Ramblings of a Ugandan Journey...

Home Sweet...Where?

2012-02-12T22:52:00.000-05:00

I’m a late processor (as if you couldn’t tell that from my emotional breakdown a month after leaving Uganda) and lately, I’ve been processing my two years in Uganda. It's been nine months since I left and I'm just getting to this. Like I said, late processor. There was obviously so much good. It’s home. I love it. It’s where so many loved ones are. It's where my heart is. I am literally aching to move back for good. However, there were definitely bad and difficult times. It’s those things that I’ve been processing through. The hurt. The betrayal. The fear.

Last week was my mission agency’s annual spiritual renewal conference where the entire worldwide missions family comes together and seeks the face of God. It was so freeing to talk to people who could understand. Not in a “I understand the words that are coming out of your mouth” kind of way but a deep heart understanding. Most of my Uganda field was there which made it like a family reunion (dramatic running hugs included). Since I’ve been processing some of the more difficult times, it has been indescribably freeing to talk about this with people who truly deeply understand what I went through as well as what I’m still going through.

There’s something about communing with missionaries. There’s this deep understanding that we have of each other. They could live in Austria and though I live in Uganda, we have this deeper understanding of each other and the struggles of every day life. It amazed me how quickly we would delve into deep conversations. Five minutes in and we were talking about the difficulties of reverse culture shock and struggles in our lives.

Bonus: we can also talk with much expertise on international airports.

I felt insanely honored to even be there. I was surrounded by these amazing men and women who have spent the last 20? 30? 40? years of their lives serving God throughout the world. My two years looks rather pitifully small next to them. They are my heroes. The wrinkles on their faces crinkled with wisdom. The gray hairs on their heads spoke of the experiences that they have had. They have gone before my generation and marked the trail. I kept thinking of Hebrews 12: "all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on" (Message).

Someday…I want to be like them.

I have incredible friends here in America. I’m constantly humbled by their love that crosses the thousands of miles between us. Sadly, no matter how much they can try to understand, they can’t. It’s been a heartbreaking discovery. As friends, you want someone else to understand you completely and where you’re coming from. There’s been this sense of loneliness knowing that no one else can fully understand what I went through nor what I’m going through now. There have been some heart sinking moments in my time here in the States where I have realized that it’s just not possible for them to truly understand, no matter how hard each of us tries. How can I ever fully put into words what it’s like to no longer have a home culture? To not feel at home in the place that I was born and raised. To not fit in with my home culture nor the culture where I now live. This sense of homelessness and the frustrations that come with that. The difficulty of remembering how to act/talk/socialize in American culture. Feeling overwhelmed by the fast pace American decision making. Trying to think of the English word for something and only thinking of it in another language. And more…and more…

This is the life of this missionary and from what I’ve gathered, many others as well. It’s difficult in ways that most can never understand. It’s also more exciting and fulfilling than anything else that I have ever been a part of.

I mentioned these struggles to a friend and they replied, “it must give you a greater understanding that this world is not your home”. While at the time I didn’t appreciate that response (the sense of homelessness isn’t quite a good feeling), it is true. This world is not my home. I look forward to the day that all of my friends and family throughout the world are in one place, glorifying His name. A place where cultures will all come together and we will all have one everlasting home. What a party it will be! Can you even begin to imagine? God's beautiful diverse creation all in one place, the boundaries of culture and language no longer holding us apart. Together. In one voice. Praising our King.

Yes, that’s when I’ll truly be home…

Lessons From Sesame Street

2012-02-05T21:57:00.001-05:00

Whenever someone uses my computer, the first thing they often say is: “whoa, you have so many things open”. If they are using my internet browser, then it’s “holy cow, you have a thousand tabs open!”. They’re right. I like to have everything that I’m working on open at the same time. I swear it helps. As far as internet tabs, it’s all that I’m currently researching. Included in there are some favorite songs that I can only find there that I like to listen to over…and over.

I was visiting my brother and his family in California in January. One afternoon, my niece and I cuddled up to watch Sesame Street videos on YouTube. Sticky little fingerprints covered my screen as she pointed to Elmo at every appearance ("Auntie Chaiyah, watch Elmo!"). We came across this one by will.i.am and…I have a confession to make. That video has been one of my tabs for weeks as I listen to it over…and over. It plays in my head and I catch myself humming it. It’s just so darn catchy!

Sidenote: some of the video comments are hilarious, mainly mentioning how will.i.am looks as though he is performing community service by doing this video.

During one of my listens, I checked out the other suggested videos on the side and saw one entitled “Magnify”. It took me by surprise. I thought, “I can’t believe that they have a worship song on here”.

Dead serious.

I watched the video and then realized that OBVIOUSLY, this was about magnifying something with a magnifying glass, not about magnifying Jesus.

Yeah, my blonde roots show sometimes.

While the archaic term means “glorify”, it got me thinking about looking at God through a magnifying glass. I thought of those biology classes where you’d see all of the microscopic details of a bug. It makes the object larger than it was and you are able to see all of the tiny details that are impossible to see otherwise. While the little details of a bug never really interested me (three older brothers and still a girly girl), I thought about what it’d look like to magnify Jesus in my life. What would I see? What would I notice that I otherwise wouldn't? What would it look like to magnify Him in my life? What would my every day look like if I did this?

When my problems and frustrations seem so big, may it remind me that He is bigger. When I become too focused on myself, may I instead focus on Him. When the unknowns of my life overwhelm me, may I look close at Who controls my life.

What about you? How would magnifying God change your every day life?

An Unworthy Friend

2012-01-31T01:45:00.000-05:00

I came across this hymn today and couldn’t stop rereading the lyrics. It left me in awe of my Savior…my Lord…my Friend.

Jesus! What A Friend For Sinners!

Jesus! What a Friend for sinners!
Jesus! Lover of my soul;
Friends may fail me, foes assail me,
He, my Savior, makes me whole.

The title of this song struck me. So often I think of myself as not good enough, as if I need to clean myself up for Jesus. But, no! Jesus, what a friend for sinners, ie. people who go against God all the stinkin' time! Perfect God being friends with those that go against Him constantly. Knowing how sinful that I would be, He died for me. I cannot look to another human to satisfy me, whether that be a friend or a potential husband. They will fail me. No matter what Hollywood tells me, they will not complete me. Not only will Christ not fail me, but He loves me in my failings.

Chorus:
Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Hallelujah! What a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

He is so much a part of my life. He has saved me from the punishment that I so deserve. He is a friend who knows the depths of my heart and is faithful to the end. His love for me can’t be described in a poem or love letter. His love for me surpasses all that I can even imagine. His faithfulness shows that He will never leave me.

Jesus! What a Strength in weakness!
Let me hide myself in Him.
Tempted, tried, and sometimes failing,
He, my Strength, my victory wins.

Sometimes failing? I’d change that to “often failing”. My weaknesses are so clear to me. I can try to hide them from others but I cannot hide them from God. He knows me so completely. He knows the gifts and talents and also the struggles and temptations. When I rely on my own strength, I think that I can do it when in fact, I can’t. In my weakness, His strength shines through. In my weakness, I can take shelter in Him. Though I feel as though I lose battle after battle, it is through Him that there is ultimate victory.

Jesus! What a Help in sorrow!
While the billows over me roll,
Even when my heart is breaking,
He, my Comfort, helps my soul.

There is not a doubt that sorrows have come and will continue to. When I feel as though I have cried out every tear and my heart is overwhelmed, I am not alone. No matter how lonely I may feel, the truth is that He is my help and comforter. Oh God, help me rest in that truth.

Jesus! What a Guide and Keeper!
While the tempest still is high,
Storms about me, night overtakes me,
He, my Pilot, hears my cry.

My Guide. My Keeper. My Pilot. I love the imagery of this. I heard an illustration talking about how God doesn’t hold the flashlight out showing us 10 steps ahead but instead, holds it right at our feet in order that we only see the next step ahead of us. Each step He guides. Each step we walk by faith. No matter how insane my life feels or how lost I think I am, not only is He present but He is guiding me. He is flying me through the storms, never leaving my side. My problem? I'm in the co-pilot seat trying to tell the pilot where to go and trying to take over the controls. I'm a bad back seat driver.

Jesus! I do now receive Him,
More than all in Him I find.
He hath granted me forgiveness,
I am His, and He is mine.

