That They May Have Life

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy….”

-John 10:10

Unfortunately, the latest season of my life has proven this scripture to be true.  What were once mere words on a page of my Bible have transformed into a literal battle throughout the past six months.  During this time, I have been arrested, harassed, mocked, grabbed by strange men far too many times, lied to, robbed, struck by illness, and betrayed by people who said they loved me.  The challenges during my time in Uganda have been unrelenting, and though worn out by it all, I’m not terribly surprised by the battle.  The Lord is unveiling great plans and great vision, and the enemy will do whatever he can to thwart them.

The thief comes to steal.

Sadly, the culture of betrayal is extremely common in Uganda.  It’s fairly normal to be lied to and even to be betrayed by people close to you.  As an American, I’m often viewed as nothing but a walking dollar sign, and it feels like there is an irremovable target on my back.  It frustrates me that many Ugandans throw me into the same socioeconomic category as the wealthy foreign ambassadors or successful business people that live in Uganda.  Though I live off of donations instead of earning a real salary, many people assume I am dripping with money.  When strangers misinterpret my economic status, it’s a bit irritating, but when people who really know me still treat me like a bank, it’s downright hurtful.  Last month, I experienced an act of betrayal by one of the boys I live with who decided I was an easy target for cash.  I had sacrificed countless hours pouring into this boy and trying to show him love, believing he cared about me in return.  I was crushed to find out that he’d snuck into my room, rummaged through my suitcase, and stolen a decent amount of money from me.  To realize a beloved member of my own household had deceived me in this way was incredibly painful.   

At first, when I discovered what he’d done, I felt too hurt to confront him.  I wasn’t angry; I was just sad and had no words for him.  After a few days, I pulled him aside to talk about what had happened.  I told him that he is a natural leader – because he is – and that other people will always follow him throughout life.  I explained that this is both a gift and a heavy responsibility, because we are all responsible for what we’ve been given and accountable for what we do with it.  I explained that the younger boys in the house look to him and will follow his lead.  If he steals and lies, they will eventually do the same.  If he walks in righteousness, they will admire him and try to emulate his behaviors.  As I explained his potential to influence others, he nodded in understanding.  My voice started shaking as I told the boy, “Money is just a material thing, and I can get it back.  But when someone who you love betrays you, it hurts.”  Tears streaming down my cheeks, I paused to see him looking down in shame.  I continued, “But I still love you, and I forgive you.  No matter what, I will love you.”  Ahhh, there was agony in my heart as I looked my betrayer in the eyes and forgave him despite the pain I was feeling.  It’s one thing to acknowledge that the enemy steals from us.  It’s another to realize that this too often manifests through people we love.

Sadly, the agony in my heart only got worse as the betrayals, lies, and stealing continued throughout the following weeks.  Despite my tears, despite offering forgiveness, despite telling this child he could do better with his life - he continued to stab me in the back and disrespect me.  Yet, when I stopped to really think about this boy or pray about his life, I saw that the enemy was not only trying to steal from me in this season; he was trying to steal from this child.  He was attempting to turn a boy with great destiny and leadership into a criminal - into a person who cannot be loved or trusted.  He was trying to steal this boy’s life.

About a week after confronting this boy, I was sitting in church a few rows over from him.  He was holding a toddler in his arms and laughing as he looked at the baby.  I’d never seen him play with a tiny child before and was honestly surprised that he was enjoying it.  Then suddenly, I saw a flash of his future before me – of who God called him to be.  It was an odd moment that’s hard to explain where I was seeing him physically in front of me in the present but somehow spiritually seeing him in the future simultaneously.  I saw this boy as a father, playing with his own children, loving them with a deep father’s love.  It was as if God showed me a prophetic image of who He has made this child to be.  He is calling him to be a dad one day, to love kids, to be an honest provider and a loving dad in place of the father he grew up with.  Once again, God reminded me that the one who had stolen from me was also in a battle where the enemy was trying to steal from him. 

The thief comes to kill.

This sentence gets scary when it’s literal.  I don’t normally worry about dying or getting sick while overseas, but this past season gave me a pretty good scare.  I’ve had some funky sicknesses a handful of times, but they’ve all gone away on their own.  However, last month brought a horrifying medical experience I never anticipated.  One afternoon, out of nowhere, my head started throbbing, and I began to burn with a high fever.  I went to bed hoping I’d wake up feeling better, but the next morning was worse.  The fever was still quite high, and I started to get violently sick to my stomach.  I rotated between my bed and my bathroom, in terrible pain, shaking and shivering at times and sweating to death at others.  I wondered if I had malaria and went to get a blood test at a reputable hospital in Kampala.  Little did I know, this would be my first of many visits. 

