This White Girl Can Time Travel!

I’ve always thought it would be cool to have some type of superpower – you know, the ability to fly or make myself invisible or teleport myself from one place to another.  I’ve heard some people wish for the ability to time travel, but I’ve already got that one covered.  In fact, I travel through time every day.

I start off every morning in 2014.  I wake up in my comfy T-shirt and gym shorts that I bought at Burlington Coat Factory in Connecticut.  I roll out of bed and get dressed for the day.  As I wrap a sarong around my waist and remind myself to cover my oh-so-provocative knees before going outside, I start to go back in time to a period when women had not yet fought the good fight to wear jeans.

I get ready for school and walk down the street, going back hundreds of years in time.  In my village, no roads are paved, so there’s nothing but dust.  I slowly saunter down the dirty streets, attempting to keep my sandals away from any mud puddles.  Along the way, I hear a chorus of “Mzungu!  Mzungu!  Mzungu!” (White person!  White person!  White person!)  All the little voices of the village children chime in, and it sounds like they are singing me my very own special song.  Just before reaching the school compound, I am ambushed by a gang of three and four-year-olds.  Instead of singing “mzungu,” they scream the word and come running into my arms, attacking me with hugs, grabbing my hands, and laughing.  Every day, their eyes widen with the same genuine interest, and they greet me with the same enthusiasm.  The presence of a white girl never gets old for them.  My favorite girl from the street, Queenie, holds on extra long until I finally have to peel her off of me so that I can reach the school.  I walk through the gate, and I’ve now entered the 1800s.

I help teach Primary Five and Primary Six English, and it feels like I am “playing school.”  Our schoolhouse is like something from Little House on the Prairie, a makeshift building made from wooden slabs.  The classrooms are separated by thin walls that don’t reach the ceiling.  While teaching, I can hear everything going on in the classrooms to my right and left; and oftentimes, the children in my classroom can’t hear me, and I can’t hear them.  The students sit on wooden benches with wooden tables attached.  My Primary Five class is bursting at the seams, with almost fifty children, so they squeeze three or four people onto each tiny bench.  I have no supplies, no books, no markers, no workbooks – nothing aside from the blank notebooks some children have purchased and a bunch of pens that get passed around among the students.  We use a chalkboard that is not a real chalkboard but actually a piece of wood that’s been painted black.  I try to write on the board, but the chalk only makes legible marks about half of the time.  The middle of the blackboard has a large hole in it where it looks like someone punched a fist through it.  Children from the village pass by our classroom and throw things into the windows while students from my class pass them pencils.  I ask the students what the heck they are doing, but I never really understand what’s going on with their friends in the village.  I do the best I can to teach English to fifty children who speak Luganda and don’t have books, but I sure wish I had the resources I used when I taught ESL at Cal State Fullerton.  It’s a slightly different experience teaching English here…

On my way out of school, a student chases after me and begs, “Teacher, please help me.  I am an orphan; both of my parents died of AIDS.  I don’t have money for shoes.”  I look down at her feet and see flip-flops in place of proper shoes and notice that this particular student doesn’t have a school uniform on either.  I don’t know what time period I’m in now; all I know is that no one should live in such a period.    

I walk home and hear more chants of “mzungu!” until I finally arrive back at my house.  I spend the evening battling the unrelenting music being blared across the street and enter whatever time period is playing.  Sometimes I visit the nineties and enjoy classic Celine Dion songs…or cruise back to the eighties with a stream of love ballads…or travel to the early 2000s with a variety of profane rap.  Every once and a while, I am zapped back to 2014, and I hear something that’s current.  My personal favorite is the Justin Beiber marathon days.  Hey, at least I’m in the right decade.

I eat dinner with my roommate Ashley, the five boys we live with, and Auntie Tendo (our house cook/auntie/friend).  We generally consume heaping portions of carbs with a tiny bit of protein – sometimes meat, sometimes beans, and sometimes silverfish (tiny whole fish that are eaten with scales, eyes, and all).  Ashley and I do our evening chore, washing everyone’s dishes.  We plug our disgusting sink by jamming a plastic bag into the hole and then fill the sink with questionably clean water.  We fill a large bucket with water in the boys’ bathroom, a room I never look forward to entering.  After the bucket is half full, we drag it across our cement floor into the “kitchen.”  We wash the dishes and rinse them in the bucket.  Our dishwashing method has taken us back several decades, maybe even centuries – and we’ve also taken several steps backwards in the sanitation department.

I help the boys with their homework and eventually retire to my room and check my email (if the network is working).  I am in 2014 again, seeing updates on Facebook and the current affairs of the world.  As I read what’s happening in the lives of my friends, I can even forget I am in Africa altogether.  But then the power goes out, or the water cuts off, or I hear our guard, Baby Lion (yes, that’s his name), yelling something weird outside…and suddenly I am back in Africa.

I go to bed, ready to pass out and start another strange day, and I fall asleep to whatever decade is playing outside my window.

On days off, I go into the city center to explore or meet with friends.  I pass through the infamous taxi park and flash back to 2007.  When I lived in Kampala in 2006/7, I often traveled through the city alone on public transportation, which often required switching taxis at a place called the taxi park.   This is an area located near the city center filled with hundreds of mini-buses all headed to different villages and parts of Kampala.  In 2007, I lived in a village called Mengo, and every man who worked in the taxi park knew it.  Seeing a white girl in the park is extremely rare, so it’s no surprise that everyone quickly noticed my regular presence there and learned my normal travel pattern.  Seven years ago, all I had to do was enter the park, and random men would direct me towards the correct taxi, push me the correct way, and eventually shove me inside the Mengo mini-bus.  Bizarrely enough, when entering the taxi park a few weeks ago, a man immediately approached me and asked, “Mengo?”  After seven years, the men working in the park still remembered my village!  I didn’t know whether to think that was awesome, creepy, or just plain weird.  There are moments like that when it feels as if no time has passed – like life has bizarrely stood still – and I am back in 2007.  But then when I actually do go to Mengo and visit the kids I used to live with, I see that most of them aren’t kids anymore.  The boys who were once short, gangly thirteen-year-olds are now huge, strong men.  One of these boys used to reach my shoulder, and now I reach his chest.  Maybe life hasn’t actually stood still after all.