Though He knows all of my failings and weaknesses, He chooses to forgive me. Unreal. I don’t deserve it. I can search the world over and try to find a friend like Him but I won’t find it. His faithful love is overwhelming. His personal care is unfathomable. I am His…and He is mine. I am His daughter. He is my Abba.

Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Hallelujah! What a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

Thy Brother's Blood Crieth

2012-01-06T17:30:00.001-05:00

Years ago, long before God began guiding my heart towards missions, I came across this short story by Amy Carmichael. It broke my heart then and does so every time I reread it. It inspires me to GO. As we begin this journey of discussing short term missions, let us realize that above all, our world desperately needs Christ. Be inspired. Let's GO.

The tom-toms thumped straight on all night, and the darkness shuddered round me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I lay awake and looked; and I saw, as it seemed, this:

That I stood on a grassy patch, and at my feet a ravine broke straight down into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom; only cloud shapes, black and furiously coiled, and great shadow-shrouded hollows, and unfathomable depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth.

Then I saw forms of people moving toward the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms and another little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very edge. She lifted her foot for the next step... Then, to my horror, I saw that she was blind. Before I could say anything she was over, and the children with her. Their cries pierced the air as they fell into the inky blackness of the ravine!

Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were blind, stone blind; all walked straight toward the edge. There were shrieks as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing up of helpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over quietly, and fell without a sound.

Then I wondered, with a wonder that was sheer agony, why no one stopped them at the edge. I could not. I was glued to the ground, and I couldn't even yell; though I strained and tried, only a whisper would come out.

Then I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals.

But the intervals were too large; there were wide, unguarded gaps between. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, unwarned; and the green grass seemed blood-red to me, and the ravine yawned like the mouth of hell.

Then I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under some trees with their backs turned towards the ravine. They were making daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached them, it disturbed them and they thought it was a rather crude noise. And if one of their group started up and wanted to go and do something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. "Why should you get so excited about it? You must wait for a definite call to go! You haven't finished your daisy chain yet. It would be really selfish," they said, "to leave us to finish the work alone."

There was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire was to get more sentries out; but they found that very few wanted to go, and sometimes there were no sentries for miles and miles along the edge.

Once a girl stood alone in her place, waving the people back; but her mother and other relations called, and reminded her that her furlough was due; she must not break the rules. And being tired and needing a change, she had to go and rest for awhile; but no one was sent to guard her gap, and over and over the people fell, like a waterfall of souls. Once a child grabbed at a tuft of grass that grew at the very edge of the ravine; it clung convulsively, and it called - but nobody seemed to hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child went over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off bunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back in her gap thought she heard the little one cry, and she sprang up and wanted to go; at which her friends reproved her, reminding her that no one is necessary anywhere; "The gap would be well taken care of!", they said. And then they sang a hymn.

Then through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a million broken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great darkness was upon me, for I knew that it was "The Cry of the Blood".

Then a voice thundered. It was the voice of the Lord, and He said, "What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground."

The tom-toms still beat heavily, the darkness still shuddered and shivered about me; I heard the yells of the devil-dancers and weird, wild shrieks of the devil-possessed just outside the gate.

What does it matter, after all? It has gone on for years; it will go on for years. Why make such a fuss about it? God forgive us!

God arouse us! Shame us out of our callousness! Shame us out of our sin!

1 John 3:17

Paraphrased by Amy Carmichael

"But whoso hath the gospel of Jesus Christ, and seeth the heathen lost and dying in their sin, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

Rethinking Short Term Missions: An Introduction

2012-01-04T00:17:00.001-05:00

I read this post by Jon Acuff today and remembered that I had mentioned one time that I was going to write a blog about the different mindsets of a short-term and long-term missions (I’m sure you’ve all been on the edge of your seat waiting for it). I’d like to expand that more and talk about short term missions as a whole. This is something that’s been on my heart for awhile. It’s, in fact, something that I’m deeply passionate about.

Allow me to preface this by saying: I am by no means an expert in this area and would never claim to be. I may even be dead wrong in my observations. There are numerous others who have written about this that are far more qualified to talk about this subject and can put it into words better than I can. However, I learned a lot living in Uganda the past two years. I learned what an absolute idiot I was on the short term trips that I had been on before. I was reminded of that by watching other short term trips come to Uganda, being embarrassed/horrified/surprised by the things they did and then realizing how I had done all of those things before.

I’m a big fan of short term trips. God used those trips in my life to bring me to this point now (despite my seriously idiotic moments). If you’ve been able to hear me talk about Uganda in person, you’ve been able to hear how much I encourage people to come and be a part of what God is doing. I encourage these trips…but I think it’s time for some rethinking.

I went to a conference this past October with a local church. I had some great conversations with one of the pastors about short term missions. We talked about the need to revamp these trips. Honestly, his reaction to what I said surprised me. Sometimes I worry that I’m like that person Jon Acuff wrote about. I’ve tried to bite my tongue and not come across as a know-it-all, haughty and/or making blanket statements that may not be true. I don’t think that I have any earth shattering insights. Again, not an expert here. But, for him, it opened his eyes to a different side of missions. It made him rethink how his church does missions. Through that, he’s encouraged me to talk more about this. And, I figure, if this helps spread the name of Christ throughout the world, then let’s do that.

Because, really, that’s what this is all about.

Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit (Matthew 28:19)

How can we make short term trips more effective? Really, the question is: how can we help spread the name of Christ through out all nations?

I’d like to spend a few blog posts on this going over various topics such as:

- The point of short term trips: why are we even doing these?

- The pre-trip planning: what can you do before you even get on the plane to prepare?

- The on-the-field time and how do make that more effective and avoid cultural gaffes. This is probably where I’ll park for awhile.

- Oh you know, and more topics that I’ll probably think of along the way. I’ll take topic suggestions too so…suggest and I’ll make something up or give my best answer…or ask trusted missionaries that are wiser than me.

I’m about to embark on a three month travel extravaganza. However, I’m going to really try to keep up with this. Until then, I’d like to point you to one of those people that has already approached this topic and done so excellently. Check her out (and be reminded that she totally stole my title...or I stole hers. Whichever). You just must read her posts on short term missions that she has nicely put on one page here. Seriously, read it. Or, you can wait until I write and will probably use a lot of what she says. Just kidding. Maybe…

Perhaps in rethinking how we "go" we can improve the possibility of "making disciples".

Perhaps those one-two week trips can have an impact long past when the team flies away.

Perhaps we can better "all the nations" for Christ.

Ready for the journey?

The Reign of Mouse Terror

2011-12-27T21:13:00.000-05:00

I was sharing rodent stories with a friend and realized that I had never blogged about the infamous mouse infestation we had in Kampala. I seriously can’t believe it. In April of 2010, this was my LIFE (slight exaggeration…but only slight). Although in ways I can. Life in Uganda was so busy that I failed to blog much of life there. This time in the States is a good time for me to catch you all up on what happened in the past two years. So, enjoy…

My roommate Kate was the killer of the house. By that I mean she would kill any insect or bug for me. I would cook her dinner. She would kill cockroaches in my room. And reach tall things for me. It was a great deal. She was my hero. However, Kate left for the States to visit her family in the month of April leaving my roommate Kacie and I. I can’t remember if we knew we had a mouse when Kate left but oh, the evidence became clear.

At first we thought we had one mouse but soon we were pretty sure there was more than one. These were no ordinary mice. They had super human powers. They had acrobatic abilities that made me think that they had worked in a traveling circus. You think I’m exaggerating? The mice would run along the gas line to our stove, jump to a small ledge behind the stove and then leap ON TOP OF OUR COUNTERTOPS. Once on our counters, they had access to the WORLD. We would open our cupboards and out would jump a mouse. There were mouse droppings EVERYWHERE: on our silverware, on our newly washed dishes, etc. These mice literally controlled our kitchen for an entire month.

Don’t think we were sitting back waiting for them to die of old age. We tried everything to kill these super powered rodents. There were mouse traps…that would be licked clean of peanut butter with no dead mouse. There were sticky glue traps…that I literally watched one mouse land into and get out of it. Super. Human. Powers.

The mice would hide in the area behind the stove, making it impossible to get to them.

Until…

The mice weren’t scared of us. Obviously. They were brave. And one day, one of them got an extra dose of confidence.