For the next few weeks, my life turned into a bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  My fever lingered for almost a full month, stumping doctor after doctor.  Because my initial blood work tested normal, they couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the fever.  The doctors began to play a guessing game and treated me for a variety of diseases.  First, I was told I might have bilharzia.  This is a parasite that lives in the Nile and Lake Victoria that can move to your brain or nervous system, causing life-long complications, death, or insanity.  Then, the doctor diagnosed me with rickettsia, a dangerous disease spread by rats, an animal my house is full of.  The medication for both diagnoses did absolutely nothing.  Weeks went by, and my fever continued and the weakness in my body would not relent.  

After almost a month, I decided to pursue further testing.  The doctor ruled out the major African concerns – typhoid, TB, dengue, malaria, etc.  Feeling few options were left, I asked the doctor, “Well, what could be the cause of a month-long fever?”  He paused and said that often in cases like mine, the verdict was liver cancer.

Liver cancer?!   Shocked that he’d just thrown out the C-word, I tried to hold in my tears and not show my fear.  Don’t cry in front of the doctor, I told myself.  Keep yourself composed.  The doctor ordered me to get a chest X-ray first to see if there were any odd growths, then told me I needed an ultrasound to look at my liver and other organs.  He directed me towards the opposite end of the hospital, where I nervously walked to the testing area.  The doctor said I needed a full bladder for the ultrasound even though he’d taken a urine sample about ten minutes prior.  “Drink like a fish,” he stated as he left me alone by a large water jug.  A second doctor passed by and told me it would probably take twenty to thirty minutes to have a full enough bladder to do the ultrasound.  He left me with the cups and water jug and said he’d test me after I chugged at least eight cups worth.  I drank until I felt like I was going to vomit and then took my cup to a chair outside of the ultrasound room.  I sipped on my last cup of water, no one in sight.  I sat in the chair of the dark hospital hallway alone for what felt like an eternity.  Though it was actually only twenty minutes or so, you’d be amazed at how many thoughts can go through your mind in those minutes.  I had deep, painful thoughts flooded with memories of loved ones whose lives had been stolen from cancer as well as my own mother’s battle with cancer.  Then I had silly, superficial thoughts like how sad I would be to lose my hair after growing it so long for years.  Then the logical thoughts came, wondering how I would pay for treatments and if I would have to stay in Uganda.  Finally, I told myself to stop thinking about the potential of having cancer and decided that I would cross that bridge when I came to it. 

At last, I was ready for my ultrasound and laid on a table as the doctor squirted cold, blue fluid onto my stomach.  I was struck by the irony of how so many of my friends have been getting ultrasounds lately to discover the gender of their babies, looking forward to their appointments.  And there I lay in an African hospital, getting an ultrasound of my liver to see whether or not I could potentially have cancer.  That moment perfectly embodied the word “alone.”

I watched the ultrasound screen, honestly having no idea what I was looking for, and nervously asked the doctor how my organs looked.  “They look good,” he said, as a sense of relief flooded my entire being.  “Everything looks normal.”

“So I don’t have cancer?!” I asked excitedly.

“No,” he smiled.  “No way.”

The doctor paused for a few moments, clearly confused as to why my organs and blood all looked normal, yet my persistent fever kept making me sick.  “Are people doing witchcraft on you or something?”  He sounded only half serious, but his question made me wonder.  The doctor never found anything conclusive, so was this all just a spiritual battle manifesting in my flesh? 

The following day, I made a conscious decision to worship in spite of my circumstances, and my fever began to disappear.  I went to church and decided to worship the Lord and thank Him for my healing.  A man from the church went up front to share a testimony of how God had cured him of a fever and stated that he believed the testimony was for someone in the congregation.  I clung to his story and believed the same healing for myself.  By the end of the week, my month-long fever was gone.

The thief comes to destroy.

Throughout my sickness, the enemy tried to destroy my dreams.  While being so ill, I felt my vision for Africa getting blurry and my passion evaporating a bit.  I was too tired to fight for my dreams, too exhausted to feel anything except sickness and frustration.  Gradually, I realized my vision was in even more danger than my body.  The human part of me wanted to give up, go home, and throw out my dreams in exchange for an easier one.  Countless people sent me messages telling me to come home.  However, I clung to the words and promises the Lord had spoken to me.  I knew He had told me to return to Uganda after seven years away, a biblical number signifying completion.  I believed He wanted me to reclaim some dreams that had been lost seven years ago and would be faithful if I pursued them.  Though tempted to give up, I decided to explore what God could possibly have in store for me.