I travel into the city and pick my choice of a variety of modern cafés.  There are frappachinos and mixed coffee drinks on the menu.  There is wifi and good music and a stylish ambiance.  I realize that a lot has actually changed in seven years, as places like this were scarce even just a few years ago.  I live in a new Kampala now, with a newly emerging middle class.  And now, I am back to 2014.

So for anyone who says it’s impossible to time travel – well, I say that I do it every day.  It may not be as glamorous as a real superpower, but at least it keeps my life interesting. :P

Time of Transition

Uganda, Uganda…wow, I don’t know quite where to begin.  My transition back to Kampala has been so up-and-down that if you were to ask me what it’s been like, my response would be totally dependent on the circumstances of that particular day.  Today I’m feeling pretty neutral, so hopefully I can paint a fair picture of life here.  J

Let’s start with the basics.  I live in a small village called Busega, about thirty minutes from the city center of Kampala.  The ministry I am working with consists of a home for girls, a home for boys, a primary school called Royal Hope Academy, and some discipleship groups that normally meet at the girls’ house.  I live in the boys’ house with another missionary from the U.S. named Ashley.  We have our own room and bathroom, which is a HUGE blessing.  Even though we have to share the room with a family of cockroaches, we have more space and comfort than expected.  In place of a shower, we have a tub where we take bucket showers.  It’s not too bad, although we are currently out of water, so no showers today….

For the first couple weeks, the boys in the house barely spoke to me but instead looked at me as though I were an unwanted intruder.  Our only interactions were when one of them knocked on my door to notify me that a meal was ready.  At first, I didn’t understand how the meal system worked here or whether or not I was supposed to be doing something.  I would simply hear a knock on my door, but when I answered, “Yes?” or “Come in”, I received no response.  When I would open the door, I would see that a meal had appeared on the kitchen table.  The boys would all gather, mumble a prayer in Luganda, eat, and then scatter.  I desperately wanted to speak with the cook and thank her or to speak more with the boys, but instead I experienced mostly awkward silence.  I felt incredibly out of place and never really knew what was happening for probably two weeks or so.  I was very thankful to have Ashley there with me, but she was also new and didn’t know what was going on either. 

Often, the boys, Ashley, and I all paraded down to the girls’ house, a fifteen-minute walk from our house, and hung out in their compound.  Visits there were nice, as their home is bigger and nicer and homier than ours.  The girls usually received me with a bit more warmth, so the vibe was a bit better, but I still felt overall unwanted and confused.

Initially, my mornings began when the music outside my window was blaring so loud that I could no longer stay asleep.  I think it’s fair to say that our house is across the street from the most annoying bar in Kampala.  They blare music nonstop, from early morning until the wee hours of the night.  Fortunately, I’m getting better at falling asleep with the noise, but the first week was miserable.  I would just lie in bed, feeling exhausted yet unable to sleep.  I’m sleeping normally now, but my current struggle is finding quiet time throughout the day.  When I want to quietly pray or music, all I hear is the day’s tunes.  Some days it’s 50 Cent; some days it’s Celine Dion; sometimes it’s oldies; sometimes it’s African or reggae.  No matter what, it’s annoying and nonstop.  It’s so loud that I feel like I am inside the bar when I am sitting in my room, even with the door and windows closed.  The noise is maddening, but I’m trying really hard not to go crazy.

To be honest, I thought moving back to Uganda would be an easy transition and was pretty upset when I discovered quite the opposite.  I wrongly figured it would be smooth and simple to return to a familiar place after being all over the globe for so many years.  I thought it would be quick to readjust, simple to make new friends, and easy to jump back into my old life.  However, the reality is that my old life no longer exists.  So many of the people I once knew here have left the city – both foreigners and Ugandans.  It is bizarre to see a familiar place with memories of specific people and to know I will likely never spend time with those people here again.  The Kampala I knew seven years ago no longer exists either.  There are new restaurants and stores people refer to that I’ve never heard of.  Some places I do know have been renamed or relocated, so I’m relearning old places.  All the prices have drastically increased since I left, so even though I feel like I should know Kampala’s money system, I have to constantly ask questions to make sure I am not being ripped off.  The independent girl who once knew the price of every taxi, mango, and street purchase now knows nothing.  Every day, it seems like I find another area of this culture where I have to start over.

When I lived at an orphanage in 2006/7, the children were all from a northern tribe that spoke Acholi.  However, the children I’m now living with speak Luganda; therefore I am tackling a new language – a hard one.  Every once and a while, I’ll understand a phrase or sentence and get really excited.  Then I remember that I still have the vocabulary of a two year old at best.  In 2011, I was teaching ESL at Cal State University; now I have children teaching me the most basic of words – like how to say “rice” or “please.”  Any sense of pride is being daily knocked out of me.

There’s so much information to take in that sometimes my brain feels like there’s no room for another language.  Since arriving, I’ve learned the name of the nineteen kids living at the children’s homes, the names of every teacher at Royal Hope Academy, and the name of all the missionaries working here.  I’ve learned how to navigate the dirt road labyrinth I live inside to reach the girls’ home, school, church, and the main road that grants me taxi access to the city.  I am learning the ropes of a new ministry, and now I’m trying to shove a gazillion new words into my overloaded mind.  It’s tough.

When I originally planned to move back to Kampala, I felt like I had already “paid my dues” to Uganda and wanted to continue where I left off in 2007.  In 2006/7, I was the only foreigner living in the orphanage; I ate all the local food; I used squat toilets; I walked and took local transport; I had more African friends than American friends.  It took me many months, but I gained the respect of the staff and children at the orphanage, and they made me an honorary African.  Yet, in this new village and ministry, no one knows me.  They don’t consider me an African; I’m just some new white girl who showed up.  I haven’t proven anything to them yet, and they don’t know my motives or my heart.  I am realizing that this process will have to start all over again.  It’s a long, slow, and humble one.  So here we go again…

I am learning hard but valuable lessons.  I am forced to humble myself constantly, being in the position of a learner all the time.  Every day I am learning to surrender more pieces of my life.  I am remembering that getting up and eating a breakfast I choose for myself is a luxury.  I no longer can eat what I want or when I want.  It’s a blessing to have someone who cooks for all of us, but I have no choice over my diet.  We mostly eat carbs and carbs, with a side of carbs.  Some days I can get it all down; others I can barely look at it.  I would love to cook for myself, but the tiny charcoal stove outside doesn’t give me much freedom to do so. 

