(This entry covers the next four posts)

To be honest, our trip was really miserable. I’ve never feared for my life so much, or for such a duration. There were six of traveling, including Mama Santa, “from Gulu,” Mama Grace, “from Sorotie,” and three housemates, Tyler, Ruthie and Anna. Our hope for the weekend was to love these Mamas by really engaging with their lives and submitting to their lifestyles. I realize a little more now the loftiness of these goals. We went north to the border of Sudan and west down the Kenyan border. Our two proposed destinations of Gulu and Sorodi were met, but then expanded upon. In Ugandan, “I live in Gulu” can apparently mean three hours from Gulu, and “outside Sorodie” can mean the same. And transport here is awful. Enough so that unless God makes it unswervingly clear, I will do no more vehicular travel while in Uganda.

Though separated by only a few hundred miles, Santa and Grace’s upbringings were completely different—from each other’s and from ours. We weren’t aware of this and given language barriers and the fact that it’s their normal life, they didn’t know to prepare us. Our first trek was from Jinja to Gulu—a debut exposure to Ugandan buses. Imagine off-roading on a school bus and you’re getting warm. It was about eight hours and we were fortunate to have seats and get hints of a free safari for some miles. The bus “system” here is such that you wait until the vehicle going to your location is filled in every nook and cranny and then it leaves. There’s no time chart, schedule, or numbered capacity. This made me remember my last American transport, leaving from a hotel in D.C. The driver was emphatic about filling only the number of seats he had belted. This was annoying that early morning, as it took two trips before I could get on a shuttle. Today the policies sound amazing. In order to get by here, it’s a survival of the fittest economy. Everything is done to fill every space possible, regardless of the consequence. Anyway, at some point, we pulled over on the dirt, pot-holed road once for a bathroom/bush break. Random stops would offer maize, soda, or meat sticks through the window. When these remains were thrown-out, baboons would willingly charge the bus to retrieve them. At one point something started scratching my foot and I screamed. Turned out it was a live chicken.

We arrived in Gulu about 5pm, tired from sitting and grateful to be safe in Mama Santa’s hometown. We realized at the taxi park, however, that she actually lived “in a village near Gulu” so we’d need to ride another bus. Though similarly bumpy and flirtatious toward tipping, God lent one of the most marvelous sunsets I’ve ever seen. You could actually look at the orange ball dipping into the horizon, as its remnant flares splashed the sky. Some three hours later, we realized how close we were to the Sudanese border. Tyler joked at this point that we were gonna be taken home in body bags. Looking back, the joking no longer seems far off.

Kitgum was a really fascinating village. Its proximity to the northern border has made it greatly affected by Rebel invasions. Soldiers are everywhere and HIV/AIDS is more widespread here than anywhere in Uganda. This is mostly war-related, due to rape, loose blood and unsolicited sex for money and food. We stayed at an IDP Camp, a place for displaced Ugandans due to the war (a Refugee Camp would differ in that its displaced persons from another country). An unexpected, but primary purpose they’ve also been forced toward is coverage for “night travelers.” This includes the millions of children who live in the bush and due to Rebel invasions, were forced to work all day and make what sometimes entailed a ten-mile journey to the Camps to sleep, and then return to work in the morning. The camp we visited was about the size of a tennis court and hosted approximately 2000 children a night.

Tonight I want to distract. Diconnect. Tonight I’m lonely. Normally this might be specified in loneliness and longing for a husband, or partner in life, but tonight it’s less specific, I miss my friends. I’m missing people who know me, and I know them. Missing easy internet access, missing electricity, just missing whatever…I’m in a bratty mood. At home I could distract with about twenty things at this point. Instantly. I could call a friend. Go online. Go surfing. Get a massage. See a movie. Go to the beach, Barnes and Noble, my bed, or a restaurant. Watch Grey’s Anatomy. Call my family. Go hiking. Paint. Go to Starbucks, the gym, a play, concert, or the library. I could go to yoga, get a pedicure, sit by the fire, or microwave my dinner. Here I can’t do any of these. One of my prayers coming into the summer was space to serve quietly and experience much aloneness with the Lord. Saying you want to be alone with God for the summer seems like a big statement though. I think either a) It takes a ton of time and discipline to build endurance for, or b) You really don’t mean it…you’ve just been scarred and are likely tired from relationships, and God is doing a slow, but healing work, redefining your understandings of solitude, community and communion with Him. I think I’m a little of both. And I’m increasingly aware that both are really challenging.

After many remote trails and paths, we came upon Mama Grace’s home, which consisted of about six huts and housed her family of about forty. It was really tidy and quite beautiful. Grace’s husband was killed by the Rebels a few years ago. She left her kids behind and moved to Jinja to make money for their schooling. When Grace introduced her firstborn son, I asked why she named him Immanuel, which means “God with us?” She explained that she was home alone during his birth and her only help was God. I realized in this moment that love endures deep sacrifice and very, very blind faith.

Upon arrival, we were seated for everyone to stare at us. About thirty minutes later, a meal was served (to only us), which at least permitted a changed focus toward rolling food in our fingers versus a crowd of alien eyes. No clapping, laughing, engaging, or talking. There are over 500 languages in Uganda alone, so any Luugandan we’d picked-up was useless at this point. We watched another beautiful sunset this night. Mama Grace asked if we had a sun in America? I realized in this moment that love doesn’t always speak my language, or find residence in my worldview.

We slept in the hut. I didn’t sleep at all. Six of us, including Ruthie, Anna, Grace, Grace’s sister, her baby and me, spooned on the ground with a sheet (Tyler slept in an accompanying hut with Grace’s dad…her mom and children slept in another). Gnats had a hay-day, rats were crawling over us and Lord knows what was perusing the fields around us. It rained for about an hour and spit on us through the straw roof. I was sweating at one point, but wouldn’t dare undo the sheet—it was my smallest wall of protection. “God, what is this? Where am I? Is this life for them? I can’t do this. This is the pitchest black I’ve ever been in and I want out. Please get me out, Dad. I’m scared.” At about 3am the three Americans were awake and needed to use the “bathroom” (a hole behind a row of crops…all four of these days lacked running water, toilet-paper, electricity, or anything close to civilization). The moon was quiet and the stars were shaded by clouds, so there was no way we’d find it alone. Mama Grace wasn’t sleeping due to concern for us. “I wonder if it is the rats disturbing you?” she whispered. “Maybe you are not used to them where you live?” “No,” we cried/giggled back, as she took our hands and led us to the hole. I realized this night that love moves beyond comfortability and I didn’t like it.

I asked God to please raise the sun earlier than normal the next morning. I don’t think He heard me, but nevertheless, was praising Him at the first sign of light. It was fun, too, to interact with Grace’s mom grinding nuts, retrieving eggs and sweeping the grounds with a tied wad of hay. Her brothers were studying the Bible and in the minimal communication that we shared, I asked if I could join. One of them had an English Bible, so I was able to loosely follow along with them in John 8. This is the story where Jesus is in a Temple, where a room of religious people were accusing an adulteress woman and taunting him to verify her stoning. Jesus kneels to the ground and writes something in the dirt with his finger, saying, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her.” The entire room emptied, except for Jesus and the woman. “Woman, where are they?” he asked. “Has no one condemned you?” “No one, Lord,” she answered. “Neither do I condemn you.” Jesus said. I wanted to ask Grace’s brothers what they thought he might’ve written in the sand. After about thirty minutes of missed understanding, I sought Grace’s help to interpret and realized the problem wasn’t a lack of understanding, but a lack of learning skills. These men didn’t have the education to think critically. They had never known the freedom of reading between the lines, wondering, questioning, or dreaming with God. When we eventually moved toward this point, we had a really special time sharing ideas like “forgiveness,” or “in Me, you are free.” Love must transcend knowledge and understanding. Maybe Jesus was serious when he said the faith of a child, or mustard seed, can move a mountain.