I spent time with my dear friend Simon, one of the boys who I had taken care of many years ago when I lived in an orphanage in a different part of Kampala.  The thirteen-year-old I said goodbye to in 2007 is now a huge twenty-year-old who makes me feel tiny whenever I stand next to him.  Seven years have grown him into an amazing, godly man.  Simon (and the other children I lived with back then) are all from Gulu, an area in Northern Uganda that was ravaged by war for decades.  I’d visited Northern Uganda in 2006 and 2007 in the hopes of one day helping orphans there.  Unfortunately, the partner I had planned on working with almost died of malaria and very abruptly left Uganda in May 2007.  Our plans and vision for Northern Uganda were shattered, and I remained in Kampala feeling abandoned and heartbroken.  Ironically, exactly seven years later, I was now the one fighting serious illness.  When all the potential diagnoses were thrown at me, the Lord reminded me that illness had been what triggered a decision that stole my dream exactly seven years ago.  I felt Him asking me, “Will you let your vision be stolen again?  Or will you stay and fight for it?”  Every bit of my flesh cried out, “I’m giving up!”  Yet, my spirit cried out, “I will stay!” 

While visiting Simon, I told him that I wanted to help children in Northern Uganda and needed his help.  He shared his similar vision of returning to Gulu and said he needed my help.  As we spoke, we experienced a beautiful moment of redemption where I realized that Simon’s dreams and my dreams were one in the same, and neither one could reach the dream without the others’ help.  Simon had been praying for years to find a way to help the people in his own tribe but lacked the resources.  My dreams had been shattered, and I was looking for a way to reclaim them but needed someone to partner with.  The beauty of the Lord’s timing struck my heart as I realized if I’d returned to Uganda earlier, Simon would have been too young to work with.  However, because he’d grown up over the past several years, God was giving me an opportunity to work alongside the boy I’d once cared for.

Another friend of ours, Pastor Robert, was also involved in the orphanage ministry where Simon and I lived back in the day.  Pastor Robert currently lives in Soroti, a village with a similar history as Gulu in Northern Uganda.  He is already working with orphans and widows out in the bush but is eager for more help.  In the midst of the enemy trying to steal, kill, and destroy my life, I paused to thank God for Pastor Robert and Simon.  I realized their roles in my life are vital, and our relationships are no coincidence.  Pastor Robert is like my African Papa, Simon like my brother.  God has opened up the doors for me to work with my Ugandan family to reclaim the lost visions the enemy once tried to destroy.

Yes, it’s true that the thief comes to steal and kill and destroy, but that is only the first half of John 10:10.  The second part of the scripture reminds us of the good news.  Even though the enemy is always working against us, we have a much stronger God working for us.  In the latter half of John 10:10, Jesus says, “…I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”  The enemy has worked tirelessly to steal, kill, and destroy from me during this season of my life.  It’s been discouraging, painful, and exhausting.  Fortunately, the enemy’s work is never the end of the story.  God’s plan for good is always bigger than the enemy’s plan for evil.

The enemy tried to steal.

The boy who betrayed me is in God’s hands.  I don’t know what his future will look like, but I’ve seen a glimpse of the redemption God wants for him.  The fact that he stole from me just reminds me more than ever to pray for him and for God’s plans to flourish in his life. 

The enemy tried to kill.

Though I spent most of last month in bed, I’m happy to report that I am healthy now.  My energy is back, and my fever is long gone.  Sickness thwarted my plans seven years ago, but it did not succeed this time!

The enemy tried to destroy.

The enemy tried to steal my vision, but God has restored it.  Every dream that was lost in 2007 has transformed into an even greater dream for the season ahead.  Every vision that got blurry during these past six months has been refined and purified.  A season of trials is being replaced by a season of redemption and restoration.  God is writing a beautiful story.

When the enemy tried to steal, Jesus gave us blessings in abundance.

When the enemy tried to kill, Jesus gave us new life.

When the enemy tried to destroy, Jesus restored and redeemed.

“…I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” 

John 10:10

When We Are the Answer to Other Peoples' Prayers...