I was sitting at the kitchen table facing the kitchen. I saw the mouse inch his way toward the door. This happened a couple times and he would scurry back to his haven. I got a broom out for the next time. The next time came and I ran at the mouse with my broom, slamming the broom at the mouse while screaming hysterically the entire time (please, visualize this. I’m sure I looked ridiculous). The mouse ran under our refrigerator and I knew that this was our only chance to rid our house of this mouse. Kacie and I boarded up the area under the oven with bags of flour and cutting boards so that he couldn’t hide there. And then we called reinforcements.

I had Kacie watch the fridge while I went to get our night guard Michael. Michael came in, looked under the fridge and requested a stick. Michael poked the mouse under the fridge, trying to get him to come out. Kacie and I were holding mixing bowls and colanders, clearly ready to help by um, throwing them at the mouse?

And then…he came.

All of a sudden, the mouse was running rampant all over the kitchen. Within seconds, Kacie ran screaming out of the kitchen, closing the door. Inside of the kitchen was me, screaming while holding my colander, and Michael, chasing the mouse with the stick. Michael cornered the mouse, stepped on it and used his stick to kill it.

Within 60 seconds, our month long hellacious mouse infestation ended…

…until the next day when we realized that there was indeed more than one mouse.

The problems continued until the night Kate came back from the States, fancy new mouse trap in hand. Kate set the trap the night she returned. The next morning I came out to the kitchen, checked the trap and…there it was. The second mouse.

THE REIGN OF TERROR HAD ENDED.

Kate had been home for less than 12 hours and the second mouse was dead.

Like, I said, Kate was the killer of the house…and we were forever grateful.

Christmas Gifts

2011-12-24T15:19:00.000-05:00

As my mom and I were planning our Christmas dinner, I couldn’t help but think of some of my loved ones across the ocean.

We had a Christmas party for our kids. I always loved seeing them perform. You can check out one of the songs they sang:

Aren't they great? I keep watching it on repeat. I miss those little faces so much.

After the kids came back from their Christmas holiday, they would all be bursting with excitement to tell us everything. There were no talks of toys. No one exclaiming about the latest gadget they received. Instead, it was excited cries of …“chicken!!”. Meat is such a delicacy in Uganda and too expensive for many to buy. For Christmas, it is a treat to have chicken.

As I would catch up with each of the kids, I always noted the quiet ones. When I would ask them about Christmas, there would be a hesitance. I would ask them if they had also eaten chicken for Christmas. Eyes cast down, they would shake their heads “no”. For some, Christmas was just another day where even the daily rice and beans was too much to pay for.

I’ve mentioned before how I feel like I live two lives. I see this world here: full of Christmas decorations, the holiday hustle and bustle and shopping for the latest must-have item. But I know of a different world; the one where my heart remains. A world full of beautiful dark skin, big brown eyes and the whitest smiles you’ve ever seen. A world where luxury is considered to be a bite of chicken.

Ah, but the most luxurious gift of all is the one that baffles me the most.

When I try to visualize God, I picture a big throne; an intimidating scene, really. In my mind, I can never make out what He looks like…just big. He is All-Powerful. He is Almighty God.

Christmas is a time that takes my visual and changes it into something almost unbelievable:

The All-Powerful Almighty God fitting inside the womb of a woman. The Creator God, the One who created the world in seven days, becoming one of His creations. It’s just unreal. It doesn’t make sense. It’s counter cultural in so many ways. Why would someone powerful ever become lower than even those that serve them? Even more, why would the Almighty God lower Himself to not only be with us but to become one of us?

Oh, but He knew. He knew that in order for the greatest gift of all to be given that the ultimate sacrifice had to be made. The most luxurious gift of all would cost Him a fortune but would be freely given.

“But God’s gift is real life, eternal life, delivered by Jesus, our Master.” (Rom 6:23b)

Our faults are many. We are undeserving. Our sins have earned us death. The most expensive gift can’t be bought. It can’t be earned. I can’t work hard enough. I can’t be “good enough”. This gift doesn’t care where you were born. It doesn’t care how much money you have.

Let us all stop and remember what we are celebrating. Let us worship our King, our Creator, our Savior. Let us be thankful for the gift that He has given us.

Merry Christmas!

Miracles: Big and Small - No Charges

2011-12-13T21:01:00.000-05:00

I was finishing a good run when I noticed my knee starting to hurt. I pushed through and finished but the next day, the pain was stronger. That was a month and a half ago. I went to a clinic in Lynchburg where they told me to brace it and if it was still hurting two weeks later, I was to call and get referred to an orthopedic doctor. Due to my crazy schedule, it was almost a month later that I called.

Side note: my mom asked her friend who would be a good orthopedic doctor in Iowa to go to since she would know. She gave me three options and I got the one with the first opening. When I told her which one I was going to, she said, “oh we just LOVE saying his name!”. I totally understood. His last name? Fabiano. Say that ten times. I get more dramatic each time. Fabiaaaaannnnoo. Insert a dramatic Italian shake of the fist. Even. Better.

I made an appointment with a doctor here in Iowa and was immediately nervous. Would it be a serious problem? Would I need surgery? And, above all, how would I afford it?

I won’t go into all the details of how my insurance works with my missions agency but when I go to a doctor, I pay the full cost of the visit right then. So, needless to say, I was a bit nervous about this appointment. When I talked with them on the phone, they mentioned that I would most likely need x-rays. All I could think of was how much this was all going to cost in the end.

I arrived early to my appointment today, finished paperwork in hand. It all went rather quickly. I expected to wait awhile but I was moved from place to place. It was determined that I needed x-rays and in no time, those were done and I was waiting for the doctor to come in. He looked over my x-rays, checked out my knee and determined that he didn’t think that surgery was necessary (PRAISE GOD!) He gave me a cortisone shot (which, by the way, made my knee feel numb and it's still numbish) and said he’d be back with a sheet on knee exercises that would help.

He walked back in the room, handed me the sheet as well as another form and told me to take it to check out. He pointed to a part of the form, said, “Merry Christmas!” and walked out. As he walked out, I looked on the form and it was written, “NO CHARGES”.

Underlined.

Twice.

It clicked in and I can’t even remember the exact words that came out of my mouth. I think it was a mix of “oh my gosh!” and “are you serious?” and “thank you!” so good chance it came out as, “Oh my serious YOU!”.

He left me alone in the room. Tears sprung in my eyes and I choked back sobs. Tears are still coming to my eyes as I think of it. As I drove to my next appointment, I kept tearing up, still trying to choke back sobs as I praised God. On that note, I probably shouldn’t have driven right after that...

I have no idea why he did that. Maybe he saw that I didn’t have insurance? Maybe he saw that my occupation was a missionary? It was nothing that we talked about. I have no clue. I’m still amazed.

What do I know?

Jehovah Jireh. He is my Provider.

Learning From Scars

2011-12-09T22:35:00.001-05:00

What do you think of when you hear the word "scar"?

Maybe you think of this:

I think of something different (although, clearly, The Lion King's scary villain will never be forgotten).

I was in second grade. My two friends, Bethany andDaniel, and I were bored out of our MINDS waiting for our parents after church.We decided to play tag in the nursery room with various things being “base”. Wehad probably played at least ten rounds (seriously, our parents were talkingFOREVER) when one of them suggested that we use the window as base. At onepoint, Daniel was guarding Bethany for what seemed like forever (apparently Iwasn’t good at assessing time at that age…or just really impatient) and I wasgetting bored. I decided to bust it from where I was and to head towards thewindow. Daniel was close and if I didn’t run fast then I’d for sure be caught. Theproblem with getting caught? Hellooo, I’d get cooties ALL OVER ME. We couldn’thave that. So, fists clenched, I ran as fast as I could. I reached the window,flung my right hand towards it for safety and instead of releasing my fist, Ikept it going…through the window.

I was in shock from that moment on.

I remember walking out of the room and standing in thedoorway watching the blood drip. I remember the pastor’s 4 year old son askingme if I had a “boo boo” and if he could kiss it. Still in shock, my lack ofresponse had him scampering off. It felt like forever that I was standing there(seriously, what were those two doing in there besides NOT coming to myrescue?)…until it all kicked in and I screamed bloody murder. An ambulance hadto be called as I was losing quite a bit of blood. I remember riding in theback of the ambulance. I remember everything going fuzzy as I went intosurgery. I remember the dryness of my throat as I woke up. I remember those fewdays in the hospital. I ESPECIALLY remember the utter and ridiculous pain ofthem taking out my stitches a few weeks later (still bitter about that).