After voicing good-byes (which included a reintroduction of all the birth orders), we trekked to the road and waved down a bus. Once again, I found myself praying on this ride like never before. Fear and closeness to death had never confronted me as they did this weekend. New conversations of death, then, were forced to be traced. “What will it look like? How will it feel? What am I scared of? Am I ready?” Christ followers make light of death as if it’s an easy pass, but this weekend brought me face to face with the uneasiness of this actuality. I became starkly aware of many attachments to my here and now and many places where I ‘said’ I trusted God, but clearly didn’t. “What about my family? What about getting married? What about my rent, schooling, or conversation to be had with x, y, or z?”

Our first few hours were crammed like the first day’s ride, only this time we were standing. The conductor kept pushing us backwards till we were facing forward like a row of dominoes. Grace had taken this route a number of times, but had no concept of how long it would be. “Could be four hours, or could be fourteen. Depends on the driver” (and number of cows, ditches and who knows what, you run into, I guess). It took us ten hours. My iPod tried to sing me into the comforts of worship, but it felt impossible. How could I worship God in this environment? Everyone was sweaty and sick and crammed to a disgusting degree. Babies screamed and the windows only lent a louder scream. Poverty and death enveloped me. Once again I thought we were going to die—the tipping and bumping and crowdedness was unbearable. “I can’t go on, God. I want out. Help me.”

The war has definitely settled down a lot and seems to be making a turn. The major shrapnel now consists of IDP camps and children’s return to their villages (both child soldiers and night travelers). Unknown to us, turns out Santa’s father is actually the Bishop of Kitgum, so playing a massive role in “Peace Talks” taking place in and around Uganda. He stayed-up late telling us stories about visits with Tony Blair and Desmond Tutu. It’s crazy though, the man still lives in a hut and has no concept, it seems, of how renowned his role is on a global scale.

The next morning ten of us crammed in a car and rode two-hours to Santa’s village. It was more impoverished than anything I’ve ever seen, and Santa was happy to be home. This village had never seen white people, so didn’t even know to beg from us. They just stared. It was horrific. Every person was severely malnourished. Every hut was infested with maggots, rats and feces. The babies had flies in their eyes, but didn’t flinch. We stayed in the village for the day, resting in huts and visiting nearby lands where family members are buried. We cooked for much of the afternoon and enjoyed a hut-based dinner. Our original plan was to sleep there, but Anna started coming down with Malaria symptoms and we wanted to at least be in range of a hospital, so headed back to Camp. I now realize this was God’s provision.

We rose with the sun, milked the cows and enjoyed a nice breakfast together. Before leaving, six bishops arrived from around Uganda. Bishop Benjamin was facilitating a ceremony from them, providing new motorcycles granted by the Anglican World Council. These men are all in their sixties and often in charge of distant villages that have no road access. That said, these tools will be a huge (and hysterical!) blessing to many sick and needy people. I’m not sure I’ve seen a funnier site than six Ugandan Priests, in full garb, sitting clueless on a shiny, red motorcycle with matching helmets that said “Studd” (yes, with two d’s).

There wasn’t a direct road to Sorotie, so we needed to travel to Lira and then catch a bus from there. Roads here are rural as can be, and for the most part, connect to neighboring towns with only one, one-way, dirt road. You can see, then, why passing or being passed is so scary. And you’re constantly dipping into slopes for cows, walkers with logs on their heads, bikes with three children and a baby, or a range of other options. Our connection from Kitgum lacked any bus, or taxi transport, so our only way out was on top of a truck. It was sized between a semi and minivan and with twenty of us scrunched on top. I was leaning against Mama Grace with my legs hanging off the side. I taught her “Lean On Me,” which at least got us a good laugh. Laughing turned sour though when we hit a muddy ditch, got stuck and slowly tipped over. I was on the edge, so it was relatively easy to jump off—for others it wasn’t so. After about thirty minutes we were back on the road. Soon after, a van passed that tipped us pretty far and pretty fast. So much so that a man fell off. As I looked back and saw him rolling and screaming in the road, I thought we’d lost him. It was one of the worst sites I’ve ever seen. And to ice it, the Africans on the roof weren’t taken back. This was their norm. We were about 150 miles from any town or hint of medical care, so the man was lifted back in, bleeding freely from a huge gash on his head and dislocated at his right leg and wrist. The next three hours were spent asking God to setting my stomach and help me understand what in the world was going on. Literally. I remembered at this point our goal for coming. “Was this love,” I asked God? “Was this what it took to ‘really’ peer first-hand into another’s life? And if so, was this worth it?” I didn’t want to love anymore. It was too hard to too beyond my comprehension.

From Lira, we took a four-hour van to Sorotie. It was the worst road I’ve ever been on. Thank God, I felt safe, due to a probably 10mph average, but there wasn’t more than a ten second span where we weren’t swerving to miss (partially at least) a pothole. We busted tires at two points, but these were the least of my sweaty, frustrated, uncomfortable concern. I had a man with a chicken sitting on my lap for about two hours. I was numb to reality. The bus dropped us off on the side of a small dirt road. Four boda-bodas picked us up (which if you remember, days before scared me; now they felt like a stretch hummer limousine) and rode us inward to the bush about ten miles. Turned-out our drivers were Mama Grace’s “first and third born,” which we didn’t know until the road ended and they escorted us further by foot. Culturally, there are about a hundred things I witnessed this weekend that floored and confused me—this being one. Though she hadn’t seen her family in three years, there were no embraces, or catching-up, and yet it's obvious in other ways how proud she is of her family and children. God is redefining my understandings of what pride, love and sacrifice look like. Right now I have no idea. Well, I have a western idea, but that’s really different from the remainder (and most) of the world. These words define something a lot less scripted than what I thought. Love, for instance, seems far more than a feeling, but more than just a choice. It doesn’t always agree and doesn’t ever evade. And it somehow responds without necessarily receiving and receives without necessarily responding. The weightiness of love is incomprehensible to me today.

At one point the voices of Shane and Shane were singing a mantra-like chorus of, “Be near, O God, be near.” I couldn’t figure out how this was possible and repeated it a couple times, pleading for His help to know nearness, when feeling but mere distance. I was standing sandwiched between three people at this point, with increasing aggravation at the half-asleep man to my side, bobbing his sweaty old head on my arm at every curve. I kept pushing him off, sickened and weary. At some point in these minutes, it became clear that this man was the nearness of God trying to meet me. In the utmost of simple tasks, I let him rest his head on my arm. When he woke some time later, he spoke enough English to look at me with deep compassion and say, “Oh woman, I am so sorry. I do not mean to cause you bother. I have traveled from 3am and am too tired to stand my head.” “Sir,” I replied, with an inward sympathy that overwhelmed me, “it is the least I can do. Please rest your head on my arm.” When he got off the bus about an hour later, he shook my hand and with a rich sincerity said, “Safe travels, my friend.” Stiff, tired and still shaky with fear, I realized this day that love and knowing the nearness of God’s love share themselves in illogical and uncanny ways. At times they will be exhausting and in many territories, take interruption to my space.