Africa can be cruel.  I learned that a long time ago.  I love this continent; I love these people – but to be honest, sometimes I don’t always like how hard life can get here.  It’s tough.  One of my former pastors in California used to travel to India regularly, and his description of the feeling he experienced upon his arrivals always made me laugh.  He would say, “Every time I land in India, I have two simultaneous thoughts.  Number one:  I’m home.  Number two:  $#!%!”  I can relate to the feeling.  For nearly three weeks now, I’ve been battling some bizarre African mystery illness, and the temptation to give up has crept into my mind far too many times.  It’s been frustrating, painful, isolating, and at times downright hopeless.

Africa is a place where hopelessness can be experienced tangibly.  There are so many people suffering that it can be overwhelming.  A few weeks ago, I met several families who were the embodiment of hopelessness.  These people were literally starving, wasting away from malnutrition, possessing nothing – no food, no money, no hope.  I knew they were hopeless the moment I laid eyes on them.  I knew they’d given up.  I could see it in their eyes and hear it in their exhausted words.  And I didn’t blame them.  I tried to look for hope in their circumstances, but I found none.  I couldn’t lie to them.  I couldn’t tell them things would be fine.  What do you say to someone who has completely, utterly lost all hope?

I suppose sometimes when we don’t know what to say, all God asks us to do is listen.  So that’s what I did.  And fortunately, hopelessness is not the end of this story. 

Let me rewind.  At the start of May, my roommates Christie and Ashley accompanied me on a journey to a village about seven hours outside Kampala called Soroti.  I asked them to come with me to visit a dear friend of mine, Pastor Robert, one of the men who I worked with in Kampala during 2006 and 2007.  Pastor Robert was raised in Soroti, came to Kampala as an adult, spent several years in the capital, and returned to Soroti a few years ago.  We’ve kept up with one another’s journeys throughout the last eight years, and I was curious to see his home.  I had little expectations about my time in Soroti; I simply wanted to visit Robert and see what ministry he was up to in his village.  Our time was limited, so we only had one full day together…but it’s amazing what can happen in just one day.

Pastor Robert and some friends took Christie, Ashley, and me into the villages deep inside Soroti.  Our city life in Kampala does not look like the stereotypical picture of Africa, but these remote villages match it perfectly.  We drove through wild dirt roads, weaving between patches of lush vegetation, gorgeous trees towering over us as we got deeper and deeper into the bush.  Every time it seemed as if we were in the middle of nowhere, we’d reach clearings in the bush – purposely carved out patches of dirt where several mud huts had been erected.  Each family had its own mini-compound with huts to sleep in and cook in.

Pastor Robert explained that we would visit five families and that we could ask any questions we wanted through the help of his translation.  I didn’t know what we were really supposed to be doing or what we would ask.  However, when we reached the families, I quickly found that I didn’t need to say much of anything.  The families had plenty to say and just wanted someone to listen and to care.

Each family was suffering from desperation of a different need.  Without asking a thing, the heads of each household offered us seats and began to spill their guts.  The first family was an old grandmother raising six children.  She explained how she tried to dig and garden to support the family, but she was old and her whole body was full of pain.  Despite her old age, she looked strong – yet somehow defeated.  She was trying to hold things together for her family, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she would no longer be able to provide – whether she became too weak or passed away.

At the next compound, we were greeted by another elderly lady who was missing one leg and was sitting in the dirt in front of a mud hut.  Upon our arrival, she looked quite surprised at a visit from three young, white ladies and began to speak excitedly in her local language.  Pastor Robert explained that the old woman thought God had forgotten her.  She felt overlooked and abandoned by people and by God.  She asked us to look inside the mud hut where she slept, explaining that her dismal living conditions were unbearable.  An old mosquito net was draped over a barren dirt floor.  We looked up to see that the roof of the hut was broken, a large hole atop the building that let in constant rain.  The woman went on to explain the difficulties of being lame within a village where she had no access to healthcare and no way to move around.  Unable to transport herself, she was forced to sit in the compound all day, every day, feeling forgotten and alone.  Sadly, the woman explained that she’d never married and regretted the fact that she didn’t have any children.  Yet, when she looked at us, we told her that she could adopt the three of us as her daughters, and the look of disappointment seemed to melt away.  “You have three white daughters now!” we joked, as the woman’s face lit up.  We sat with her, Christie holding her hand and smiling into the woman’s eyes.  The woman smiled back, with genuine joy as she said, “I finally have daughters now.  God hasn’t forgotten me.” 