Growing up, I learned a lot through that experience. Ilearned my left and right by looking at my wrists (scar = right. No scar =left. Confession: I still do that to this day). I learned that playing withglass is a big no-no, especially when the game involves running full forcetowards glass (how was I not a child prodigy?).

Every day, I see those scars and remember. It’s a reminderof a traumatic experience. It’s a reminder of pain.

I have more than physical scars from my life. We alldo. And we can all choose whatthose scars mean. They can be something we learn from (ie. don’t run towardsglass) or we can keep repeating them. We can choose to heal from them or we cankeep ripping off the scabs.

As cheesy as it sounds, when I walked to the ambulancethat night, I remember this feeling of peace and calm come over me. I knew atthat moment that God was in control and that everything would be ok. And that truth hasn’t changed. In all ofmy scarring moments throughout my life, He’s been there.

He’s there in the hurt. He’s there in the pain. Hedoesn’t leave.

Luckiest Girl In The World

2011-11-24T00:31:00.000-05:00

God gives us far more than we deserve.

More specifically, God has given me far more than I deserve.

It’s been a ten-year journey that God has brought me through to get me where I am now. While those ten years are dotted with specific steps towards my journey, God began this far before I even knew.

In June, I went to WorldVenture headquarters for my final interview and training. My first day there I met with a counselor to go over the results of the 5000000 psych and personality exams that I had taken (they seriously don’t joke around with who they accept). One of their goals (beyond confirming that I’m not crazy which, officially, I’m not. Whew) is to make sure that my personality and gifts match up with what I’m going to do overseas.

When people would ask me what I wanted to be some day, I never knew what to say. I was never especially good at anything. I definitely had no athletic ability (my brothers stole every gene for that). I wasn’t especially good at school. I’ve always loved music but lack any kind of musical talent. I always liked reading and writing but I wasn’t good enough to go for a career opportunity in that. Because of this, I didn’t have a clue what I would major in at college or what job I’d have some day. I often felt discouraged and lost.

As the counselor was going over my exam results, she made a startling insight:

“Sarah, with your personality and gifts, you are exactly gifted for what you are going to be doing.”

My eyes filled with tears. How long I had waited to see how God would use me. How long I had wondered what I could possibly be gifted for. How long I had wondered what would fulfill and excite me.

This means that when God was forming me in my mom’s womb…not only creating my physical attributes but my personality and talents…He had a plan. This was not just any plan. This was a specific and beautiful plan that would take 29 years for me to see what was happening. God has been putting this puzzle of my life together and I had yet to see what the picture could even begin to look like. It has been this last year of pieces that I’ve at last been able to glimpse at what the final puzzle could look like. The puzzle is just beginning, really. There’s so much more that He will add. And it’s stunning. It’s more beautiful than I could have dreamed.

I am humbled.

I am unworthy.

I don’t deserve this.

I know so many people that have desires, gifts and talents that they want to use for God but for some reason, the door hasn’t opened. They’re in places that they don’t understand. I’ve been there and it’s beyond painful to watch my dear friends go through it. My heart aches. I feel the excitement of seeing God’s puzzle for my life and I desire that for all of those around me. I want them to have that peace. I want them to have that joy. God's plans aren't my plans though. God's timing isn't my timing. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what God is doing.

I don’t deserve this.

When people tell me that they can’t believe that I’m going to move to Africa forever, I want to tell them that, really, I’m the luckiest girl in the world. I get to do what God has put in my heart to do…and what could possibly be better than that?

There’s nothing better.

I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

Sensing Memories

2011-11-16T12:25:00.000-05:00

I told you about that wretched drive down to Atlanta this past weekend. Despite the frustrations, there was a positive. It was the perfect time of year to take a road trip. The whole drive, I was enamored by the gorgeous trees that lined the road. Bright yellows, reds and oranges. It was downright distracting. I often caught myself smiling at the beauty, praising God for His beautiful display. He was seriously showing off...and I loved it.

So much of memory is in our senses: the smell, the taste, the touch, the sight, the sound. Fall is such a distinct season that all of these memories have been rushing back. The smell of cinnamon and apple pie. The stunning sight of trees changing color. The sound of leaves crunching beneath my shoe. The taste of pumpkin and apple cider. The feel of cold against my skin. I feel like I’m experiencing them all again for the first time with a child-like wonder. These were the kinds of senses that I missed while in Uganda.

Oddly enough, I was able to experience a sense of Uganda this past week. I stopped by my Kenyan parents (translation: a couple who are like my parents who are Kenyan) house for a quick visit.

Sidenote: It’s so weird how we’ve changed places. I first met my Kenyan parents when they were still living in Kenya on my first trip there. Now, I live in Africa and they live in America. Weird.

My Kenyan mom mentioned that they could buy cassava in Lynchburg. Cassava is a root that tastes like mashed potatoes but has a different texture. Very distinct. Very starchy. Very African.

She went right away to the kitchen to make some for me. With my first bite, the memories came back. I was immediately transported back to Uganda.

There I was in Gulu at our feeding center eating cassava with the kids.

There I was in our office eating the fried salty cassava that Francis brought in (which, to this day, was the best cassava that I’d ever had…probably because it was fried and salty).

While I can’t say that I’ve been craving Ugandan food in the States (starch starch starch starch and more starch, anyone? Although if you put a plate of matooke with gnut sauce on top, I'd be all over it), it took me back to that place that I love and made me feel a little sense of home here.

What are some senses that bring back memories for you?

Control Issues

2011-11-15T12:50:00.000-05:00

You know those days when everything goes wrong? That was my Friday.

I planned to drive down to Atlanta yesterday at noon. I had reserved a car with a certain car rental company that rhymes with "Schmenterprise". After waiting 20 minutes in line behind some (shady) guy (who was getting asked about his full background info, making him seem even more shady), I was informed that they had no cars to rent.

A car rental place.

That I had reserved a car with.

That had no cars.

Something is very very wrong with this picture. They offered no help after that so I drove to another rental place (Hertz to the rescue!) and finally got on the road.

With an hour delay to my trip, I was ready to get to Atlanta. Sadly, Atlanta was apparently not ready to have me.

There was a major accident right before Charlotte. Major as in the entire interstate on the other side was completely blocked off. Three ambulances. One firetruck. Many police cars. Lots of stopped traffic. Once I got through that, it was all stopped again. Due to my numerous delays, I ended up hitting rush hour evening traffic all throughout South Carolina.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

I was really really ready to get to Atlanta.

I got to my friend’s house over two hours later than expected. We had decided to wait for dinner until I got there. Needless to say, we devoured dinner after 9pm.

I hit the point before I even left Lynchburg where I just gave up. Not in a bad way though. It was a giving up of control. I knew that I could do nothing that would change the situation so I just resolved that I would get there when I got there and not stress out about it.

There’s so much in my life right now that I have no control over. Perhaps God was giving me a hint for everything else: “Give it up. You’re not in control. I AM.”

Easier said than done, right?

What’s something that you’ve given up having control over?

Pumpkins and Witch Doctors

2011-11-01T15:30:00.001-04:00

For many, Halloween conjures up childhood memories of dressing up in costumes and traversing around the neighborhood to get as much candy as possible. My childhood memories of Halloween are more along the lines of hiding in our basement with all the lights off. Halloween was the big no-no holiday. Our church didn’t even have any kind of Harvest Festival. It was the devil’s holiday and we steered clear. It wasn’t until college that I attended some Halloween costume parties and dressed up. I never carved a pumpkin until my first year in Uganda.

We expats on our compound celebrated Halloween and bought pumpkins to carve. Pumpkins in Uganda are green and much (much) harder to carve than American ones. I didn’t realize how much harder they were until I carved an American one this year. Adding to the difficulty in carving was that our electricity was on and off the entire night. We kept our headlamps on during carving and turned them on when needed.

It added to the adventure of it all, don’t you think?

I burned some pumpkin scented candles that my friends had sent me and we all tried to pretend that we were in the States for a night. Once we finished carving, we lit them and set them out on our porch.

