old daughter had spent all day, and all week’s wages, preparing. Potatoes and mashed kidney beans, accompanied by a plastic baggy (resembling one that carries goldfish) filled with fresh water. It was really good. At some point in this meal, Mama Claire’s husband came in. I’d met him earlier, but this time he was drunk. And it was 3pm. When I asked him earlier if he’d ever visited Amani, he asked what Amani was. Claire said he never asks questions about her life. He just goes to work at the steel mill and comes home and drinks with his friends. It was probably be a good thing I didn’t speak Luugandan at this point, because I was really angry and so badly wanted to scream at this man.

Claire was worried she might be late for work at Amani (the night shift runs from 5pm-8am), so we took “boda-boda’s.” Instead of taxis, people here are transported on the backs of bikes—or boda-boda’s. I don’t get scared easily, but these things scared me. Not only did I have like three potatoes and a boatload of beans in my stomach, but we were ridi