At our third household, we met a young woman named Stella who had a two-week-old baby and several other children.  She’d been recently widowed and had no money or energy to provide food for her children.  She was attempting to breastfeed her new baby but had no nutrients inside her own body to pass on to the infant.  Her face was the personification of hopelessness.  I didn’t know what to say to this poor woman, so I didn’t really say anything.  I just listened and prayed.

The fourth household was another elderly woman raising several young children who had run completely dry on hope, and the fifth and final compound simply undid me.  Perhaps thirty or forty people gathered around and put us visitors in seats in front of them.  Though feeling awkwardly positioned, I soon forgot about awkwardness and became engrossed in the story shared with me.  A young girl bravely spoke up, sharing the situation with her family.  The girl, just twenty years old, was the oldest in her family and had taken on all responsibility to provide for the younger ones.  With tears in her eyes, she explained that she had sickle cell and was in constant pain but needed to work to provide for the family.  The next sister was seventeen and desperately needed money for school books but couldn’t afford them.  The girl with sickle cell talked for a long time, tears pouring from her eyes.  I am thirty and sometimes feel like I can barely take care of myself.  I can’t imagine being ten years younger and carrying the burden of taking care of countless younger siblings – with no job, no money, and terrible health.  The girl removed us from the crowd and brought us to the hut where she slept as she continued to cry.  I looked up to see another broken roof that allowed rain to pour through.  I wanted to help all the families, but this weeping girl gave me an added sense of urgency.  “I will find a way to pay for and repair your roof,” I blurted out.  I’d been afraid to promise too much to all of these families, but I knew I had to start somewhere.  The girl thanked me but still looked completely despondent. 

In Kampala, I see needy people all the time, and poverty is rampant.  But still, Soroti was different.  This was worse.  At least in Kampala, there are NGOs and doctors and people who will throw a few hundred shillings on the street as they pass by beggars.  But there in the bush, there was NO help, NO healthcare, NO nothing.  The people were absolutely desperate.

Christie, Ashley, and I rode back to town with Pastor Robert and took some time to digest what we’d seen.  We knew we couldn’t go back to Kampala without doing anything; we also knew handouts would be temporary acts of charity that would quickly disappear.  Unsure of what to do, we spoke with Pastor Robert and formulated a plan.  Christie had some donations from her church, and I had some tithe money I needed to give away, so we decided to divvy up the cash and see how we could stretch it.  We listed all of the short-term needs: feeding the young mother Stella until she got her strength back, repairing the two broken roofs, getting books for the seventeen year old, etc.  We then picked Pastor Robert’s brain on how we could provide long-term food for the families.  If we hired people to plant gardens at each compound, food would be abundant within two to three months of growing.  And harvesting these crops (labor included) would only be about sixty U.S. dollars per family – a harvest that would feed them for a full year!  We crunched the numbers and figured out a way to feed the families long-term and take care of their short-term needs while the seeds were still growing. 

The next morning, Christie, Ashley, and I headed back to Kampala and left Pastor Robert to carry out our plan.  Since we’ve gotten back to the capital, Robert has reported that he’s visited each family regularly and explained to them that they will be given help getting a farm started for the next year.  He relayed to us that the families were completely shocked and incredibly relieved to know they will be provided for.  He’s been visiting Stella, who has been eating well now and excitedly showed Robert her new garden.  He said that she is walking around with strength and energy, very different from the barely-moving woman who apathetically sat beside us as she tried to breastfeed a baby without any nutrients in her own body.  He said the old woman with one leg has said she is missing her white daughters, but she is smiley and happy.  Her roof is scheduled to be repaired, and she believes God finally answered her prayers and didn’t abandon her after all.

With these reports, I was filled with joy and excitement at how quickly and easily some major issues could be remedied.  It was simply a matter of being connected with them at the right time and having an amazing local friend willing to carry out the legwork needed to help these people.  Shortly after returning from Soroti, a random man stumbled upon some of Christie’s pictures online and contacted her to let her know he has a ministry that feeds hungry people around the world – for life.  He asked how he could get connected to Soroti and said he might be able to provide a nutritious diet for these families for the rest of their lives.  I was blown away.  We were only in the village for ONE DAY, really just a few hours.  Yet, after sharing the stories, offering a tiny bit of money, and getting connected to the right people, there are now several families who are going to be taken care of forever.  That’s crazy, right?!  Honestly, we hardly did anything.  We just followed Pastor Robert around, listened to a few desperate stories, and asked what we could do.  And God is just knitting the details together and blowing these families away with His provision. 