Our final connection required a motorcycle. After having a foot run over by one in Europe, I vowed to never ride one again, but out of desperation the broken vow felt minimal. I just wanted to be home. We returned to the house filthy, having not showered or changed clothes in four days. Arriving in Jinja felt like a five-star hotel. To feel safe for a full night’s sleep, not wondering when the next rat would dance over my legs, or heart would skip hours of rhythmic beat for fear of not making it to the next second, was indescribable. A mosquito net, running water, toilet and roof over my head were luxuries.

These days have clearly offered a lot regarding the complexity of true love and true interaction with another culture and heart. I want to say this translates into a “process” of learning about love, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s about realizing there is no proper, or sensical, process to love. Love lacks a set plan, proposal, or agenda. You can’t read a book about its depth, or expose a map covering its height. There is not a shape to sacrifice, or a defining of sacrifice’s risk. Love knows no bounds or boundaries and yet bears boundless consequences. It isn’t always fun. It is less about feeling, I think, and more about action and choice. Or maybe about willingness. Willingness to discern God’s unconditional will on a conditional basis—that basis being a fallen world, held by an unfallen God. Sara Groves sings that “Loving a person just the way he is, that’s no small thing—it’s the whole thing” and I think she’s right, but I think that rightness means “to love” must be the hardest concept we could ever grasp. Or learn to not grasp, realizing its possibility as only capable through a strength detached from our selves. I have never been so challenged by the following words from Jesus:

“As the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you. Remain in my love. If you keep My commands you will remain in my love, just I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in His love. I have spoken these things to you so that My joy may be complete in you and your joy may be complete. This is My command: love one another as I have loved you. There is no greater love than this, that someone would lay down his life for his friends.” John 15.9-14

Nothing in me would want Mama Grace or Santa to be coerced into the North American life. Their minds couldn’t comprehend it and I think it would kill them in many senses. But nothing in me would want my family and friends to be coerced into Ugandan life, either. Our minds couldn’t comprehend it and I think it would kill us, too. Neither world is right and, in fact, both are incredibly deformed. At its most intrinsic translation, love means sacrifice. It means pursuing blind outcomes, or even no outcomes at all. But this weekend unveiled how much of my sacrifice is "me based," or based on the response I receive. Either way, I am the key player. There is so much of me to love, taking captive my ability to truly love another. My only ability to sacrifice, then, must involve another’s. I know not love without the cross of Jesus Christ.

“If I speak the languages of men and of angels, but do not have love, I am a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all the mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so that I can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. And if I donate all my goods to feed the poor, and if I give my body to be burned, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love does not envy; is not boastful; is not conceited; does not act improperly; is not selfish; is not provoked; does not keep a record of wrongs; finds no joy in unrighteousness, by rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for languages, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know in part, and we prophecy in part. But the perfect comes the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things. For now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but I will know fully, as I am fully known. Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I Corinthians 13:1-13.

It took everything in me to smile today. I was too tired. Too sad. And feeling too numb to feel. Home from a long day at the orphanage, all I wanted was a bath, glass of wine and a movie. The first two weren’t gonna happen, so I settled for the third. “My Best Friend’s Wedding” provided perfect entertainment for my thawed-out brain. I was so grateful. Also curious though, what I would do had this not been an option? Had I been one of the “normal” people in the world who doesn’t have the choice of food, festivity, or cinematic option on a tired evening in July?

A friend of mine wrote a book called, “Under the Overpass,” where he essentially lived as a homeless person in six American cities for one month each. He has an interesting section that talks about him never ‘really’ being able to be homeless. He was always a phone-call away from getting out. I feel quite the same tonight.

As those living in a first-world country, and many of we “those’s” being white, we will really never experience how ‘they’ feel. We will really never feel what they experience. We’ll never be homeless. We’ll never be poor. And we’ll never be hungry.

What do you do with that?
***
Infant Revelations.
I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned and revealed them to infants. —Jesus

At any other time in my “care-about-investing-in-others” life (probably sophomore year of college, my second year as a Christian), I would’ve preferred to spend a summer with fourteen, or twenty-four years olds, far quicker than babies—let alone sick babies. I’ll flesh this out, so bear with me, but I don’t even like babies that much, at least compared to “adults.” I could literally count on two hands the number of babies I’ve sat for in my entire life. But at this stage, the infant breed is who I best relate to. And they’re also who God seems to be using to best relate to me.

Prior to this debut year under a heading of “Spiritual Formation,” a summer spent in an orphanage would’ve seemed selfish in enough ways that would’ve deterred me from going. Or even considering going. I wouldn’t have felt like I was “doing” enough. I would’ve felt like leaving an orphanage, or country, or summer with sixty kids still orphaned and sick meant no progress. I would preferred “changing lives, challenging relationships and discipling hearts toward God’s”…not changing diapers and dealing with screaming babies. What I would’ve missed though, and have missed in a lot of ways up to this point, was my heart. And you can’t help but ask me then, “If I could really care for another’s heart, if I didn’t even know my own?” And I would probably say, “No, you’re right. I’m just starting to learn how to do both.”

Never have I endured an intentionally selfish season where I sought the classroom of Christ and the discipleship of His teaching, as oppose to attempting my own. Never had I sacrificially sought to “stay and be made,” before I would so willingly (and willfully) “go and make” (as we are told to by the “Great Commision” in Matthew 28).

As of this day, I connect with the babies in more ways than I connect with anyone else right now. My faith, especially, connects with their immaturity and raw levels of learning to depend, trust and believe the Hands that are holding them. I connect with their vulnerability and susceptibility—with their uncontrolled emotions and unending need for help, love and being served. I’ve spent the majority of my life pushing away being helped, loved and served and yet through a slow process of humbling and painful peeling-back, God is re-raising me—teaching me what it means that He is actually my fullest Father and Mother. He’s teaching me to be loved, that one day I may mature from this place and start really understanding how to offer the same to my neighbor.
***
Random.
*I told God this morning that if I saw a snake, I was on the next flight home. Low and behold, I did. I hate snakes, with a passion, and I saw a Black Mamba today. If one of these bites you, you’re dead in a matter of minutes. In the last 24-hours, I’ve seen a rat, frog, mouse, massive cockroach and lizard—all in the vicinity of where I sleep. And a city girl can only take so much. Okay, so I’m not exactly a city girl, but I’m also not completely granola. And snakes are my biggest nemesis. Gross.
*Many of you have asked how I feel physically. Well, we’re literally around baby snot, throw-up, sue-sue (#1) and ka-ka (#2) all day and sanitation isn’t quite the catch-phrase/action it is in the States. So between that and bad water, pollution (breathing feels like what I imagine asthma would…can’t breathe too deep and you wheeze if you get out of breath) and living under a roof with fifteen to twenty other quasi sicklings, it’s tough to avoid some sort of malady. But to be honest, you get used to it. You get used to feeling sub-par and learning to function. Or maybe it’s more that you get used to asking God periodically for strength to function—and He provides. Basically, I would say a seven on a the “1-10, How am I feeling in America scale?,” marks a ten in Africa.
*Many of you have also asked about safety. In some ways, I feel safer here than I would at home, but in others it fits the bill for one of the most dangerous places on earth. “Mass Justice” is the norm here, so that the present mass of people decides the punishment for a person. If you yell “thief” at someone, he will be attacked immediately, regardless of whether or not it was true. If someone shoplifts, or steals, public stoning to death is not uncommon. On the dangerous note though, disease and “male dangers” are prevalent. I would never go out after dusk due to higher mosquito populations and the risk of men (though I do it all the time during the day).

