I’ve figured out a way to charge my computer at home, so can write periodically and take a USB port to the Internet Café in the village. Writings will be just as much journal reflections, as they will updates, so feel free to skim when I get too verbose. And again, I apologize that this site will suffice for most my emailing, but it literally takes at least a minute to pull up each page…it’s like the elderly version of DSL.

Friends from the Rain.

Storm clouds rolled in while out for a walk this evening, which felt nice coming from the eternally sunny LA. Literally, I’ve not seen rain in months—and haven’t heard thunder since last summer in Atlanta. It started pouring and I was on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. Randomly/typical of God, I came upon a church with an outdoor covering. Two sweet boys were there, stopped the rain, too, en route home from school. They were about 3 kilometers into their 9k walk (one way, that is), so I told ‘em I’d trudge with them for a bit. Though sixteen (they told me 19, but there’s no way J), their English was really poor. I assumed everyone would know English here, given that it’s Uganda’s first language. The actual meaning of that, however, is that if one is educated/schooled, that’s their first language. But school is exorbitantly expensive, so that to be educated at all is a big accomplishment and much dependent on the size and financial abilities of your family. (Sidenote here, but I grew up being told “anyone can do anything they want if they just put their mind to it.” I never could get my mind to agree with this statement and as I continue to experience new life and culture, I see why—it is not true. In America, it may be a lot of the time, but in most places around the world, the idea of free education, accomplishment and experience is far from the norm, and in fact, exceptionally rare). Anyway, we shared sporatic and simple questions and thoughts regarding family, jobs and life in Uganda. I wasn’t surprised to hear that their goal in life was to get to the States. Crazy how that goal repeats itself around the world—I remember wealthy grad- students in China telling me the same thing. Regardless of the upbringing, or dream, America is the sought after finish line. What a tragedy to think people spend their entire lives getting to a place that has just as much, if not more, overfed, but malnourished hearts than anywhere on the globe. As the guys parted on a muddy, desolated trail, I figured my company was probably wise to depart. The rain had picked up again and I was quite a trek from the Cottage. I bid my new friends farewell and off we went.

My First Visit to the Orphanage.

There aren’t words to describe what it feels like to see a baby diseased by AIDS. The devastating pictures that flash across infommercials aren’t exaggerations and the reality of having those pictures “alive” in your arms is breathtaking, literally. It's difficult to tell if a child has HIV or AIDS until they’re at least two years old, and since many of the sixty babies at Amani are under that age, it’s hard to say how many are infected (they can be tested at birth, but for awhile the mom's antibodies are still present, so the tests result positive regardless). It’s easy to recognize that all are sick, some being more obvious then others. Regardless of whether they turn out to be infected with the virus though, each of these lives has been saved from a tragic circumstance that will likely scar them for the remainder of their days on earth. Although fed and cared for constantly, most of the infants still have severe congestive and digestive ailments. and their little immune systems are so weak that if one gets sick, they all do...meaning all are sick pretty much all the time. Anyway, so much maturation happens in the first year, physically and emotionally speaking, that even an abundance of care on these fronts may never be sufficient to win the children back to health. The hopes flood beyond that though, prioritizing health and survival, but investing just as much and probably more through pouring prayer, physical touch and pure love over these lives.

The first baby I held was “Precious,” a six-month old baby girl who struggles to breath clearly and hasn’t developed the muscles to keep her head-up, but she smiles every time you kiss her cheek and she is the most curious little girl I’ve ever met. I was trying to explain to her today that she needed to drink her bottle—her tummy is swollen from malabsorbtion and she is rare to keep a bottle down. She didn’t hear me though J. All Precious wanted to do was stare at the flowers we were sitting around and make eye contact with every bird that chirped us a greeting (and there were a lot of them!).

The orphanage is about a five-minute walk from the volunteer home (which I should clarify as more than just a “room with cots.” It’s an actual house, so that we have a full (but keep in mind, primitive) kitchen, resting area with a big table, a nice porch and big backyard for the compost and laundry hanging. Electricity comes and goes, so that most nights are spent reading or talking by candlelight and accompanied by the music of animals, distant songs from the “mama’s” (women) who leave nearby, or an iPod J). The cottage sits kind-of hidden on a desolate dirt road, but you can’t miss its entrance, told by the joyful voices and laughter of children. Entry can’t help but find you covered with clinging babies and innocent smiles that grip your heart. Adorable. Incredible. Beyond words.

Different rooms are flooded with different aged babies, all ranging from preemie to six (at which time they’re taken to foster homes, if not already adopted). There are about 20 Ugandan staff who alternate from day and night shifts and then however many volunteers from around the world are serving (ranges in number given the time of year).