We left them on the porch for a few days but with the Ugandan heat, it didn’t take them long to rot. My roommate tossed them near the wall of our compound to get them out of the way.

A couple days later, our day guard Biajo approached my roommate in concern: “Your neighbors have put a curse on you! They have taken these pumpkins, drawn horrible faces on them and thrown them over your wall. You have been cursed!”

We laughed and explained that silly American tradition to him which, I’m sure, still made absolutely no sense. Why would we carve such faces into pumpkins? And, actually, why do we? I should probably look that up.

It reminds me of the stronghold that witchcraft and spiritism have in Uganda. When I first studied Animism in my graduate program, all that I researched told me that as people moved to urban areas, their belief in the traditional religion decreased. Living in the capital city of Kampala for two years taught me that this wasn't true. Witch doctors are active. The beliefs of traditional religion seep into the church. Child sacrifice is growing in Uganda. I heard about it often while being there but news has been spreading thanks to the BBC highlighting the business of child sacrifice in Uganda, which has now spread abroad. The BBC went undercover in Uganda to show what a money maker killing children has become (read and watch here) but also that this has spread to England as children are abducted, smuggled into the country and sacrificed there (read and watch here).

Crazy, right? It's so far out of what we think is possible in America. It's too horrific to even imagine. Not only is it happening but it's increasing and spreading. The spiritual battle is raging in Uganda. It confirms to me that where God is leading me is the right direction. More than rice, clean water or shoes, Uganda needs Christ.

The Very Worst Missionary

2011-10-17T17:30:00.001-04:00

Friends of mine recently told me about a blog called The Very Worst Missionary. I thought, “no fair, that’s my title”. I’ve been a self-proclaimed Very Worst Missionary for awhile now. I can’t believe someone beat me to it.

I’ve explained before how God literally kicked me into missions. I never planned or expected it. I never thought that I fit “the mold”. I still don’t. I don’t know what you picture when you hear the word “missionary” but my picture looks nothing like me. Aren’t missionaries like super Christians, with capes, a KJV Bible and a whip to ward off all snakes and vermin? Because I’m not that. I know my weaknesses. I’m not spiritual enough. I need to know more Scripture. I struggle with sin. I don’t know all the answers.

I’m inadequate.

But, aren’t we all?

When God calls us to something, it’s overwhelming. I’m a details person. My mind immediately goes to all that needs to be done. To-Do lists abound. The questions then come. How on earth will all of this work out? How is this going to be possible? How can I do this?

On my own, I can’t do this. On my own, I would fall flat on my face. On my own, I would crumble. I am so weak.

I went to a conference last week. God taught me so much through it, a big one being: He is present in our lives. Let me be more specific: He is present in my life.

God’s not sending me back to Uganda alone. This school isn’t getting built by me. It’s not me who will be teaching these girls. It’s not my love that the girls will experience.

It’s not about me or my ability.

God is present in my life right now and won’t leave. Ever. He will be present as I move back to Uganda. He will build this school. He will teach these girls. He will love them unconditionally, far more than I ever could. In all of my weakness, He is there.

He is, in fact, my strength.

A Homesick Double Agent

2011-10-13T16:51:00.000-04:00

As much as I have adjusted back to living like an American, there are times that I am overwhelmed at how different my two lives are. It’s in the little things.

I was looking out the window at my friend’s house recently. It was an average American neighborhood, really. The road was nicely paved. There were sidewalks lined by the well-kept green grass yards. A squirrel scurried around the yard, looking for food. Children played across the street. A man jogged by. One could barely hear any distinct noises. The air-conditioning in the house was keeping everyone cool on that summer day. The houses had been planned to be there. The neighborhood and the surrounding streets connected. It was well planned out. It was all so…so…American looking.

There is no such comparison to a Ugandan neighborhood. There were no dirt roads. In fact, there was little dirt to be seen. There was no trash littering the ground. There were no walls surrounding each house. There were neither bars on the window that I was looking out nor bars on any doors or windows in the neighborhood. You could not hear the sound of traffic, horns blowing, music blaring, cows mooing, chickens squawking, goats bleating, or taxi conductors yelling. There were no open fires burning trash (which meant no smoke blowing into the house…what a novelty). There was no loud revival/church service/Muslim call to prayer/concert/neighbor parties/any other excuse for a loud speaker to project the event into your living room. The houses weren’t haphazardly put in place.

There are times where it’s hard for me to believe that these two worlds exist on the same planet. They’re so different from each other. It’s hard to explain this to people as there’s no way to fully describe it. Though I can try to put into words what life is like in America to Ugandans but they can’t possibly understand. I try to explain Uganda to Americans and the same problem is there.

I have two homes and both are home to me in different ways.

It kind of makes me feel like a secret agent living a double life. I just need a gun. And Chloe talking into my ear. And Jack Bauer. I need him.

They say that home is where your heart is. It’s true…and my home is a land with dirt roads, livestock running around and the most beautiful people in the world.

I’m homesick.

Single? And A Missionary? To Africa?

2011-09-13T19:36:00.000-04:00

My parents and I went to the Iowa State Fair last month. I saw a booth for an ostrich farm and got excited. Why? Because ostrich meat = delicious! You didn't know? Anyway, there was an older man there and I inquired about getting some ostrich meat and about how they raise them. It came up that I went to an ostrich farm in Kenya (there’s nothing like holding an ostrich egg, seeing ostriches from baby to adult and then eating a sumptuous ostrich meal. Every bite is a piece of delicious guilt.). It then came up that I lived in Uganda for the past two years after which inevitably came out that I’m moving back to Uganda…for good.

Then it happened…as it has happened so many times before. And I mean, SO many times. It’s almost like they have a script.

The Scenario: The person finds out that I’m single and moving to Africa and they respond almost word for word with this:

“I mean, you’re a pretty girl…you have a nice personality…and you’re single? And moving to Africa?”

While it’s encouraging for a stranger to compliment my looks and personality (ok, it's usually creepy), they can’t possibly understand. Usually the person saying this is a stranger so I don’t delve too deep into it. But for you? I shall. In fact, it’s a topic that I’m dearly passionate about.

It’s conversations like these that remind me that what God has called me to isn’t exactly considered “normal” by American standards. Sometimes I like to feign innocence, “What? It’s not normal for a late 20-something single American girl to move to Africa? Say it ain’t so!”. Ok, fine, I usually just think that in my head. The American expectation is to go to college, get married, have 2.5 kids and get a house with a white picket fence. My sophomore year of college, God gave me distaste for that expectation and though I had no idea what He would do, I knew that my life wouldn’t be that.

However, I never (never never) expected to be a missionary. I definitely never expected to be single at my age. None of this was a part of my plan. And if God would have let me in on this little life plan years ago? I would have never agreed to it. In fact, I would have run the other way screaming.

But…now? I couldn’t dream it any bigger or better than this. It was God that put these crazy desires in my heart and because of that, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I can’t imagine not living in Uganda. I can’t imagine not being able to work with Ugandan high school girls. I don’t even want to imagine that. There is absolutely nothing else that I’d rather do.

Bottom line: I would rather have the peace of God by living in His will than anything else…even marriage. I still would love to get married. In fact, I really desire that and pray that it’s a part of God’s great plan for my life. However, my To Do list doesn’t come before God’s. I won’t let my desire for marriage or anything else get in the way of what God is calling me to.

Now, that clearly comes with a lot of steps of surrender. This is not a one stop surrender shop. I could tell you about the little and big steps that God had me surrender to over the years and how many times I have to surrender this daily. These are things that God and I have had pleeeeenty of long conversations about. It all comes back to obedience and surrender to Him above anything and everything else, no matter how difficult it is. No matter how insane it seems to anyone else. No matter how much it doesn’t make sense, even to me.

I’ve been in the book of Jeremiah for quite awhile now. It’s encouraging to see that I’m not the only one who was called to do crazy counter-cultural things for God. In fact, my life is pretty normal compared to what God had Jeremiah do. The Bible is actually darn well chock full of people who did wild things for God that made absolutely no sense to them or those around them. My favorite Bible verse encourages me all the more. I especially like how The Message version says it:

“Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we'd better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls! (Hebrews 12:1-3)

What are some crazy things that God has called you to?