It made me think of a pastor in L.A. who I once heard say, “Christians are the answers to other peoples’ unanswered prayers.”  Even though we often ask God to provide for people in miraculous ways (which He definitely does), perhaps God is actually asking us to be the answer to others’ prayers.  God could do it all Himself, but often He chooses not to.  Instead, He invites us to be a part of the answer and a part of His story.  He could have rained food down from heaven onto those families in Soroti and miraculously fixed their leaky roofs, but instead He let us get to do it.  He let us be a part of those families’ lives and be the answer to their prayers.  The old woman with one leg had been praying to be noticed, to have children, and to have her roof fixed.  I don’t how we got so lucky, but God sent Christie, Ashley, and me to that sweet old woman.  We got to see the look on her face when she realized God hadn’t forgotten her; we got to see her smile when she adopted us as her daughters; we got the satisfaction of knowing her roof will soon be fixed.  God didn’t need us to be the answer to this woman’s prayers, but he let us be the answer to her prayers.

I am willing to bet there are hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of people around the world who are praying right now – with thoughts and worries on their hearts about which they are desperately awaiting answers.  And perhaps Jesus will zap these worries away, as He often does.  But maybe, just maybe, we are the ones God is asking to answer those prayers – to visit the sick, to feed the hungry, to sit with the lonely.  I say this not to burden you with attempting to fix the problems of the world; of course we cannot manage such a thing.  However, I want to challenge you and myself to keep our eyes open for opportunities where we can be the hands and feet of God and where we can take part in the blessing in being the answers to others’ prayers.

“Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours; yours are the eyes through which to look at Christ's compassion to the world, yours are the feet with which he is to go about doing good, and yours are the hands with which he is to bless us now."      - St. Teresa of Avila

Love Wins Battles

Some days are good days…like when I run around with the kids at our home and tickle them and get tickled back until we are all shrieking and laughing and out of breath.  Or I teach a lesson at school that gets all fifty children in my class screaming with excitement and cheering wildly.  Or God arranges a beautiful, divine appointment and I unexpectedly meet someone amazing in this crazy city.

Some days are bad days…like when I drop my earrings down the school latrine or get sprayed with mud while walking down the road or I can’t sleep because the worms in my stomach are causing so much pain.  Or I see a rat scurrying inside my house or have to perform an insect massacre in my bedroom or hand-wash my clothes for hours only to find them fallen in the mud right after I’ve hung them up to dry. 

But even the worst physical challenges are somehow surmountable.  I can deal with rats and bugs and worms and even losing my earrings in our latrine.  I’ve learned how to throw my shoe so that I can kill bugs on the ceiling, and I now know what supplies I need to booby-trap my room for rats.  However, other challenges aren’t quite as simple to conquer.  Something I’ve had to face this month is the reality of living in a culture where I have no rights.  I love Uganda – don’t get me wrong – but the way things are run here and the way I’m sometimes treated can be pretty stretching.  People can do what they want without any consequences, and the police can target me as a source of money any time they desire…and I’m powerless against them.  Being white sometimes feels like there’s a big target on my back, and I know that there’s nothing I can do to change that.  I hate feeling so powerless, but maybe even in the midst of the mess, God is teaching me something. 

*              *              *              *              *

A few Saturdays ago, I was walking down the street in my village, a typically non-threatening environment.  Normally, the scariest thing I encounter is a bucking goat or a herd of long-horned cattle blocking my way.   The people are overall friendly and curious.  However, as I passed down our little dirt road on that particular Saturday, something was different.  A strange man approached me and stared.  As he looked at me oddly, I decided to say hello to attempt and knock him out of his trance.  He received my greeting as an invitation and stood right next to me while he extended his hand and grabbed my chest.  Horrified, I jumped back and began scolding the violator.  “What are you doing?!” I shouted.  He looked quite startled that I had stood up for myself and slinked away in the distance apologizing while I continued to yell, “Don’t ever touch me like that!”

Shaken up, I continued walking and tried to forget about the way I’d just been touched.  I met up with some old friends for lunch and later headed into the center of Kampala to meet up with the girls I work with.  They’d asked me to meet them at Garden City, a large mall near the city center.  I traveled via motorbike, and my driver dropped me off across the street from the mall.  In order to cross the road and enter the mall, I needed to cross over a grass barrier that divided the road, something I’ve done a million times and have never thought twice about.  However, after crossing the street on that Saturday, a police officer with a rifle in his hand approached me and said, “Madam, someone is calling you back across the street.”  I turned around to see a man motioning for me to come back to the other side.  I figured I must have dropped something and went back to see what I’d lost. 