I’m beat. It’s not a beat that’s anything partial to Africa—it’s just been a long day. The preemies were fun this morning and in cuddle form at its finest. We had the usual Tuesday Bible Study on the front lawn with the Mama’s leading. Then this afternoon I took three new babies who arrived yesterday to get initial medical tests (the most important being HIV and Malaria).

Isaiah was 6 weeks premature, but doing really well. He’s 3lbs and was found outside the hospital after a rainy night at one day old. He stayed at the hospital for a week and is now safe with us. I fed him today and it took an hour to get one ounce of formula in him. His tiny cheeks would get really tired after like four sucks J. Sue-Anne, our nurse, taught me some neat ways to massage his feet and face to stimulate his movements, but it was still a tedious process.

Holly is probably about two and was found last week roaming the streets. She doesn’t speak a lick of English and had a jewel necklace around her waste (a stomachlace?). Apparently it’s a tribal tradition that calculates growth and wards off evil spirits. We cut it off. She gave-off a few smiles today, but still seems quite shocked and overwhelmed. She tested positive for Malaria.

Nathanial is probably three and severely malnourished. He was found in a dumpster earlier this week. He looks extremely chubby, with a swollen belly and face. A child with only a swollen belly is battling starvation, but a child like Nathaniel has had food, but all starch (probably maize) and no water or variation (little to no protein, fat, vitamins, or minerals). Hopefully the imbalances will regulate quickly. Amani is really good about nutrition and giving the kids a range of fresh, fruits, vegetables, grains, supplemental drinks and proteins. You’ll never see canned, or processed foods here. Nathaniel tested positive for Malaria, too.

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

Stephen.

Stephen and I had a date today. We’re working through stuff in our relationship, as he’s got major dad issues and is often reserved and lacks confidence. I’ve found a way to rile him up though. He finds it funny when I fake yell at him, so at one point today I said, “Stephen, you can NOT keep batting those brown eyes at me unless you clearly state where this relationship is going!” This sent him running around the house screaming. Stephen also likes when I blow on his wrist. For whatever reason, it throws him into a hysterical bout of laughter. So we did this for a while too. It was pouring rain, so we decided to catch raindrops for a few minutes, but the weakness of his immune system makes wetness an avoided aim, if possible. He was okay with that—quickly distracted by our next date to-do’s, including Legos, Veggie Tales and eating bananas in our kitchen.

Stephen has autism. His mom died in childbirth and his dad was put in prison for fishing without a license when Stephen was one. When released from jail, he came to pick him up and findings of the disease were explained. He said he didn’t want him. There are little to no care facilities for the special needs population in Africa. I actually walked by Jinja’s “Lame Compound” yesterday, where people are basically dropped off and left to until they die.” Stephen will stay at Amani until he is six and then be passed on to another orphanage. He will remain a physically and psychologically orphaned for the rest of his life.

***

Food.

Eating is pretty basic and organic over here, meaning it’s rare to move beyond things grown from the ground, picked from a tree, or torn from an animal. There are a few Indian run markets in town, and two days a week an outdoor one. Most anything you want can be purchased here, as long as you’re not picky about its taste, brand, or limited number of choices (i.e., there’s not a cereal aisle; there’s Cornflakes). And keep in mind, most every food in this entry should be put in quotations of some sort, as things don’t ever taste quite the same as we’re accustomed to.

We are in charge of our breakfast and dinner, so only my lunch is authentically “Ugandan,” but a typical day for me might include:
Breakfast—eggs, oatmeal, bananas & avocados, rice bread with peanut-butter and bananas, mango, nuts, apples, raisins, papaya, tea and honey…
Lunch (at Amani, cooked by Mama Cook J)—posho (mashed corn), cassava (mashed bananas), maize, baked beans, chipoties, peanut sauce, rice, sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, meat occasionally (once a week maybe)…
Dinner—soup, rice, tuna fish, meat, vegetables (eggplant/tomato/cucumber/pepper), avocado, cereal, peanut butter (and whatever)…
Snacks—lots of nuts and seeds, fruit, peanut butter (and whatever)…

Granted, I’m allergic to wheat and dairy, so that a normal diet could add a further spectrum of bread/milk/cheese/yogurt/ice cream groups, too. Desserts don’t seem too common (due to the expense of sugar, probably), but we always have brownies, cookies, candy and the likes around the Volunteer House. Meals are typically cooked plain, or with sunflower oil and there’s not a lot of spicing, or buttering, which we of the “Weak Stomach’s Club” appreciate. Meat is expensive, so for the natives, a rarity. Since protein is a little tough to come by, I’ll opt for meats whenever given the chance. I’ve yet to see cooked chicken or fish outside our home. That’s not true—Ethiopian Air served me baked cod. Pretty good, too. Water is completely parasite infested, so that even Ugandan’s don’t drink it unboiled. Unpeeled fruits and vegetables must be bleached, or boiled. Okay, writing about food made me hungry. Off to eat.

***
Sophia.

Sophia is the most high maintenance two and a half year old I’ve ever met. She will only wear certain colors on certain days and must have her nails painted. She prefers “puff balls” to braids and insists on her food being completely pureed before she’ll touch them. She’s good at puzzles and can beat you in a game of hide-and-seek any day of the week.

Sophia has AIDS. She was diagnosed with HIV at birth and has recently been confirmed with the full-fledged syndrome. Sophia will never be adopted. In Uganda, at least, regulation does not prohibit the adoption of a child with AIDS, but since health-care and insurance are not covered, it would take a billionaire to fund even a decade of one of these victim’s lives.

As you can imagine, every kid here has a heart-wrenching a story—every person does, really. 30% of the kids at Amani are un-adoptable due to illness, or a situation of their parent being unable to keep them (but with the intention of hopefully soon taking them back). By default, they will remain institutionalized for the rest of their time on earth.

The rain is pouring tonight as I reflect on a day I know I was suppose to be a part of. Not that there’s ever a day we’re ‘not’ suppose to, per se, but you know how some days just feel far more accomplished and purposeful than others? Well, I had one of those days. And what’s interesting looking back, is that it was one of the scariest and most painful days I’ve had here, let alone on earth, but it scarred me to a degree that I guarantee will never be undone.

Adam had a temperature all afternoon. He’s one of the preemies and has only been at Amani a few months. He hasn’t gone a week of these months without being ill in some manner. Adam was dropped off at our gate and left with no history to pull from. The child probation officer called him six months, but our guess is he’s probably eight or nine. When Adam arrived, he tested positive for HIV and pneumonia. He was likely held on the back of a worker his first months, given that he was paralyzed to the fetal position when arriving at Amani. This week was special because Adam straightened his legs for the first time.

Anyway, his temperature was rising steadily and a chronic cough was making it difficult to breath. When he started vomiting, we knew it was urgent. I’d been caring for him, so it seemed natural (in African standards) that I would take him to the hospital. Standing outside as a group, the Mama’s panic-strikenly wrapped a cloth holder around me, stuck an umbrella in my hand and commissioned this life to the care of my hands.

The path was muddy and Adam’s cough was out of control. I had to stop twice to clean-up his vomit. Arriving at the hospital, he was in hysterics. I’d never been to a Ugandan hospital (which was basically a house and a mishmash of people who were supposed doctors and nurses) and certainly never cared for someone in this degree of sickness and struggle. At this point his temperature had risen to 103.6 and I’d been prepared for the worst.