I cannot move about the city safely after dark.  I can’t drive around to meet up with friends.  I don’t even know how to make friends.  I cannot easily use Skype and communicate with the people I love the way I would prefer.  I cannot go to the church I want to go to, and I don’t understand 90% of what is said in our village’s church.  No one can pronounce my name, so I have to respond to a variety of names that aren’t my own.  “Kaaaay-TEE” or “Kat-a-leen” is as close as it gets.

I cannot dress in the clothes I want to wear.  Jeans are considered sexually provocative in the village, and shorts are absolutely out of the question.  I can’t choose what I wear or what I look like.  I hate hate hate wearing long skirts.  I don’t feel like Caitlin; I feel like a frumpy weirdo.  It may sound so trivial, but it’s hard.  It’s hard to not be in control of my life.  I have to surrender to a culture which doesn’t really make sense to me.

My life is not my own.  It does not belong to me, nor has it ever belonged to me.  It’s easy to say that our lives belong to the Lord when we still do whatever we want, when we are comfortable, when we are allowed to make choices and feel like we have control over what is happening in our lives.  It seems that no matter how much time I spend on the mission field, I am constantly re-learning how to die to myself and to remember that my life is not my own.

But that brings me to the thing that’s more important than all of the sacrifices – the thing that causes all of these inconveniences to fade into the background.  God called me here, and that means that there is purpose in being here.  There’s purpose in eating weird foods and taking bucket showers and daily battling cockroaches.  It’s a purpose that I cannot yet fully see; but slowly, slowly, slowly, more of it is unfolding.  Like an onion, I keep peeling back layers and am confident that I will ultimately fall in love with Uganda all over again as more and more of its beauty is unveiled.  Some days, it’s still pretty hard, but I constantly remind myself that I am meant to be here and that patient love yields much fruit in the end.  Heidi Baker always says, “Love looks like something,” and it’s true.  Right now, love looks like eating foods I don’t like and playing with kids and helping at a school that really needs help and being patient with teenagers that have a lot of walls up.

As I do these things, I find more and more experiences that make being here worth it.  The boys who initially looked so distrusting of me are slowly warming up to my presence in their home.  What first seemed an impossible feat is looking more and more possible.  The boys and I have found things to talk, laugh, and joke about.  The vibe in the house has transformed from horribly awkward to tolerable to comfortable.  Every day, it feels a bit closer to family.  Last night, we had a family meeting where Ashley and I volunteered to be assigned a chore to help out around the house.  We explained to the boys that we were no longer guests but part of their family, so we want to be treated as equals – even if it means doing extra work.  In a culture where white people are often put on an unmerited pedestal, I think it’s good for the boys to see us serving them.  One of the boys said he was surprised and impressed when he found out that Ashley and I hand washed our own clothes.  Clearly, there are a lot of false perceptions that need to change and cultural damage that needs to be undone.  So maybe love even looks like doing dishes or cleaning our own clothes instead of paying an African to wash them.  And as I learn what love looks like here, slowly, slowly, slowly, I’m seeing walls come down.  I am thankful to say that the initial skepticism of the boys is turning into respect, and I hope that one day that respect will even turn into genuine love.

I’ve continued to visit the girls’ house as well, and several of them are already pretty open.  One of the girls, fifteen-year-old Gloria, has become my personal Luganda teacher.  Whenever I enter the house, all of the girls greet me with, “Good morning, Auntie.”  However, Gloria greets me, “Hello, my student,” as she giggles wildly to herself.  She has given me tests and says I am her top student. (Well, I guess I’m her only student).  On the cover of my notebook, she wrote my name and her name and “Top Class,” which is the equivalent of nursery school level in the U.S.  Gloria thinks that’s pretty funny, and we’ve had a great time learning and teaching together.  After our regular Luganda sessions started, I overheard that Gloria is often teased by the other kids for being bad at English.  They make fun of her and treat her like she’s stupid.  Yet, she is the one who reached out to me and is trying to help me learn her language.  I had no idea just how much it meant to her to be put in the position of the one teaching – to be the one who knows and understands information.  After finding out about the teasing, it means that much more to me every time I see Gloria’s face light up when she calls me her student.

I’m getting to know other kids too, slowly but surely.  It seems like playing games is the way to their hearts, and being unafraid to look like a fool is the way to go.  I’ve also connected with Auntie Tendo, the cook and auntie at our house, despite initial language barriers.  Even though she barely speaks English, and I barely speak Luganda, we spent over an hour together the other night cooking dinner for the boys.  She instructed me through a mix of English, Luganda, and charades, and we cooked a delicious meal together while singing Celine Dion and using the mingling stick as a microphone.  I don’t care how stupid I look anymore.  I already look ridiculous here.  I might as well have fun and make other people laugh while I’m doing it.

When I’m not at the houses, I’ve mainly been working at Royal Hope Academy, our primary school.  Our younger boys and girls will attend classes there when the school term begins in a couple weeks, as well as hundreds of underprivileged children from the community.  To say there’s a lot of work to be done is a massive understatement.  We’ve spent the last couple weeks doing teacher training in preparation for the term, and it’s been eye-opening to see the minimal level of education required to be an educator yourself.  Ashley is a teacher back in the States, so both of us will be checking in with the teachers throughout the term and hopefully doing some individual tutoring for struggling students as well.  This is the first time Iris has had long-term volunteers helping with the school and ministry, so I am excited to see what we can accomplish during our time here.

All in all, even though I began my time in Kampala feeling out of place and rejected, things are beginning to shift to a place of acceptance.  When the school term begins, we’ll really be in full swing, and I’m sure I’ll find my niche.  Between the boys’ and girls’ homes, school, community discipleship, and administrative work, I’m pretty sure I’ll find ways to stay busy around here!  I am constantly dreaming of the future as well, knowing that this ministry is a jumping off point into something more permanent.  My ultimate dream is to start my own home for children, so as I learn from the Iris staff and children, I always keep that in mind. 