Reverse Culture Shocked

2011-09-03T15:03:00.002-04:00

It happened in the egg section at Wal-mart. I surveyed the numerous options of eggs (small? medium? large? different brands? organic?) and felt the panic in my stomach rising. In Uganda, there was only one choice when buying eggs. I was now faced with about 15. I repeatedly asked myself, “what’s the normal American choice to make? Just make the normal choice…but what’s the normal choice?”.

On another trip to the grocery store, the cashier asked me if I wanted something in a bag. I raised my eyebrows and looked away. A few awkwardly silent seconds later, the cashier asked me the question again. I then realized that I had answered the Ugandan way, not the American one.

A couple nights before the 4^th of July, I was at home and started hearing these popping noises outside. I was immediately transported back to my home in Uganda, wondering if I was hearing tear gas guns and rifles. My heart started beating faster as I tried to assess what was happening outside my window. Living in a home without bars on the doors and windows had been hard enough to adjust to. Even after figuring out that it was the neighbors setting off fireworks, I wasn’t able to calm down.

During a visit at my church’s youth group, I was about 10 handshakes in when I thought, “huh, I bet shaking hands isn’t the most common way to greet American teenagers” but I couldn’t think of what else to do.

After eating at an Asian restaurant, I discovered that one of the workers was from Indonesia. His accent was thick and without meaning to, I started talking with a Ugandan accent. Apparently talking to someone with any kind of accent brings it out. I was mortified.

It’s reverse culture shock. Though I had experienced it in a small way in coming back from short term missions trips (I have a whole theory on the differences of short term reverse culture shock and long term but that’s for another day), I had never experienced it in this way. One of my first weeks back, a missionary couple from my church was heading back to the field. In a prayer, my pastor mentioned how they had experienced a time of having the comforts of American life. I smiled from my pew knowing that; in fact, it was harder for them to come back to America than to go back to their African home. I guess it’s easy for people to assume that American life is easy and that life in Africa is difficult and thus, it’s easier for missionaries to be back in the States. Though there are definitely parts of American life that are great (two words: Air. Conditioning. Ok, two more: Fast. Internet.) I’ve wrestled with the “why”. America IS my home. This is the country that I was born and raised in. This is the culture that I know…right? However, when I moved to Uganda, I expected it to be different. I expected to have to adjust. I expected nothing to be “normal”. Coming back to America, I expected to be normal. After two years of not fitting into a culture, I expected to be able to fit in. Being gone from the States for two years, I had lost what it meant to live a “normal” American life and make “normal” American choices. Making those decisions, even as small as buying eggs, stressed me out and often, I panicked.

I'm now living in a third culture. I have my American culture and my Ugandan culture but with both of those mashing together, it creates this third culture: an American-Ugandan mix. No matter how long I live in Uganda, I’ll never fully fit in (my skin color alone will make sure of that). The longer I live away from the States, the less that it will feel like home. From this point on, neither culture will be completely home.

I have no doubt that I'll be able to add many more awkward stories to my third culture resume. For your entertainment, of course.

Martha, Martha, Martha...

2011-08-14T00:45:00.000-04:00

Twice this month the story of Mary and Martha was told at my church: once during Sunday’s sermon and another at a Ladies Night Out. Hm, I think God was trying to tell ~~my church~~ ~~the ladies in my church~~ ~~some of us~~ me something. Specifically, at our Ladies Night Out, we were given time to reflect on the passage more. As a natural planner, I can always relate to Martha. God struck me in a more personal way this time.

For those unfamiliar with the story, let me give you a quick recap, Sarah style. It starts when Martha opens her home to Jesus (we could do a whole blog on that right there but, I digress). A whole party gets started and Martha goes into full on party planning detail mode. I’m picturing some major market shopping, cleaning, cooking, etc. If she’s anything like me, she probably wrote a big long To Do list and got a ridiculous amount of satisfaction every time she got to cross one of the items off. Mary, her sister and party planning helper, is sitting at the feet of Jesus, soaking in His words. Not so much into the whole party planning helper mode. When Martha (oh so tactfully) mentions to Jesus that, “wouldn’t it be cool if my sister helped me with all this party goodness instead of sitting here doing nothing?”, she gets a shocker of an answer: “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one, Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:41-42).

Oh. Snap.

Picture Martha’s face for a second. Eyes widened, eyebrows raised, and an expression that’s a mix of surprise, shame and confusion.

While I originally started thinking of my natural tendency to plan (and over plan), God took it a step further.

What if?

What if…instead of going party planning crazy, Martha also sat at the feet of Jesus, soaking in His words? Her to-do list wouldn’t get done. The house would be dirty. Food wouldn’t be bought much less cooked. People wouldn’t get invited. Or, people would show up and nothing would be ready. There was just So. Much. To. Do.

But…

Think of what Jesus COULD have done. Think of the miracles that COULD have been performed.

“What? The food isn’t ready? No biggie, I do this thing with bread and fish. You’ll have leftovers for weeks. What? We ran out of wine? No problem. Got any water? Check this out...”

I mean, think of the possibilities. Think of how God’s glory COULD have been shown that day. And, going further, think of how God’s glory could be shown in my life every day that I stifle with my plans and my To Do list.

That hit me hard.

These past few months have been planner months for me. My To Do list is still monstrous. I’ve been getting everything together to start support raising again. And planning planning planning.

You know the funny thing? God has seriously been doing miracles left and right. I’ve literally been shocked at how He’s working. The funny part? All those miracles have had NOTHING to do with any of the planning I’ve done. Nothing. At all. It’s like God’s been repeatedly saying: “This is my deal. I got this. Yeah, there’s a lot of money that needs to be raised but…I got this. I’m going to work in people’s lives. And, you know, I own some cattle…on a few hills…”.

As some icing on that cake, I’ve been listening to the song “Restless” by Audrey Assad on repeat. I’ll close with the lyrics, which is also my prayer:

You dwell in the songs that we are singing
Rising to the Heavens
Rising to Your heart
Our praises filling up the spaces
In between our frailty and everything You are
You are the keeper of my heart

And I'm restless
I’m restless
'Til I rest in You
(Oh God I wanna rest in You)

Oh speak now for my soul is listening
Say that You have saved me
Whisper in the dark
'Cause I know You’re more than my salvation

Without You I am hopeless
Tell me who You are
You are the keeper of my heart

Still my heart
Hold me close
Let me hear a still small voice
Let it grow
Let it rise
Into a shout
Into a cry

I am restless until I rest in You

Goodbye to Kampala: My Home Sweet Home

2011-07-11T19:31:00.000-04:00

I knew the day would come when I would write about my goodbye to Kampala. It was hard enough to experience and writing about it is even more difficult. In the past two years, Kampala went from an unknown city to my home.

In ways, my first weeks in Kampala seem like yesterday. The city was full of dust and overrun with taxis, motorcycle taxis (boda-bodas), people, animals and more. The roads seemed a maze of confusion and as we drove through the madness, I wondered if I’d ever be able to get around on my own. The thought of driving scared me to death, not to mention navigating my way around. Familiarity came with time. I remember the moment when I realized that I could navigate my way to the grocery store by myself. It was such a relief. In ways, my life was quite normal. Every day, I drove to an office, worked until 5 and came home. And yet, living in Africa is anything but normal. However, it became my normal and I loved it.

My goodbye to Kampala was overwhelming. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more loved in my life. The Hope Alive! Kampala site put on a talent show for me. It was more than I could have ever dreamed. The kids performed skits, sang songs, performed a fashion show and danced. I loved every second of it. I love watching them perform. I always feel like a proud mother in the crowd cheering them on. The joy in their eyes shows how much they love it as well.

I took a lot of video that take in order so that I would never forget it. The following are two videos that mean the world to me. The first is my girls singing a song together. They added a verse that made me cry. The second is a poem that my sweet Brenda wrote about me. Again, another one that makes me cry.

Aren’t they gorgeous!? I love these girls so much and am so proud of them. We got some fun group pictures of that day as well.

I had my last Bible study with my girls. It was so hard to think of ending what we had been doing for so long. Looking into each of their beautiful faces, I wanted them to know who they were in Christ. Not who they were according to what they thought of themselves or what they had been told by others. No, they needed to know what Christ thinks of them and to find themselves in Him. These girls are hard and rarely show emotion. It was because of this that I was surprised at how many tears were shed by many of the girls.