The doctor rushed us in immediately and as I held Adam in my arms, he screamed as the doctor took vitals and voraciously read through his medical record. His first guess was malaria or a relapse of pneumonia, so he sent us to a separate room for blood tests. Oh—this was painful. I held little Adam in my arms and kissed his sweating head as I’d never kissed anyone before. I had to hold his arm taunt for the blood drawings and mine as well have taken them myself, given the mechanical, unsympathetic movements of the so-called lab-tech. I’ve never seen a baby so weak and yet so strongly in pain. I was crying—Adam was crying—it was bad. The tech had me hold a swab to Adam’s bleeding skin. We were going downhill fast. The doctor rushed-in and gave him some sort of sedative to stop the vomiting/coughing/crying.

For a few minutes Adam clung to me as if for dear life, literally. Then slowly, with his head rested on my shoulder, his arms melted into a tender embrace around my neck. I rocked him and rocked him, for what felt like hours, as we waited for the results. It was during these minutes that I realized what had just happened—the urgency, the love, the trauma, the pain and the danger. There was a point in the chaos where I was literally and bare handedly holding back the spattering of HIV and probably AIDS infested blood. I was holding AIDS—holding its venom in the palm of my hand.

Thank God, Adam’s blood tests came back negative and showed a less severe viral infection. For tonight, at least, he is free of Malaria and Pnemonia. His system is so weak that a relapse of either will likely kill him. By the time we left the hospital, the rain had stopped and he was asleep in my arms. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling on the way home—too much to process. Too much to be grateful and overwhelmed by. Too much to be scared and exhausted by. Too much to thank God for—and to question of Him.

The odd thing is that my two most profound days here have been when I woke despondent and unwanting to step forward. On both occasions, it took everything in me to be honest before God and explain how inadequate and selfish and unwilling I was—it took everything in me to find myself on my knees, needing Him to get through the next step. And on both occasions, I’ve had the chance to look back on a day like this one and see that not only did I have nothing to do with its outings or outcomes, but I also could’ve done nothing of its profundity in my own mind or strength. There was obviously something of the extra-ordinary fighting for, leading, and following me. It’s days like these that find me, saying, “Wow, I think God might really be true.”

***

Now I know.

I worked in the clinic today. I won’t be doing much medical work, per se, but have mainly asked to be an extra hand where needed, which will sometimes include procedures, but most times paperwork, giving meds, or doing weekly weigh-ins.

There is a lot of tracking that must be done with these babies, so that one of my roles includes filling out the medicine charts each week. The upside of this is that I love to be around health related topics, treatments and conditions (I’m a closet wanna-be-med-school-student).

The downside is that now I know the severity of every infant’s illness. I know who has HIV and I know who has AIDS. I know who has TB and I know who has Pneumonia. I know who was chronically abused as a baby and now has Syphilis and deformed genitals. I know who has Fetal Alcohol Effects (no longer “syndrome” in Uganda?), Malaria and malnutrition. I know who will never be adopted. I know who will not celebrate a fifth, tenth, or fifteenth birthday. I know who will never marry. I know who will not have kids of their own. I know who will not live through the end of this year. Now I know.

Random.
*They cut the grass here by hand. That would be awful.
*I had a dream last night about going out to dinner with friends back home. Something about it woke me and I was terrified. And nauseated. All the noise, all the smells, all the choices, all the laughter. The wealth of seen life was too much to bear. Culture shock coming here seems minimal compared to that which awaits. I’ve been abroad on numerous occasions and for numerous lengths of time, but this trip is different. Something more lasting is being shocked inside of me.
*Average age of death here ranges from forty to fifty.
*Guys hold hands with each other here. And girls don’t. They pee wherever the want to, as well. Girls don’t do that either.
*I caught a girl picking food out of our trash compost today. Not sure how long she’d been there, but when I found her, she was licking the rim of an ant-infested tuna can. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. She was probably nine and had a torn-lace dress and blistered feet. When I opened the back-door and said, “Hi sweetheart, are you okay?” she smiled widely back and said. “Hi, Auntie. Fine.” No outward guilt. No reticent hiding. Just a natural need being met and an innocent girl summoned to meet it.

Lonely.

It’s been a long few days. The power has been out and it’s been unseasonably rainy and cold. Uganda doesn’t get cold, so the concept of blankets, or more bedding than a sheet, is unheard of. Laundry can’t be dried, so liners and thus clean diapers are at a minimum. The babies are sicker than normal and everyone at the house is, too. I’ve never wanted the gift of sun like I do today.

We had a time of worship together tonight at the volunteer house. Amani is a Christian run organization and small things and actions around the house make you realize most volunteers are Christ-followers. Random Christian books are found lying around and you’ll often see people journaling or reading a Bible. Our house ranges in age from 18-30 (I think I’m the oldest right now, at 26), with homelands from Alabama to Canada, Germany to Denmark and even a girl from Kenya right now.

It’s an interesting vibe though—there’s not a push, or intentionality, for building community or friendships within the house. It’s a group of exceptionally independent and selfless people, I would say, so the agenda in coming was clearly not each other, but serving. Relationships happen naturally, given experiences at the orphanage, or meals and spontaneous time at the house in evenings, or days off. But in a refreshing way, nobody’s dependent on another. Nobody tends toward neediness, which again, is very refreshing. Tonight I’m needy though. I want my friends back home.

There is always something incomparable about worship songs in a group setting, but this night I felt quite emotionless. Again, refreshed and safe under a canopy of sacredness, but exceptionally lonely, too. Words and truths were being sung from my mouth, but my heart wasn’t believing them. God wasn’t enough for me tonight. I wanted my friends, too.

The past nine months have dealt me some of the richest and most real relationships that I’ve ever known. We’ve walked through filth and bliss, and stood through growth and falling. These friends—this Church—led me to start living in a lot of ways. And I miss them tonight and wish I was with them, or that they were here with me.

***
Need.

Loving people in America can be next to impossible. Most are relatively polished on the outside and wear the script pardoning them from any hint of need. If you can break past the flimsy wall, or break through to more than a ten-minute conversation (which probably errs on the long-side of the average), you’ll find a need, a plea, or a desirous heart. But due to fear, business, wealth, or the likes, it’s a rare person who’s willing to expose this side. “It feels weak…It’s not worth it (essentially translating to “I’m not worth it)…But how can I complain; what about the starving kids in Africa?…But what would people think if they knew what I was thinking? What would people say?…”

So we hide. We hide our thirsts, inabilities and insecurities. We mask the truth so that people ‘think’ we’re fine, or think we’re functioning fine. We ride days slow enough to be credited as “present,” but quick enough to avoid being seen. We’re scared to admit we’re not happy, as if something is wrong with it—or with us.

But I realized, or remembered, today that it’s far more meaningful, and actual, to serve people who know their need. Who aren’t afraid to say they’re not perfect, let alone good. Who aren’t afraid to humble themselves to a state of being wrong, or not always having an answer. And to admit that maybe there’s not one.

Africa has great need. And they know it.