This season is a time to learn, to serve, to laugh, to dream, and to love.  It’s certainly full of challenges but equally full of hope.    

An African Love Story...and a Different Kind of Happy Ending

The following blog is perhaps the most vulnerable piece of writing I’ve ever published.  Though reluctant to bare my heart where anyone can read it, I’ve chosen to post this part of my story in the hopes that others will experience the same healing I have written about here.  I shared this very fragile piece of my testimony with the ministry students at Iris Global’s training school in Micronesia, feeling the same hesitation as I did while writing this.  However, after several people told me that my story of God’s restoration to a once-broken heart brought them their own personal healing, I realized the risk was worth taking.  Though this blog exposes deep vulnerability, I pray that as I share what God has done in my life, He will do the same thing in others’.

This piece of my story starts seven years ago.  I was a twenty-two-year-old senior at Bucknell University, and my friends and I were working on our post-graduation plans.  As my peers were debating about what engineering company to work for, I was deliberating over what country to move to.  There had always been this thing inside of me – a calling I guess you’d say – that drew me to the developing world.  I would watch those “Save the Children” commercials as a child and want to jump through the television screen to walk alongside the children being filmed on those dusty dirt roads.  I’d barely seen poverty in my own environment and was horrified by the injustices others were suffering in remote corners of the globe.  I didn’t care what it would take; I would find my way to those children.  But as my days at college were quickly dwindling, I realized the enormity of the third-world and was overwhelmed by where to start. 

I prayed and prayed, asking God where to go.  Despite an intense fear of moving as far as Africa, I began to have constant dreams about the continent.  I even saw a vision that drew me to Kampala, Uganda’s capital.  I did research; I made a million phone calls; I asked unending questions.  I heard the Lord’s voice with ever-increasing clarity, and it was calling me to Uganda.  Long story short, in September 2006, I ended up on a plane to Africa – alone.

Transitioning from living in a college dorm with my best friends just doors away to living with strangers in Kampala was quite a jarring change.  Two flights had turned my life beyond upside down, and I rapidly shifted from a twenty-two-year-old girl to a twenty-two-year-old woman.  I arrived in Uganda with minimal travel experience, too much book smarts and not enough street smarts, and a narrow understanding of the developing world.  I knew nothing about real poverty, missions, cultural sensitivity, etc.  In Africa, I had to grow up fast and figure out how to fend for myself.  Every lesson was learned the hard way.  I was thrown into the deep end and desperately learned how to swim. 

I lived in a tiny cement room inside an orphanage with a rotating population of women, as well as a family of mice who decided to make themselves at home in our bedroom.  The orphanage’s bathroom was comprised of four squat toilets and several showerheads that shot ice-cold water into an open cement space.  We ate posho at almost every meal, basically a big blob of play-dough, with soupy beans dumped on top.  I hand washed my clothes, which meant they were never really washed.  My feet were always dirty; my hair was always a mess.  I looked like a vagabond, and I probably smelled like one too. 

In high school, one of my teachers taught us that everyone has a “fall from innocence” at some point in his or her life – a moment when one’s childlike innocence and innate sense of trust is violated, resulting in a realization of the effects of living in a fallen world.  Uganda was my fall from innocence.  A once trusting and admittedly naïve young person, I saw that I could not actually trust everyone.  People repeatedly stole from me, mocked me for my skin color, and touched me without my consent.  I often felt violated by the men on the streets and their crude comments.  I grew tired of men commenting on the color of my skin, the size of my body, and what they wanted to do with it. 

The children at the orphanage accepted me and loved me unconditionally, but I still felt like an outsider for a long time.  Some of the Ugandan staff called me “white girl” for months before addressing me by my actual name.  Sometimes they spoke in their tribal languages and shut me out of conversations even though they could speak English.  I went through great effort and rejection until finally gaining respect among them.  Eventually, they warmed up to me, but the beginning wasn’t easy. 

At times, I wished someone would come and rescue me from my own life.  Crazily enough, like a fairy tale, my wish came true.  A guy I will call James (for privacy’s sake) appeared in my life and became the breath of fresh air I was so desperately craving.  A fellow foreigner, James understood the struggles of being an outsider but embraced the idiosyncrasies of African culture.  He loved children and dreamt of moving to Northern Uganda to start his own orphanage, but he was stationed in Kampala to learn the ropes first.  James often stopped by to play with the kids, and his visits rejuvenated both them and me.

James distracted me from the challenges of African life.  He found the humor in everything and could even make being robbed seem funny somehow.  He imitated the accents of the men who often harassed me, making what had once seemed threatening into something amusing.  When I missed my family, he made me feel at home.  And most importantly, he eliminated my feelings of being an outsider.  When we were together, I belonged.  We belonged.

Gradually, I started to fall in love with Uganda.  I was able to find the humor in things more and more, and I learned how to handle myself on the streets.  I mastered the art of bargaining with market vendors, making snappy comebacks in the local language, eating anything with a smile on my face, and peeing anywhere without flinching.  More importantly, I remembered the love that had brought me to Uganda in the first place.  The African children weren’t kids from “Save the Children” commercials anymore; they were real faces and real friends.  I viewed the beautiful children at the orphanage as my own family members and developed a love so intense that I would do anything for them.  Some of them called me “Auntie;” others called me “Mama Caitlin.”  I knew each of their laughs and memorized their cries.  I could identify giggles or tears from a mile away.  I loved hugging and kissing my babies, playing soccer with them on weekends, doing homework problems with them after school, and tucking them in bed at night.  They were my family and my home.  Despite rough beginnings, Uganda ended up being a perfect fit for me.  I genuinely felt like I was living the life I was created for. 

As I became more and more comfortable in Africa, James saw more and more of my heart unveiled.  He noticed the secret things I did for the children that no one else cared about, and he appreciated my compassion that had once been masked with fear and lack of acceptance.  Underneath the dirt and mess of my exterior, James was able to see who I was inside.  Though I’d always thought he was far too handsome to ever be interested in a simple girl like me, I realized that maybe I was wrong.  Over time, our ever-strengthening friendship grew into a fairy-tale romance.