My last couple weeks were full of a lot of “lasts”. My last home visits: visiting the families that I had come to know and love over these two years. It was not only hard to say goodbye to the kids but also to their parents. I visited Monica’s house for the last time. She made an incredible meal for us and spoke truth from the Word of God. My last trip to the market. My last trip to downtown Kampala (I can’t say that I’ll ever really miss that insanity). My last service at Lugogo Baptist Church. The last dinner with my roommates.

My friends threw a goodbye party for me on one of my last nights there. It was wonderful having so many that I love in one place. It still seems surreal that I can’t call them up and see them.

I’m a long processor. When I left Uganda, it didn’t seem real. It was such a hectic time that I wasn’t able to process that I was actually leaving. I didn’t cry at the talent show (I teared up but no tears). I didn’t cry at the last girls Bible Study. I didn’t cry at my goodbye party. It all was so surreal. The only time I cried was when I read a letter from one of my girls. Her words humbled me completely and left me amazed at how God has worked in and through me. Besides that…I was tearless….until it all clicked in a few weeks ago.

I was in Colorado for long term training at WorldVenture. I was about to go into the biggest interview of my life. This interview would determine if I would be accepted as a WorldVenture missionary. It was extremely stressful as well, they could say no. I knew how God had specifically called me to this and the thought of being told “no” at this point? It scared the mess out of me. God kept reminding me that He had truly called me to this and that He wouldn’t stop it now…but my nerves were taking over. It was at this point that it finally hit that I was gone. I wasn’t going to be seeing my girls for a long time. I wasn’t around my kids. I had gone…and the tears wouldn’t stop coming. And they haven’t really stopped since then. Every time I look at my pictures, read the incredible book that my girls put together for me, read the dozens of letters that the kids wrote to me…I can’t stop the tears from coming.

Awkward side note: the tears started approximately one hour before my massive interview. It was like a perfect storm of stressful insanity. For those that know me, you know that I’m not one that cries. I don’t really process by crying and I definitely don’t cry in front of people if I can help it. Tears are literally streaming down my face 5 minutes before my interview. I get it together right before entering the room. First question to me? “Sarah, tell us what you love about Uganda.” Did I mention that I’m an ugly crier? Oh my gosh. It was OUT OF CONTROL. Luckily, they didn’t see me as a psycho emotional crazy girl and still accepted me. Whew.

Goodbye Kampala, my home sweet home.

Goodbye familiar dusty pot-filled roads.

Goodbye morning traffic jams into work. I won’t miss you.

Goodbye to my compound and home. You were such a calming retreat to come home to.

Goodbye to Biajo and Juliet. I always felt safe and cared for thanks to you two.

Goodbye to those creepy men at Nakawa Market that would yell crude things to me. I also won’t miss you.

Goodbye to my sweet Hope Alive! kids. I love each of you deeper than you could ever know. You are in my heart and in my prayers…always.

Goodbye especially to Emma, Joseph, Andrew, Prossy, Dora, Agnes, Kevin, Benard, Lovin, Comfort, Justin and Flavia. Each of you specifically has a special place in my heart. I love each of you so much and hope to still be involved in each of your lives for years to come.

Goodbye to each of my girls: Esther, Emily, Rita, Shamila, Agnes, Brenda, Hope, Dutchess, Sandra, Sarah, Ruth, Jean, Lucy, Joan, Brenda, Jillian, Nancy and Paula. I always felt that I could never fully express exactly how much I loved each one of you. I felt like my heart was bursting every time we were together. You all are my inspiration. I see so much in each of you and cannot wait to see how God will use each and every one of you. I love you from the bottom of my heart. I miss you more than I could ever put into words. My tears come whenever I think of you.

Goodbye to my most amazing friends. I always felt like I didn’t deserve to have such incredible friends there. I am forever grateful to you all for your encouragement, love and support. You shared your culture with me, explained things numerous times and were so patient with me. There is no thanks that could ever be enough. I am so grateful to have each of you in my life. Special thanks to Georgina, Lonnah, Dorothy and Shammah. I would have been absolutely lost without you girls. Nkwagala nyo nyo nyo!

Goodbye to Hope Alive! and to Catharine. It’s been my honor to work for you these past two years. I've learned so much from your wisdom. I can only pray that I made some sort of organizational difference. But, more than the database and paperwork, when I think of Hope Alive!, I think of the people. I think of the site managers, the mentors and the kids. There’s been exciting moments and really disappointing heartbreaking moments…and we’ve grown together through them all.

Goodbye to my roommates. Ugh, do you know how boring my life is without you two!? I miss the laughs, the Mexican fiesta nights, the Alias marathons, the road trip adventures, and really, watching you two shine in what you’re doing.

The good thing about my goodbye to Kampala, and Uganda, is that it is not final. I praise GOD that He is sending me back to this country that I love so much. So, really, this isn’t so much of a “goodbye” as it is a “see you later”. For my sake, I’m hoping “later” is actually “really really soon”.

Masaka: The Last Visit

2011-05-20T20:12:00.000-04:00

I remember my first trip to Masaka. The view from our hotel overlooked the lush green rolling hills of the small town. It reminded me of Lynchburg, VA where I had lived for so many years. Because of that, it always felt a little bit like home and I always looked forward to visiting there. The kids in Masaka are also different. In Gulu, there’s extreme poverty but at the same time, many of the kids have received aid from NGO’s for years thus bringing an attitude of expectancy. In Kampala, there’s a lot more opportunities for the kids due to the largeness of the city. The kids are street wise. But…Masaka…it’s just different. There are kids in desperate need there but the attitude is just different. It’s refreshing.

My last trip to Masaka almost didn’t happen. Riots started in Kampala and spread to various towns through Uganda, including Masaka. In talks with my field leader, it was just not safe to go. We delayed the trip, all the while praying that things would calm down enough for me to go. It was very important to me to say goodbye to those in Masaka. In addition to my goodbye’s, I had some business to do. I was seriously concerned that I wouldn’t be able to go. At last, the riots calmed down and it was deemed safe enough for me to travel. The trip was cut down considerably. We drove down on a Saturday and would head back on Sunday morning.

My “business” in Masaka was an exciting one. My friend’s Gloria and Maria had some leftover money from their previous trip here that they wanted to go to the families of Beatrice and Madina. There was enough money that Beatrice’s mom and Madina could either start a small business or take some courses. I’ve already talked in detail about my beloved Beatrice. I was so anxious to see her again. Madina is one of the mentors for Hope Alive! in Masaka who has struggled considerably. Her husband has another wife and comes back to Madina’s home only to use and abuse her and their five children. Her health has taken a turn for the worse and a few weeks prior, we weren’t sure if she was going to make it through. By the grace of God, she was feeling much better when we arrived. Her and her children ran from their small mud house to where our car was when we pulled up. The joy of the Lord literally bursts out of her and her face was just shining.

We spent time in their home catching up. Hannah (friend and fellow WorldVenture missionary) and Wendy (visitor from States to Hope Alive!) both came with me to Masaka and it was great to introduce them to Madina and her great family. Their strength in the Lord has always left me in awe. I often wonder when I meet people who live in such circumstances if I could have the faith and strength that they do. Would I have the joy of the Lord shining through me if this was my life? I admire Madina and all that she does for her kids but mostly, for her overwhelming love for the Lord.

After we met with Madina, we headed back to the Hope Alive! site to hopefully meet up with Beatrice before Saturday club. Beatrice and her mentor, Justice, met up with us for lunch. I wanted to cry as I saw her coming toward me. We had a fun lunch together. Justice is actually the principal of Beatrice’s school. I was relieved to know that her mentor was so involved in her life. At last, someone to love and care for my girl! I didn’t realize how important that was until later that day.

After lunch, we headed over to Saturday Club where I was to teach the high school girls there. I was honored that Rose, the site director, had asked me to speak to these girls and was excited to share with them. We had a great discussion about how God sees us and how that effects how we are to live our lives for Him.

We headed to Beatrice’s home after Saturday Club. She lives with her mom far out of Masaka, down and around dirt roads in the middle of nowhere.

Sidenote: The middle of nowhere is perhaps my favorite part of Africa. I just love being out in the middle of the bush visiting families.