As I approached the man, he greeted me with these words.  “Excuse me, madam; do you see that grass you just walked across?” 

I looked at the grass and nodded. 

“And do you see that there is a cement pathway that you could have used instead of crossing over the grass?” 

I looked to the left and saw that there was, in fact, a cement path and realized that this man had called me over to scold me for stepping in the grass.  Woops.  “I didn’t realize that.  I’m sorry,” I apologized.  “I’ll use the path from now on.” 

As I tried to walk back towards the mall, the man stopped me.  “Madam, the city is trying to keep the grass in good shape, and you’ve just done a terrible thing.  You can’t go back to the mall.” 

I looked at the grass patch again, a sloppy mess of grass and mud.  Rainy season began about a month ago, and half of the city looks like a mudslide.  Nothing is neat.  There is trash, mud, and filth everywhere.   The grass patch looked ugly before I stepped on it and still looked ugly after I stepped on it.  I did nothing to change the appearance of the grass and wasn’t sure why I was being accused of being a malicious destroyer of nature.  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, surprised that a city with no rules and full of litter suddenly cared about one random grass patch. 

“Well, I regret to inform you that you are under arrest for what you’ve just done.”

“What?!” I cried.  I wasn’t sure if this man was serious.  “Under arrest?  For stepping on grass?”

“Yes,” he declared.  “You’ve committed a serious crime, and I’m going to have to take you to prison.”

Now I thought he had to be joking…or maybe was just trying to get money out of a white girl.

“This is ridiculous.  I’m meeting my friend in the mall right now,” I declared and began to walk away, hoping I could call his bluff and get away from him.

Unfortunately, the man was not about to let me off so easily and chased after me.   “Madam, you are now becoming defiant.  If you disobey my authority, I will seriously MANHANDLE you!”  There was a nefarious look of rage in the man’s eyes, and I realized this wasn’t a joke.  “I’m going to take you to prison for two nights, and on Monday, you will have your court case.  You will be fined 300,000 shillings for the damage you’ve done.”

I hadn’t damaged anything – especially not 300,000 shillings worth of damage.  I hadn’t intentionally done anything to defy the law.  I had unknowingly crossed the road in the wrong spot and was about to be thrown in jail for it. 

“Please, sir,” I begged.  “I didn’t know that it was a law to not cross through the grass.  It was an honest mistake.”

“The law has been announced on television and on the radio,” he stated, showing no mercy.

“I don’t own a T.V. or a radio!” I cried.  “I live at a children’s home.  I’m here to serve kids, not to break the law.  Please don’t throw me in prison.  This isn’t right.”

Yet, the man would not relent.  After going back and forth for far too long, I told him that I needed to call my ministry leader, who fortunately happened to be right by the mall’s entrance.  She came over immediately and brought along one of the Ugandan men who works for our ministry.

The two of them begged on my behalf for a long time, while the official continued to show no understanding, no mercy - no nothing.  I felt tears building in my eyes as I realized he was seriously going to take me to Ugandan prison, and in two days, I would have no choice but to fork over a hefty sum of cash.

Yet finally, somehow, the man began to soften and realized that I truly had committed this “crime” in innocence.  I gave him one final plea, begging him, “Sir, I have learned my lesson.  I won’t do it again.  I will always use the cement path.  Forgive me, and please let me off with a warning.”

As I begged him, I saw two dark-skinned men crossing the grass in the same spot as I had moments prior…but this time no one so much as batted an eye.  I pointed at the men who were currently committing the same crime as I had and realized that the official had targeted me solely because of my skin color, hoping for easy money.  He looked at the men crossing the grass and then at me and finally told me I could go with a warning. 

As I walked away, my building tears were released, and the injustice of the day hit me in a flood of emotion.  I was reminded that I have a perpetual target on my back, and the threat of future harassment overwhelmed me.  Our sweet Ugandan staff member realized my fear and squeezed my hand as he told me I was okay now.  He locked his fingers around mine, held my hand while we crossed the street (on the cement pathway), and let go when I was safe on the other side.

Two days later, I was still processing the fact that I am powerless in this nation.  A police officer can accuse anyone of a ludicrous crime and throw them into prison whenever he is hungering for a little extra cash.  When the police are corrupt, there’s no one to turn to for help when you’re being violated.  It’s a scary feeling. 