James lived inside a three-home compound with an entire house to himself.  When days were hard, James swept me away to his home, a place that was actually quite humble but became a palace in my mind.  When I got tired of freezing showers, peeing in a hole, and eating play-dough, he temporarily rescued me.  His house had everything a grimy orphanage girl could dream of—a couch, hot showers, internet access, and a kitchen.  I remember using James’ toaster for the first time and laughing in sheer ecstasy when the bread popped.  I hadn’t used a toaster in eight months.

James often spoke about going to Northern Uganda to start an orphanage, and this made my spirit come alive.  All of the children I lived with were from this region and had been rescued from an ongoing war.  I couldn’t wait to one-day move north with James and take in children who needed a safe haven.  We repeatedly made trips to the northernmost province and scouted out land together.  I felt so free to dream with him – like my life was just beginning.

In March 2007, a girl visiting the orphanage for a few weeks asked if she could get baptized during her stay.  I decided that I wanted to be baptized too, because I hadn’t yet been baptized as an adult.  James, the visiting girl, several friends from the orphanage, and I drove to the Nile River; and James and our friend Will baptized both of us.  I was on a spiritual and emotional high.  I had it all – a growing relationship with God, a beautiful ministry, African children who I loved and who loved me, dreams for the future, and an amazing man to share it all with.  Now twenty-three, I couldn’t believe that I’d already gained so much so early in life.  I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

But then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.  James started receiving several words of warning from trusted friends about going to Northern Uganda.  He was confused.  So was I.  His dreams were growing fuzzy, and in turn, he was becoming discouraged.  Suddenly, he became very ill.  One day, his face literally turned green, and he felt like fainting.  We went to a clinic where he was tested for malaria.  The test came back negative, and the nurses told him he was simply dehydrated.  They made him chug some juice and sent him home.

Weeks later, James still felt sick and was growing worse.  I accompanied him to an international hospital where nurses immediately started pumping quinine into his veins.  He’d either been misdiagnosed, or his blood test had been mixed up with someone else’s.  Either way, James had a severe case of malaria that had been worsening daily.  Malaria causes parasites to enter one’s bloodstream, and every day that the disease goes untreated, the parasites multiply.  James’ misdiagnosis had allowed the parasites to multiply for weeks.  This was serious.

I visited James in the hospital, day after day, looking at a man who had become almost unrecognizable.  He was so thin, pale, and weak.  He looked like a shell of the person that I’d once known.

Finally, after a few days in the hospital, his health began to improve, but he was emotionally and physically exhausted.  His mother demanded that he come home to London to rest for an entire month.  I reluctantly said goodbye but knew I would see him soon.

My heart grieved his absence each day until he came back.  I was lonely and missed having someone from my culture to laugh with every day.  Four weeks went by painfully slowly.  At long last, James returned, and I eagerly went to pick him up at the airport.  Immediately, I noticed that something about him was different.  He had gained weight back, so his physical appearance had changed, but it was more than that – it was who he was that seemed different.  James was more sophisticated than I remembered.  He seemed above me somehow.  He only wanted to do expensive things that I had learned to live without.  He was suddenly too good for sitting in the dirt and just being with me and the children for hours like he used to.  Honestly, I liked the man with malaria far better than this one.

After being back in Africa for about four weeks, James announced another departure.  This one would be permanent.  He no longer wanted to live in Africa or start an orphanage.  My heart sank.  I anguished at the fact that he was suddenly abandoning his dreams.  It seemed he was so abruptly throwing it all away – his dreams, his calling…and me.

In his remaining weeks, James spent time with me when he was lonely and pushed me away when he was satisfied.  He made dramatic statements about his feelings for me that left me confused.  He wanted to be together yet didn’t want to work for a way to stay together after he left Uganda.  He never fought for me—for us.  I brought him to the airport with my heart in countless frozen pieces.  Though normally tender-hearted to the core, I didn’t shed a single tear when I said goodbye.  I was completely numb.  I stared out the window the whole ride back to the orphanage, silent and cold.  My African fairy tale had become a distant dream.  I’d already woken up.

In my heart, I desperately needed closure but received none.  I found out that James started dating a new girl back home within weeks of his return.  I wondered if they’d been together during his visit to London while I was foolishly waiting for him.  I suppose his riches and her beauty made it easy for him to forget me.  I remained in Africa for months more, daily haunted by reminders of his presence.

After a year in Uganda, I returned to America in September 2007.  Shortly after, I was offered an internship in L.A., and I moved to California and carried on with my life.  I landed a real job when my internship was over and excitedly settled into the West Coast, finding an amazing church and beautiful friends.  Despite my genuine happiness in California, nightmares randomly tormented me for almost two years.  I would see James’ face and hear him telling me it was all a lie.  “I never loved you.  I never loved the children in Africa.”  I would wake up with tears in my eyes, confused as to where I was.  I would feel around for my mosquito net and realize that I was lying in the middle of an uncovered bed in America.  I would snap back to reality yet wonder how the pain in these dreams still felt so raw and so real.

I had promised to return to Africa one day, and after two years of working and saving, I made my way back to visit my beloved children.  An African lady from the orphanage picked me up at the airport and informed me that the compound where James had once lived was now being used to host guests.  She drove me to his old compound, and I had an odd flashback as I looked at the three houses in front of me.  Before I had a chance to say a word, the woman instructed me to sleep in James’ old home.  She explained that in the morning, staff were moving everything from the compound into a new guesthouse and asked if I could help sort some of the stuff.  This would be the very last night they ever used James’ house.

Electricity had already gone out that evening, so I blindly felt my way into a familiar room and fell asleep.  The morning light revealed a house that had not changed in two years.  James’ stuff still filled the house—his books, his map of Uganda, his photos.  There were pictures on the wall that I’d drawn with the kids and pinned up years ago.  Not a thing had moved. 

And then, in a bittersweet moment of finality, we took it all down.  The other volunteers arrived; and piece by piece, we took James’ house apart and put everything away. 

A volunteer who knew nothing about James asked me, “Do you think I could take the map from this house?”