Bono’s foreword in “The End of Poverty,” by Jeffery Sachs, said: “Deep down, if we really accept that their lives—African lives—are equal to ours, we would all be doing more to put the fire out… We ‘can’ be the generation that no longer accepts that an accident of latitude determines whether a child lives or dies—but ‘will’ we be that generation? Will we in the West realize our potential or will we sleep in the comfort of our affluence with apathy and indifference murmuring softly in our ears? Fifteen thousand Africans die each day of preventable, treatable diseases—AIDS, malaria, TB—for lack of drugs we take for granted. Mothers, fathers, teachers, farmers, nurses, mechanics, children. This is Africa’s crisis. That it’s not on the nightly news, that we do not treat this as an emergency—that’s ‘our’ crisis.”

(P.S. This book is a phenomenal read and if you just want a taster, see July’s Vanity Fair).

It’s a terrible feeling to face prejudice toward an entire gender. Ugandan men pull me toward it though. It’s a rarity for me to pass a man on the street and not find myself screaming profanities under my breath. Any woman will understand me when I say this, but they just have “that look.” It’s sleezy, seductive and downright scary, to the degree that women are told to not even give them eye-contact. At first this sounded horrendous to me—now it feels like a small form of protection.

You think I’m exaggerating to say that every guy is like this—and I am—but in town, at least, it’s definitely most guys (the villages feel less so). I’m continually asking for discernment for when a man is pure and able to be trusted, let alone looked in the eye. Again, it’s a terrible feeling to judge every man as bad.

Women are embarrassed by the men here, and just assuming of their behavior. When you ask, or complain about something they did, the women don’t flinch, or defend them, but rather empathize and apologize on their behalf. On this note, I think one of the most difficult tensions revolves around the stark contrast between women and men. I make a point to smile at every female I see. And I am yet to not receive one back. It’s not immediate and it’s definitely never initiated, but when you smile at a woman here, it’s like a veil is lifted from her tired, ashamed face and she’s finally “allowed” to shine. It’s one of the most beautiful processes I’ve ever witnessed, which happens without words and in a mere matter of seconds. Something about the image of God carries massive capacity for giving and receiving a smile. (This is a conversation for another day, but I’ve wondered lately how much Jesus smiled…or laughed, cried, yelled, joked, asked, taught, or told, for that matter…Scriptures refer to him having nothing of outward appearance that we’d be drawn to, but in light of this smiling topic, I wonder what that means….).

Anyway, guys have a completely opposite process of relating. They stare at you with an untrusting grimace and say stuff any language communicates as distasteful and provoking. My one hope falls in the realm of age and exposure to Western culture. I say that because there are distinct differences based on a guy’s age. Babies, boys and even school-aged kids are adorable. They smile and relate in seemingly innocent ways. The middle and high-schoolers start to show a bit more hesitancy, but still seem quite harmless in their relating. College and University aged guys mark the line. They can “talk the talk” of good-heartedness, but they can’t get through a paragraph without asking to take you to church (because “all white people go to church”…most whites they’ve been exposed to have been missionaries of some sort). If this doesn’t work, they’ll tell you they love you and want to marry you. How enticing. Beyond school age, guys don’t stand a chance.

Muzzungoo is our name and money is our draw. Whites are known as rich and easy. We’ll put out money, just as easily as we’ll put out sex. It’s not just a white issue though—the treatment of women is unjust and patriarchal, to say the least. Women here work incredibly long hours and for incredibly low wages, usually to come home to a husband who’s cheating on other wives, or affairs, or bingeing on cheap beer that robs his kids of day’s worth of bread.

I am a feminist to the degree that I believe in women and believe women deserve rights, justice and fairness of treatment. I am not a feminist, however, to the degree that I believe women and men should be treated equally. I think we are apples and oranges—we were uniquely designed for different roles and responsibilities. We are different species, from everything to physical and emotional make-up, to physiological and sociological behaviors. All this to say, I am one who fights for the fullest measure of strength, beauty and holistic empowerment for both men and women.

But today I hate men. And I feel incredibly sorry for so many women.

God is amazing to me in His “big” ways. But He’s more amazing to me right now in His small ones. I could tell you ten things off-hand that He’s done in very specific ways this morning. I woke feeling weak and fatigued. It’s not normal to feel “well” here, given that we’re around sickness all the time, but this was more unwell than normal. I told Him how tired I was and that I didn’t want to go to the Cottage. We talked about the bigger picture here and what He might be doing to help me recognize my comformalities and habits. Revealing and breaking places in me that have started to become/feel “controllable” and confining to my terms. What’s been incredible though, is to see how tenderly He’s walked me through this morning of tough conversations (and confrontations J).

It took me about twice as long to make the normally five-minute walk to Cottage. I heard singing from street, but didn’t realize till arriving at the house that it was the Mama’s, waking-up the 1’s. They do this every morning at 7:45am. Standing around the room—about ten of them—some with hands held high, some rocking a child, some on their knees and some just standing in awe. As I stood there with them, humming Luugandan worship with little Brian crawling up my feet and eventually arms, tears streamed down my face. What an unbelievable picture, I thought, of God waking His children. Never before have I been so appreciative of a first morning breath, or an initial connection of eyes. Every one of these children has massive physical and psychological (abandonment, abuse, poverty, malnourishment…) hurdles to come, but I can’t imagine a more fitted way to “wake their grounding” in ‘a hope that’s built on nothing less, than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.’ Brian mimicked the raised hands. One day soon, I pray he’ll know intimately what this mimicking is really all about.

I realized in these songs what a soothing response God was giving to my cries of fatigue. The women were singing just as much to me, as they were to the children. Odd as it sounds, most of the time here, I find that I relate more to the babies than anyone. I’ve spent most of my life making sure I fit-in, say the right thing, and perform to some aim of perfection. And I’d gotten really good at it, so much so that it was my “natural act” and I didn’t know anything else. I wouldn’t have known how ‘not’ to fit in, or ‘not’ to be to people what I knew they wanted me to. But through a long process, the Lord is pulling those energies from me. What’s been interesting hasn’t been a fight, per se, as much as the fact that once I finally found myself too tired to run anymore, I realized how tired I really was—and how much I was running…and hiding. Once I “stopped” and recognized it, the tiredness of 25-years becomes increasingly evident, but the truth is slowly uncovering me to a “me at rest.”

I’m not sure I could’ve entered Amani today—at least heart-wise—without this invitation from God. After waking and massaging my little preemies, I went outside to my Tuesday assignment of “laundry.” You wouldn’t believe the amount of laundry sixty babies can accomplish. Between day clothes and PJ’s, diapers, towels, liners and undies, the row of drying lines is quite a site. And that’s not even mentioning washing and folding, plus the four-a-day repeat.

There’s not much talking during laundry—mostly just monotonous movements, which on this day at least, was just what I needed. There was one point when the rain clouds were entering and we were waiting for a load to finish drying. As a handful of women stood there and bantered back and forth, I sat solemnly and sadly staring out at the distant waters. It was a good ten minutes before I realized my disconnection, and in that moment I was so grateful to have had it. To have been “let” to have it. In the West, especially, it seems, it’s hard for us to consider sadness on a similar scale emotionally with happiness. We’re quick to say, “Aw, honey, what is wrong?” but for whatever reasons, never say, “Aw, honey, what is right?” We’re quick to correlate sadness with something bad, and happiness as the norm.