The following Monday, I was walking down the street in my village once more, and the good old village drunk started to stumble towards me.  He occasionally wanders around my village, and encounters with him are never pleasant.  No please; please not today, I thought to myself, as I began to pray that God would keep him away from me.  I tried to avoid him by walking on the opposite side of the street, but my pale skin attracted the drunkard like a moth to a flame.  He staggered towards me, got too close for comfort, and hit me on the arm.  Luckily, he didn’t hit me very hard - but still – the last thing I needed was a drunk man hitting me.  Annoyed, I walked away and continued on to school to teach my English class.  Once inside the school compound, I knew I was safe and felt a sense of relief.  However, on my way home, I passed the drunk man again.  I hadn’t noticed his presence this time until a huge stick was suddenly flying in front of my face.  Startled, I stopped dead in my tracks as I watched the large stick drop to the ground right in front of me.  I turned to my right and saw the drunk man acting like a gorilla across the road, proud of his barbaric attempt to strike me with the stick.  Thankful it had just missed me but also incredibly annoyed, I called out to the man, “Are you serious?!!”  I couldn’t believe that so many incidents had happened in such a short period of time and felt like it was all just a weird, twisted, mean joke.

Feeling incredibly violated and unprotected, I contacted my teammate from South America, Taylor, who has become a literal brother.  I told him about the fear I was battling, and his initial reaction was wishing he could physically protect me.  However, upon further prayer, he sent me these words:  I really feel God was telling me that if I fight battles with just love, then I won't get backlash, because they can't fight love.  But if I rebuke and quote scripture, then the enemy knows how to dodge and throw another round back at me.  All that to say, I don't want you to give in to fear.....or even be afraid at all.  You are such a well of love.   And I know that some of these men could only run as you follow God in the specific ways He tells you to love boldly.  Let me be clear....in my flesh, I want you to leave…but I know you have an abundance of love that will conquer your fear, and the fear of others who try to lash out at you.

It’s crazy how a few wise words can change your perspective on things.  My circumstances had caused me to give in to fear, anger, and offense.  I had been fighting everyone who violated me in my own strength.  I had tried to fight the man who arrested me by outsmarting him and calling his bluff.  I had tried to fight the man who grabbed me inappropriately by scolding him.  And I had tried to fight the drunk man by first dodging him and then confronting him with extreme irritation.  I wish I could say I’d tackled those situations differently, but regrettably, I didn’t fight anyone with love.  Although I still believe it’s important to stand up for myself, I know that asserting myself can only get me so far.  The best weapon against evil is love.  Taylor reminded me that even Satan knows how to fight with aggression.  Even the devil knows how to pervert scripture and throw it back in my face.  Even Satan can come up with quick retorts and hard-hitting words.  But he doesn’t know how to love.  He is clueless when it comes to love.  And even the most evil of people don’t know how to fight back when all they are shown is love.  They don’t know what to do with it. 

While reading Taylor’s words, I was reminded of a time in South America when our team met a man in a rehab center who had been a gang leader for many years.  Before coming to the rehab center, he’d murdered many people.  The man had ended up in a wheelchair, which I assume was the result of being shot during his gang days.  A couple of people prayed for him, but he was generally unresponsive.  Taylor disregarded his cold demeanor and boldly went in for a hug.  As he embraced this man, something changed.  I caught a glimpse of both Taylor and the man, arms wrapped around each other.  Several minutes later, I saw that they were still hugging, both now weeping.  I didn’t know what was happening, but I could clearly see that it was something powerful.  The old man’s heart was quickly softening, and he began to cry out to God with desperation.  After a while, he let go of Taylor and raised his arms towards heaven, cheering and loudly praising Jesus. 

We later found out that the night before our visit, this very man had said he wanted to leave the rehab center and declared that he hated God.  He had dealt with aggression all his life and only knew how to fight.  However, he didn’t know how to resist love.  Instead of opposing his malevolence with the hostility he was used to, Taylor confronted him with pure love.  His warm hug melted away the anger and hurt, and this once bitter man was radically filled with the love of God.

So now, many months later, I am reminded of the same principle here in Africa.  Love is the most powerful weapon the Lord has given us.  I want to get to a place where my first reaction to being violated is to fight back with love.  I’m pretty sure I will keep fighting cockroaches and rats with aggression, but I pray for the strength to fight the rest of my battles with love.  ♥

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.