“Definitely,” I smiled.  “I actually knew the guy that used to live here pretty well.  Trust me; he’s not coming back for this stuff.  He’d be glad to give it to you.”

I happily offered his books and other items, laughing to myself.  I couldn’t have planned this on my own.  Only God could have ordained such perfect timing—to bring me back to Uganda on the exact date of the shutdown of James’ house.

I took his photos off the walls and packed up his things.  I said goodbye to the house, to the memories, to the pain.  After that, there were no more nightmares, no more tears. 

That afternoon, I walked to the orphanage and reunited with my African children after two long years apart.  My precious babies saw me from afar and ran into my arms screaming my name.  I thought I’d lost my love in Africa, but as those little brown arms wrapped around me, there was no affection I wanted more.  I knew I had found love in Africa after all.

Even if we were to stop here, this story would sing of the beautiful redemption that only God can bring.  His divine timing is perfect.  But something I’m learning is that there are always more layers to God’s goodness.  Just when we think we’ve received all the healing we need, God takes us deeper and restores us fuller.

Fast forward to 2013, seven years since I first moved to Uganda.  I’ve been to thirty countries since then and experienced things I never would have dreamt of way back in 2006.  I’ve worked with Iris Global for the past few years, which has provided me with an entirely new view of ministry, concept of family, and understanding of God’s heart.  Iris has taken me around the world; but despite all my travels, Africa has consistently remained on my heart, and no other region has been able to take its place. 

This past summer/fall, I was working with Iris Global in Micronesia, staffing a missions training school.  My hope in working at the school was to recruit potential partners to work with in Africa, and my plan was to make my way back after the training school finished.  Though I knew Africa was calling my name, I resisted the idea of going back to Uganda.  I hadn’t given James much thought for years, so I never even considered that our story played a part in my hesitation.  He’d become a distant memory from my past.  But perhaps, deep down, I associated Uganda with emotional pain and was afraid to return. 

Additionally, the adventurist inside of me hoped to land somewhere less “touched.”  The mission school in Micronesia was very focused on going to “unreached” areas, and Uganda is considered a “reached” nation.  There are many NGOs, church groups, non-profit organization, missionaries, and volunteers already working there.  I started daydreaming with some of the students in Micronesia about pioneering something more unique.  As we brainstormed, my favorite idea was starting a base on the beautiful Kenyan coast and then traveling in and out of Somali refugee areas.  I prayed about this but felt no release in my heart.

However, one night, I had a dream that was as if the Lord was showing me my future.  First, I was driving through what appeared to be Somalia and Kenya.  As I moved around, I didn’t feel unsafe or particularly bad; however, I didn’t feel particularly good either.  I was apathetic.  Suddenly, I was zapped to Uganda.  Children were coming to me and greeting me.  I felt welcomed.  I recognized some people, but others were unfamiliar.  I saw a little boy who was a tiny runt of a child – completely emaciated, unusually short, and absolutely filthy.  He came straight into my arms, and I held him as I began to repent to the Lord, “I’m sorry for saying there’s no need in Uganda.  I’m so sorry.”

I woke up and realized that I had been saying Uganda was fine, the needs were being met, and it was “reached” enough.  But deep in my heart, I knew that was not really true.  Uganda appears on the list of both the “Top 20 Poorest” and “Top 20 Most Orphaned” nations in the world.  Despite all the love and resources people are currently pouring into this beautiful nation, there are still far too many children without homes, without food, and without parents.

One of the other girls on staff in Micronesia is based in Thailand but came to Micronesia to recruit workers to keep children out of the sex trade.  She started telling me that around 90% of the African women rescued in Thailand originally came from Kampala, Uganda.  However, when they got sent home to Africa, there was hardly anyone to receive them or help them with the restoration process.  When I learned about slavery as a child, I always said if I'd lived during times of slavery, I would have been different than other people - I would have fought for the slaves.  I was reminded that slavery is still happening today and wondered if, perhaps, I could be the one to do something this time.

Still inwardly battling my aversion to returning to Uganda, I talked to my little sister who said she’d been praying for me.  She’d had a vision of green hills and tranquil water – either a lake or a river but definitely not the ocean.  I surrendered my own ideas of the beautiful Kenyan coast and immediately thought of Lake Victoria and the Nile River.  I pictured the green hills of Kampala, a capital known as the “City of Seven Hills.”  My sister said she also saw the colors red, black, and yellow, as well as a flag.  She had no idea what the Ugandan flag looked like but searched online to figure out what country’s flag she’d seen in her vision.  Not surprisingly, the red, black, and yellow flag belonged to Uganda.  Lastly, she saw a vision of a little child wearing a green shirt.  I had emailed various contacts in Africa (outside of Uganda) and heard nothing back, so I finally gave in and emailed the woman who ran the Iris base in Kampala.  She immediately wrote me back, “Come join our team.  We are waiting for you.”  I clicked on her website and almost laughed aloud as I noticed the first thing that popped up on the screen – a little child wearing a green shirt.

Right after my first dream of being back in Uganda, I had a second dream that, at first glance, seemed out of left field.  In the dream, I was in London at James’ church.  I saw him and his fiancée from a distance and didn’t want to approach them but knew I needed to.  I reluctantly humbled myself and walked towards them.  James looked at me as though I were a stranger, and I wondered if he had already forgotten who I was.  I said hello regardless, and he both acknowledged my presence and greeted me by name.  I spoke to his fiancée, and I verbally blessed their marriage.

My first thought upon waking up was, “Why did I dream that?”  Somewhat weirded out and even irritated that James had snuck back into my dreams after all those years, I wondered why that had happened.  After visiting Uganda and closing his house down, thoughts of him were long over.  God had healed my heart, and I’d moved on years ago. 