What struck me, though, in this situation, was that the Ugandan women didn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary in my distance. I think my ten minutes could’ve gone two hours and they wouldn’t have interrupted, let alone assumed anything as out of the ordinary. I’m realizing that these believing African women consider sadness a part of the day, just as much and maybe more expectedly, even, than happiness. Don’t get me wrong, a joy sustains them like none I’ve ever seen, but sadness prevails, even in their joy. They see nothing wrong with it. They don’t fear, mask, or run from it. They know it as the reality of a world gone astray. And they also know it as a gift under God’s spectrum of design. I bet if I were to ask them, which I have in a more generalized sense, they’d avoid disturbing sadness just as quickly as they’d avoid disturbing happiness. Why? For both, they’ve seen, are bridges God will use to get our attention. Neither emotion (and none to that matter) is the end. Rather, each is a beginning to recognizing our need, desire and intended dependence on God.

I realized a roadblock here, in that without a perspective considering life after this one, sadness doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit in a world that ‘should be good.’ And it must be avoided, or changed, or challenged at all costs. Father, I long for a bigger perspective today and one that lives by faith in the reality of Eternity, more so than that which emotes and fluctuates momentarily. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, because the kingdom of heaven is theirs. Blessed are those who mourn, because they will be comforted. Blessed are the gentle, because they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousnes

*****Happy belated FOURTH OF JULY America!*****

***

Mirroring Truth.

For a girl, at least, the mirror often defines her day. A scale, conversation, grade, compliment, or person can, too, but I think a mirror’s ready availability in bedrooms, bathrooms, storefronts, closets and so on, provides them the most clout. I don’t know how many times we look at our reflection in a day? And who knows how to factor in the time spent with each of these “looks,” given the variety of angles and areas we need to approve?

Here there are very few mirrors. If you walk into town, some of the stores reflect you off their glass, but overall, one is forced to be far less aware of his/her reflection. I know on paper I’m identified as God’s daughter, that will not hold me indefinitely, or often even temporarily, a lot of the time. What does this mean then? How will a mirror-less culture flesh-out, when I’m still an image-oriented being who ‘will’ figure out ways to define herself?

On healthy days, I’ve found it to be the babies. The babies help me understand my identity. They reflect back to me a good portion of my image. They reflect back my expression—first considering my eyes, then surveying my demeanor. And in their speechless sensitivity, they ask me how I feel.

The mirror cares how I feel, too, I guess, but it tells me; it doesn’t ask. It defines me; it doesn’t discern.

How can something so small and unable, reflect back such purified strength and articulation?

Missional Living.

Living in this discipline of service feels foreign to anything I’ve ever known. Other “mission trips” compare, but by nature, they were missional. Goal-oriented. Designated for a purpose of carrying the mission to a set group of a people in a set amount of time. What does missional living look like though? My “mission,” if I had to name one this summer, was to lean into the discipline of service in such a way that I could serve God in the context of a pressure-less, spacious environment and thus further experience His presence in prayer and rest—and preferably it would be done in Africa J. But being here and seeing how this self-centered mission has allowed me to be more others-focused than ever before is astounding. I wouldn’t call it an abundance of joy, or energy, or ability that I have, per se, but rather, a more willing dependence and openness to the humility that comes in recognizing my deep need for Jesus and His love.

Where is it in the Church? Why is it easier when we’re “away” or “on mission” to understand our purpose. Which in this case, involves that of waking-up and knowing confidently that I ‘get’ to serve and love God today, along with my self and my neighbor. What a gift.

Days off are definitely longed for, but work itself is so satisfying that even on intentional Sabbath days or afternoons, I often find myself back at the Cottage. I miss the babies. I miss the work of loving them. Much of the time, work for me here is rest to my soul. I wonder if this is a season, or if it’s how it’s always supposed to be, or could be? Probably a little of both.

There’s a quote hanging in my room here by Rabindranath Tagore: “I slept and dreamed that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted, and behold, service was joy.” I think this summarizes a lot of how I’m feeling today.

***
Follower of Christ.

When I lived in Paris, it was with a Buddhist woman named Jacqueline and a homeless man she housed named Asoumain. Both had hearts of gold. Asoumain’s, in fact, was probably more golden than Jacqueline’s and mine put together. He was a West African Muslim man who’d been in Paris for ten years, the last two of which struggled to find a job. He wore thick, oversized glasses found in a dumpster and fluctuated between his blue shirt and his white one. The three of us would sometimes share meals together and I remember one in particular that conversed about faith. Asoumain knew that Jacqueline was a Buddhist and I was a Christian. He was confused though, feeling like we were both such nice people and wanting peace and happiness for the world—were not our (and all) religions the same? Jacqueline was well read and we’d both had enough of these conversations to empathize with his struggle. “Non,” we said, smiling at each other in unison, and slowly proceeded to share of the commonalities, but also the undeniable divorces.

Christianity has many connotations today. Asomain represents most of his African counterparts, who say they are either Muslim or Christian. Most Americans will claim a Christian orientation. Rarely do any of these hold a necessary clout though. If an African says he/she is a “born again Christian,” most likely this entails a belief in the Bible as the Word of God and in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.

In America, if someone says they’re born-again, people freak out and walk away. So I think I’m on a mission to reclaim, or maybe just re-explain the “title” of my belief system (which sounds lame, too…maybe I should say, to re-explain my lifestyle? Life pursuit? Heart posture? Reason for living? Understanding of life?…). How about Follower of Christ?

How can a Story so simple become so jaded and complex? Maybe because the concept of grace is so unbelievable—literally? Or maybe because our minds and hearts have fallen away from their intended design and designer? I’m reading “Spirit of the Disciplines” right now, by Dallas Willard, and he defines sin at one point as “the automatic tendencies ingrained in our flesh” (page 72). I like this. It frees me up to realize my existence, itself, is flawed, rather than something I act, or don’t act out upon.

Sometimes I get really overwhelmed and frustrated and sad for all the people who do not know God, or for those who try to minimize, or rationalize, or compartmentalize His Lordship to being “the same as all the rest of them.” But for this moment, at least, I think I trust Him as being in control of those who know, and also of those who don’t.

***

Random.

*In America I get sunburned when I think about the sun. Or burn. Or burning suns. But here it’s almost always hotter then Hades and sunny and I’m yet to get burnt. Weird.

*A middle-aged gal walked by me today holding a garbage bag full of live chickens with their head’s poking out, and heading a basket of the largest avocados I’ve ever seen. “That’s kind of like Kansas,” I thought. “Well, no…not really.”

*There are these freaky, four-foot stork-like things that walk around the streets here as if they’re normal.

*There’s a random “golf course” near my house. Today a Muslim woman in all black and was crossing it, into a gray-hued sunset horizoned by a mountain range. I wanted to call National Geographic, but didn’t have a phone. Was gonna borrow the nearby beggars’, but he seemed deep in conversation and I didn’t want to bother him. Not sure where the problem stems from when people living on an average of less than $1 a day prioritize a cell phone over food and shelter?

Mama Suzanne.

I walked home with Mama Suzanne today. I was heading out for a walk and saw her leaving the Cottage and asked if I could join. And I tell you what, these Mama’s are amazing. They’re like the Grandmother on the front porch, always welcoming you in for tea and cut strawberries—which are somehow always already cut. And they’re like the supermom-multi-tasker who can twiddle her thumbs, cook dinner, sing you a song and juggle—all with a smile on her face. And they’re like the energizer bunny, who works all day, walks a lengthy distance home to care for her family, does some sort of beading, or handi-work to put her children through school, sleeps at some point and then rises early to walk into the same schedule the next day. And they’re like the prayer warrior at your church who always asks how she can be praying for you…and you know she actually does. And these are some of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. (One small challenge with my Mamas today was that they spoke zero English. A lot is “watch and learn” here, but today it was especially so.