Yet, as I prayed about it, I felt like God was telling me, “You must go back to Uganda with blessing.  You cannot carry any bitterness in your heart.”  Even though I didn’t want to approach James in my dream, I walked up to him anyway and blessed him aloud.  God was reminding me to return to Uganda with a heart of blessing, not a heart of bitterness.  When James left Uganda all those years ago, my friend Will challenged me with this choice.  He said, “Caitlin, now you know what it feels like to lose.  You know what it feels like to be abandoned.  You’ve been called to love hurting people, and now you know what it feels like to really hurt yourself.  You can let this loss cause you to grow bitter, or you can use it to fuel compassion to better love those around you.”  Since my “fall from innocence” in Uganda seven years ago, life has handed me countless reasons to become bitter, and James is just a physical representation of that.  But after having that dream in Micronesia, I made the same choice I made many years ago in Uganda.  I will choose blessing and not bitterness. 

The Lord also reminded me that it had been a whole seven years since I first moved to Uganda in 2006.  I realized the significance of the number seven in the Bible – a number symbolizing completion and spiritual perfection.  Perhaps it’s no coincidence that after having my heart broken in Uganda, God is bringing me back for a fresh start seven years later.  Instead of working alongside James, I will be working with Iris, an organization that has been my family for the past three years.  I already know that starting over in Uganda will yield an entirely different experience for me than I had as a twenty-two year old.  I’ve learned so much in seven years, and I will approach ministry in a very different way than I once did.  I now understand the importance of doing ministry as a family, keeping myself healthy, and cultivating intimacy with the Lord above all else.  I believe that this coming season will be one of deeper restoration and redemption – a chance to experience that completion that the number seven represents.

It’s funny how God redeems things in such strange ways – that He brought me to James’ house to tear everything down and get the closure I needed, that He’s given me new dreams and vision for Uganda, that He’s bringing me back to where my adventure on the mission field began seven years ago.  I know His timing is not a coincidence, and when I think about all the crazy details of my story, I am blown away by God’s sovereign hand. 

I share all of this believing that there are people reading who have been waiting for closure and healing.  Whether it’s a loved one who passed away or a person who’s hurt you who will never say sorry, it doesn’t matter that he or she is not there to provide you closure.  God can do it in a creative way that will heal you without that other person being present.  Or perhaps you feel disappointed as you compare your life to others’.  This is a constant temptation for me – to ask God why my story has had so many ups and downs, so many unexpected changes, so many unwanted challenges.  I know people whose lives look so wonderful and extravagant at an outward glance, and it just doesn’t seem fair.  But I’ve always been a person who is more impressed by quiet, thoughtful details than by loud spectacles, and maybe that’s why God has knitted the details of my story together so thoughtfully.  When I think about the fact that He knew all along that He would train me, solidify my identity, restore me, and then bring me back to my home in Kampala after seven years/the biblical time of completion…or when I think about the visions He gave my sister…or the dreams He carefully released to me at just the right time…I stand in awe.  My story isn’t the smoothest or most glamorous one, but I love it, because I know every part was ever so intentionally crafted by the Creator of the universe.  His attention to detail and His utter genius is mind-blowing.  What could be viewed as battle scars are actually more like beauty marks – precious chapters in a holy story that God has been writing and will continue to write.

God’s writing a story in each of you too.  Maybe you’re in the middle of a chapter where you’re wondering, “Is this really going to have a happy ending?”  But I encourage you to let God create something beautiful, even in the midst of messiness.  And when you’re faced with choosing bitterness or compassion, take the path of blessing.  It’s hard, but it’s worth it.  I pray God heals and redeems every part of your heart that needs restoration. 

As I head to Uganda and return to my former home, I go expectantly.  I believe the Lord has more restoration ahead, and this next chapter is just beginning.  I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel scared at times, but I know that living a radical life of faith is my destiny.  I am excited to be doing what I am made for, and I move forward knowing that I am doing it all with the One who made me. 

Believe and Be Love

I can't really put into words how thankful I am for the love and support of my friends and family - for those of you who have been cheering me on throughout my time overseas and encouraging me as I've traveled from nation to nation.  In 2011, I began writing about the Iris Latin America journey with the hopes of one day publishing a book.  I blogged some testimonies along the way and eventually put all of the stories together into one big book.  Two years and about 500 pages later, I have finally finished my book.  As I've reread the stories again and again while editing, I have been blown away by all God has done in my life and in the lives of others.  I am a blessed woman with a beautiful story to share, and I pray that God writes a beautiful story in all of your lives as well.  So here's my story from the last couple of years - the wild book Jesus and I wrote together.  :)

The book is called Believe and Be Love by Caitlin Ann and is available on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=caitlin%20ann%20believe

Thanks for following my blog.  I hope you enjoy the book!

Does Micronesia Really Exist???

I’m used to questions.  People are always asking me what different countries are like, what things are challenging, and what is rewarding – but traveling to Micronesia was probably the first time I had friends asking me if my next destination was even a real location.  Well, turns out, my plane ticket to Micronesia was not a scam; and the tiny island of Pohnpei does, in fact, exist.

Micronesia is comprised of several states, each of which is comprised of many islands.  I am currently living on a small island within the state of Pohnpei.  If you care to browse the internet for pictures of Pohnpei and stumble across breathtaking photos of waterfalls and beaches that look too good to be true, you’ve actually reached a quite accurate view of Micronesia.  It undoubtedly is one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

The Iris Micronesia mission school is being held at a marine park that offers access to a lagoon, coral reefs, and open ocean.  While living here, I have seen countless fish, a massive stingray, and even a sea turtle bumbling by.  Some days I feel like I live in an aquarium.  Monday through Thursday, we spend the mornings in class but usually have a few hours free in the afternoon before night class.  We are able to swim through the lagoon, kayak in the ocean, or take a walk down a road that looks like a scene from Jurassic Park.  I am not sure if I technically live in a rainforest or a jungle, but either way, it’s pretty cool.

The varying hues of the water (depending upon the coral, depth, and tide) creates breathtaking views that change each day.  The stars at night are mesmerizing, and it’s easy to get a neck ache from looking up for so long.  Almost every place I’ve been on the island has stunning views of the ocean.  Even in a poor village, people live in homes with views we would pay millions for in the states.  While on a village outreach, my group stayed at a modest house atop a hill where our hosts apologized for the lack of luxury.  I gazed out their window - view of mountains, palm trees, sparkling ocean, and a brilliant rainbow stretched across it all – and I assured our host we had far more than we could have ever asked for. 

Fortunately, the beauty in Pohnpei makes up for what the school lacks in physical comfort.  The students and staff are split up into small homes – some merely tents and others open-walled huts.  I was placed in a hut with three other girls, and we each have a little space on our wooden floor for our belongings and sleeping mats.  Every night, I fall asleep to the sound of geckos chirping and rats scurrying across the rafters of our hut.  The rats here are most definitely a mutant species that has the ability to chew through tents and thick plastic containers, as well as jump from trees into the ocean and swim like fish.  When one of the girls who lives in my hut first arrived to the island, she saw a large animal in a tree and excitedly exclaimed, “There are monkeys here?!”  Much to her dismay, I soberly replied, “That wasn’t a monkey.  That was a rat.  It’s just the size of a monkey.”

I spent my first few nights nuzzled under a mosquito net but started to notice the top of the net collecting rat poop.  A little more added to the pile each day.  Trying to be hardcore, I continued to forgo the use of my tent.  However, after a cockroach made its way under the mosquito net and crawled onto my legs while I was trying to sleep, I decided to abandon my wimpy mosquito net and erected a tent inside my hut for double protection.  Every night, I now crawl into my tent, zip that door as tight as it will go, and pray that all critters stay out.  Unfortunately, the cockroaches have found elsewhere to explore and regularly appear in my suitcase, backpack, purse, etc.  I wrestled one this morning before getting dressed as it decided to crawl through all of my clothes before I finally whacked it across my hut and found a bug-free outfit.

My animal-infested hut is conveniently situated right next to a port-o-potty, a far cry from the porcelain piece of heaven I use at home.  Quite frankly, I’d rather just dig a hole outside, but there is nowhere on base to do so discreetly.  Instead, we have a handful of overused port-o-potties which are filled with maggots, an occasional gecko, and then the normal port-o-potty goodies.  One of my new friends has deemed the port-o-potty directly across from my hut “the pit of death.”  Though I am thankful for a short walk to the toilet during the dark hours of the night, the lingering smell from “the pit of death” is not my favorite thing about Pohnpei.

The rain is another challenge here, as Micronesia is the second rainiest place on the globe.  The threat of precipitation is constant.  Since our hut is nothing more than a roof, a wooden floor, pillars, and three partial walls, we are growing accustomed to being wet.  Without real walls and doors, our hut offers little protection from the continual rain.  I have tried to keep my belongings as dry as possible, but this has proved an impossible feat.  Our clothes smell like mold, and everything always feels a little bit soggy.  Some nights, we get rained on while sleeping, and I am learning to deal with the moist feeling of my sheets that never really goes away.

Despite the challenges Mother Nature regularly creates, the beauty of Micronesia far outweighs the challenges.  My bed is literally about six feet from the ocean.  I stepped out of my bed the other day and saw a sea turtle swimming by.  I felt like I’d woken up inside a really cool movie.   I feel blessed that my house is on the ocean, that I see crazy animals every day, that I live in a rainforest/jungle, and that the scenery is breathtaking.

From Friday through Sunday, students are not in class but instead participate in a variety of outreaches.  The students are divided into “tribes,” and we staff are each responsible for leading one.  My tribe is named Rafiki, the Swahili word for friend.  The members of Rafiki are passionate about Africa, and we are dreaming of how we can collaborate after the school and make a loving impact on that continent. 

Each weekend, we are assigned to different outreaches around Pohnpei.  We spent our first weekend in a village, and this week we visited the local hospital and prison.  In upcoming weeks, we will be traveling to another island, learning water survival/spear fishing, and training on a “mountain survival” weekend.  So far, I’ve enjoyed the outreaches and the time getting to know my tribe better and better.  All in all, the outreaches have reinforced the lesson God has been teaching me over and over again throughout all of my travels – love is what people desire more than anything in the world.

On my tribe’s first outreach, we were stationed in a village where there was very little to do.  We were basically dropped off at a stranger’s doorstep (who knew we were coming) and told to bless the family.  After repeatedly asking what we could do to serve the family, if there were any needs in the community, if there were sick people we could pray for, etc., we realized that the only thing the family actually wanted was to spend time together.  Instead of working, we sat around sharing our testimonies and singing worship songs together.  On our second day of simply having fellowship time, I wondered how our hosts were feeling.  The woman of the household said that she wanted to share her heart with us and explained that she’d been craving fellowship with other believers.  She’d felt quite isolated previously and was overjoyed to have people worshipping in her home.  Tears streaming from her eyes, she continually thanked us for our visit.

Once again, the Lord reminded me that love does not always look the way we think.  Love is not a program or a church service.  Love is a person, and His name is Jesus.  And His presence came to the village, the hospital, the prison, etc. with us.  That’s what people really want.  We explained to our village hosts that Iris Ministries would be holding a church service every Wednesday evening at our base, and the family has come each week following our visit.  They are a part of our family now.

This past weekend, part of our outreach entailed picking up trash on the streets of Pohnpei before entering the prison.  We strolled along the road nearby the jail, throwing all kinds of rubbish into our large bags.  Some of the locals with houses along this street began to ask why we would spend time picking up trash.  Astonished that a bunch of white people were cleaning garbage on their streets, they invited us into their homes.  Within minutes, coconuts were cut open, flowers for our hair were picked, and one lady invited one of the guys and me to eat chicken and rice at her house.  With nowhere to wash my hands, I squeamishly dug in to the food kindly offered by this stranger, praying that the filth from my hands wouldn’t make its way into my stomach.

Because of strict visiting hours at the prison, we reluctantly had to cut our time in the woman’s house short; but she was thankful for the brief time together.  Though we were the ones being fed and welcomed, she continually thanked us for accepting her invitation to join her for some food.  Clearly, the Pohnpeian culture is extremely warm and hospitable; and it really is such a good reminder of the way we should live our lives.  Instead of being lost in the busyness of life, people are focused on family, relationships, enjoying fellowship, and hospitality.

            As our school and time on the island continues, I pray that God will pour out His presence more and more each day and that I will hear His voice clearly.  I am praying for a long term team to pioneer a project in Africa and a strong vision for the future.  Thanks to everyone who is partnering in prayer and love.