Anyway, Mama Suzanne and I walked into town and stopped at her church—a big, revival-like building with lots of Ugandan women standing outside dressed to the nines and preparing for their Thursday prayer time. Mama Suzanne told me about her family and history of moving from Gulu in 1989. We discussed “Girlsoldier,” a book I’m reading about northern Uganda (a lot of which references, Gulu, a northern city still severely war-torn…if people are living, they are living in refugee camps and the treatment of children remains massively abusive and tragic) and she further explained thoughts of the nationalist parties and warlords. Her husband was killed as a soldier, leaving her with four children (she’s since adopted another from Amani), each of whom live in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, about 90 minutes (by car or taxi) west of Jinja.

I asked Mama Suzanne if she was a Christian and she said, “Oh, yes,” almost like ‘how could I not be, given that I’m standing here talking to you?’ I asked if it was ever hard to believe God, given what she’s been through? She said absolutely not. Her profession as a Christian is one of faith, not sight, so that never could there be an atrocity so bad that it turned her from Christ, especially when she remembers His atrocity for us. She said she can not get discouraged when she remembers His victory—all she can do is wait and let the world know of Him while she is waiting. I told her her faith was larger than mine.

***

I met Titus and Freddy walking home for the orphanage. Both were handsome boys of nineteen. The asked about my job here and wondered if I’d be able to communicate more (guys are the same on every continent J). I asked they knew their names, or Titus’ at least, were in the Bible. He said, “Yes,” with a big smile, “and I am a born again Chris-t-eean, is not that ironic?” I laughed.

***

Home Would be Easier.

For a lot of reasons. And I’m wanting easier tonight.
I’m tired of being dirty. Even on my cleanest day, I’m dirty.
I’m tired of everything around me being dirty. Smells were nauseating at first, but now the realization that everything smells bad makes me numb to it.
I’m tired of being around tears.
I’m tired of everything I want not being simple to get.
I’m tired of walking down the street and everyone staring.
I’m tired of walking down the street and seeing men with guns in their hands.
I’m tired of poverty.
I’m tired of unfamiliarity.
I’m tired of feeling so many emotions.
I’m tired of not knowing the language—or money conversions, or idiosyncrasies, or street names, or …
Home would be easier. And I’m wanting the easy life tonight.

Tickled Pink.

Hands down, one of my favorite parts of the day is “wake-ups.” Because I’m with preemies much of the time, I get bonus wake-ups throughout the day, including mornings, and then morning, afternoon and evening naps. When we’re on our lunch break though, all the kids are napping and I like to walk around to the different rooms and pray over them. Today as I was looking in on some of the 2’s, I couldn’t help but respond to their giddy games, where they acted as if they didn’t know I walked in, but couldn’t hide it with their erupting giggles. I can’t think of many more priceless sites than six hot-pink, cloth diapers bouncing up and down to the rhythm of black baby girls. It didn’t take long before their laughs got out of hand and Mama Margaret came to regulate. Game over.

***

Moments of Church.

I took Christina to church with me today. Amani is really lax on taking the babies in and out, so that we could even bring them home to sleep with us if we wanted. For one: they trust us, two: It’s good to get the kids out and three: TIA—This Is Africa. Christina is about two and a half and as adorable as they come. Her stomach is protruded from malnutrition/absorbtion, but other than that, she’s a gentle, healthy girl. When I arrived I wasn’t sure who I’d take, but she seemed most eager. Mama Denise was all excited for her and said she must put on her Sunday garb. So we raided to the Toddler Closet and found some pink-flowered shoes and a lovely dress to match. Christina was glowing.

I’d gone to a Calvary Chapel service at 8am (always a good bet to hit-up the early service here…there’s usually an 8am and a 10am and if you choose the latter, prepare to be there for a long while) and wanted to visit another church in town. The kids aren’t awake early enough to make the 8am service, so it worked out well to run by the orphanage on my way to “Jinja’s Church of Christ.” Among other things, our fifteen minute walk (well, my walk/her carry) to town passed-by three cows, one gunman, a witch-doctor and two Muslim Mamas. Church itself felt really right. Calvary was good, too, but didn’t have the warm spirit of this second church.

Aside from a truthful sermon and welcoming crowd of about a hundred, highlights were the boy in front of me with enormous trousers and a forgotten-to-zip fly, and the beautiful girl beside me, with frazzled braid-weaves and a laced white dress. Beads of sweat decorated her porcelain face, and profuse shivering her delicate body. She laid in her mother’s arms and sang softly the praises of Jesus. When I asked later if she was okay, her mom answered in tearful, broken English, “The clinic say she is Malaria or “the Disease” (AIDS).” Heartbreaking. A final high was a moment in the hour-long worship set at the front-end of church (2nd services are bound to go at least a few hours). Christina was asleep in my arms and hidden in the crevice between my neck and shoulder. As the Church sang loudly in Luugandan, my tears caught the beams of incoming light and prisms covered my lense. My eyes closed in awe, knowing this scene would be revisited in heaven. Oh, and on a less serious, or spiritual note, well…I guess it could be if you wanted, Christina peed on my skirt. When I asked if she needed to go to the bathroom, she looked at me with her innocent, big brown eyes and whispered, “Auntie Abbie, it is done.”

***

Starting to Read the Bible.

I’ve read the Bible less this year than any since becoming a Christian (freshman year of college, seven years ago). Odd, given that it was my first year of seminary, where most might assume all you do is read the Bible. What I did more this year, however, than all those years combined, was pray. I should say “engage in prayer,” only because to pray feels quite active and the prayer I experienced this year was more about dialoguing and most about hearing from God, as oppose to talking at Him. In a lot of ways this was really scary, as the Bible quickly becomes a crutch for our faith and experiences of solitude, or silence with God, bite the dust. Similar to church-going, Bible Studies, or volunteer work, time serving God takes the place of time with God (don’t get me wrong, these two can go together, but the line is really, really shaky…and I had fallen off it). Anyway, after a year of learning to be with God, apart from any necessary additives (a journal, the Bible, a sermon, or book), it’s been refreshing to feel “ready” and desirous of revisiting His Scriptures. Who knows how He’ll lead my days ahead, but for now at least, it’s been nice to (re)engage with God’s Word—as my nourishment and Bread—but not as a sole Source. No matter how much reading, study, or Scripture memory I do, I’m slowly learning to trust that there is always a more dynamic “Person” waiting to ‘be’ with me—to rest with me, and I with Him. The Trinity is far more encompassing than a Book and far more encapsulating than an approach, or describable ascent. So after a long year of breaking down this facet of my faith, it feels good and right to be reading the Bible again.

***

Bugs.

I swallowed a bug today, which for a few reasons, felt a little scarier than normal. Oh well.

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).

(continued from last entry) ...ings happen regardless, but aren’t necessarily felt. We do a range of things, and practice a reaching number of addictions, obsessions and habits that keep us from knowing what we’re really feeling. The scary thing is that a lot and maybe most the time, (the Church definitely included), these means are promoted as good. Anyway, I’m sure future entries will dig into this more, but for now at least, hear me say that I’m honored to learn from these infants what it means to be honest with myself and not fear or falsify the ongoing stream of emotion bubbling inside me.

Okay, that was a big tangent. Anyway, tasks around the house are what you’d guess for this age and number of kids, but there are quite a few TIA (“this is Africa”) or uniquely Ugandan ones that will share as time unfolds. Diapers are washed and lined by hand, so that’ll comprise a good bit of the day, especially given that most the preemies ar