Justice had updated us over lunch about Beatrice’s mom. In looking for her mom to tell her that we were coming, Justice discovered that the mom had been staying with different men, leaving her small children to fend for themselves for days. My heart was broken. We got Beatrice out of her dad’s place because of how he abused and neglected her. To find out that her mom was doing the same…it was too much. I felt so helpless. Here I had come with dreams and hopes that the mom would be able to start a small business to support her family only to find out that she was neglecting and starving her children. I cried out to God, “who will love this girl!? “. I love Beatrice so deeply and am baffled at why her parents don’t seem to care for her or her brothers. God’s answer? “Me”. His love for Beatrice remains constant. HE is her Provider. He has provided sweet Justice, a mentor for Beatrice who cares for her. We had brought food for Beatrice and her family. Justice kept it at her place and cooked for the kids for the next few days as they waited for their mom to at last return. When the mom returned, she was ashamed. She hid herself for some time from Justice but eventually came to her. From what Justice says, things are going better. Beatrice’s mom is staying home and actually caring for her children. Please pray with me that if she’s not a believer, that she comes to accept Jesus as her Savior and that through that, His love will flow through her to her children. May they all experience the great love of our God.

Hugging Beatrice goodbye was surreal. My heart didn’t want to begin to contemplate that this was the last hug that we would have for a very long time. I saw Justice a few weeks later in Kampala. She told me that she had never seen Beatrice as happy as when she was with me. Oh, my sweet Beatrice…may you understand how God loves you much more than I ever could.

Goodbye to those lush green rolling hills that brought me a sense of home.
Goodbye to Rose, the most wonderful and efficient site director. You did your work for God’s glory and it was clear in all that you did.
Goodbye to Shammah, Rose’s son. Oh buddy, you know your Auntie Sarah will love you, your cute cheeks and sweet smiles forever.
Goodbye 10 Tables for your great taste of Western food in that small town.
Goodbye to all the fabulous Hope Alive! mentors. You all inspired me. Most of you are widows and a mother to so many children. Your love for Christ astounds me.
Goodbye to Madina. Your love for Christ and joy in Him humbles me.
Goodbye to all the Hope Alive! kids. You showed me that Christ can be seen even in the most difficult circumstances.
Goodbye to Shakirah. My sweet girl, you’ve had such a hard life. May you find your strength in the Lord.

And, at last…goodbye to my sweet Beatrice. Tears stream down my face as I think of you and the pain you’ve experienced in your young life. Your precious smile remains even as you search for love from your parents. My sweet girl, your Heavenly Father loves you so deeply. May you find your hope and salvation in Him.

Goodbye, Masaka. You are filled with so many that I love deeply. I look forward to returning to you some day as you hold a most special place in my heart.

Gulu: The Last Visit

2011-04-04T10:02:00.001-04:00

My time in Uganda is coming soon to an end. Has two years really gone by? I can’t believe it. I feel as though I’m grasping to make the most of every moment and yet, I’m living in denial of my departure. I can’t imagine not being here…and I don’t want to.

This next month of my life will be filled with a lot of traveling and a lot of goodbyes. It has officially started as I went to Gulu for my last trip here here. Crazy. My roommates spend March in Gulu as they both had things that they needed to be here for an extended time for. Though I begged and pleaded, I was much more needed in Kampala than Gulu. I came up on a Thursday to spend my last trip here with them during their last days here.

The coming here part was an adventure in and of itself as I took the public bus. Take away all pictures in your mind of an American school bus or a fancy charter bus. It is neither of these. The goal of these buses is to fit as many passengers (and animals, if need be) in as possible. I had take buses to another town as well as Rwanda before so I had an idea in my mind of what to expect. However, it was my first trip alone. And this bus was not as nice as the one to Rwanda. The bus was scheduled to take off at 6:30am but I was to be there 30 minutes early. My driver was 20 minutes late and I was in panic sweat mode. If there were even a slight bit of traffic, there would be no way that I was making my bus. Luckily, my driver busted it into town and I got there just in time. Just in time to go through security, that is. I was the only white person around and the security guard took great pleasure in selecting my bag (and only my bag) to open up and go through. I think he just wanted to see what was inside. I got on the bus and was directed to my seat. It was then that I realized the difference between this and the Rwanda bus: space. I’m a short girl and thus, can fit pretty easily in most spaces. It was a tight squeeze in my seat and the guy next to me was pressed closely.

Oh yes, my seat buddy. Keep in mind, this is 6:30am. This is not chatty happy time for Sarah. I wanted to slouch in my seat, iPod on and sleep. Seat Buddy wanted nothing of that, as there was a white girl next to him that he could get to know. This white girl did not want to get knowed. That didn’t stop him. Besides invading my personal space for the next five hours, he decided that he needed to make some demands of me. Whenever I would open my eyes, take an earbud out of my ear or any other indication that he would be heard, he’d start to tell me some of the following:

“When you get to Gulu, I am going to stay with you.”
“When you get to Gulu, you are going to buy me a soda. One in a glass bottle.”

Those were the two main one that he repeated over…and over…and over again. Especially about the soda. For the entirety of my five hour bus ride. He then decided that instead of one sentence demands, he would give me a 10 minute “cultural lesson” on why I was culturally required to do this for him. His main point was that since I was sitting next to him, I was to show my appreciation of this by buying him his list of demands. I clearly did not agree.

After arriving in Gulu, I tagged along with what Kate and Kacie had been doing for the past three weeks. I visited schools with Kate, taking pictures of our kids for their sponsors. We visited vocational schools to see where our kids would best fit. That night, we had dinner with all of our Hope Alive! staff in Gulu. It was great seeing the mentors again and catching up with them. I’ve always felt so honored working alongside such people.

The next day, I went to some more schools with Kate. I then got to meet up with Irene! Irene was one of our students in Kampala. She had been staying with an aunt there but trouble began with her side of the family and her aunt’s. Irene was in the middle and thus became the example. Her aunt kicked her out of the house. We sat in our office with Irene and her father, both sobbing and not knowing what to do. Her father lived in Gulu but moving Irene to Gulu would uproot her from her school, friends and all that she had known. There was no other option and Gulu was seen as the best option for her. I hadn’t seen Irene since that tear filled day in our office and I was dying to see how she was doing. It ended up turning into quite the scene. I took a boda to her school, as I couldn’t remember how to get there. When I arrived, there were in the midst of an all school assembly…and my boda had arrived at the front of it. I made my way behind the school as to not cause a further scene. I found a teacher and asked if Irene could come. Tears came to my eyes when I saw her walking towards me. I had missed her so much. We hugged for awhile…that is, until another teacher came up to us and asked us to move inside as we were distracting the students. In my excitement, I hadn’t realized that the entire school population had turned to watch our little reunion. I looked beyond Irene and saw hundreds of little faces staring and giggling our way. We moved into the office and I got caught up on her life in Gulu. She misses Kampala terribly but likes her school and has made many friends. That day, she was actually campaigning for a leadership position in her class. I was so proud of her.

On Saturday, we went to a lot of homes. Caroline works at the hotel that Kate and Kacie had stayed at for that month. They had gotten to know her well and she invited us all over to her house. We got to meet her adorable daughter (who was scared out of her mind that white people were in her house) and were served an incredible meal. We then headed to the Feeding Centre to meet up with a mentor and visit some of our kids’ homes. The mentor asked us if we were ready to “foot” for a long time. We were ready…or so we thought. It was about 45 minutes later that we arrived at the first house, deep in the African bush. They welcomed us with smiles and an entire meal, chicken included. Meat is such a precious treat here and it was incredibly humbling to receive this from them. We went to about four other homes. At one, they brought out a chicken as a gift for us, squawking, and handed it straight to Kacie, the only vegetarian. I got much humor out of this. Kate carried it the rest of the way and named her Sal. She said it was for Salvadora but I thought it was for Salmonella. Sal would squawk at the most awkward times, mainly during prayer or other such serious moments. We were out for four hours, three of which were spent walking on little dirt paths in the middle of nowhere. I love it. I love walking so deep in the village and meeting these families; so hidden off of small dirt paths.

We went to a church in the bush that Kate and Kacie had been going to. It was mostly women and children, with very few men. I got emotional during praise and worship. I’m going to miss worshipping God, Ugandan style. After church, we began our journey back to Kampala. It was a considerably more comfortable ride back than the one up.

The memories of Gulu, however, will remain:
-My roach (and every other kind of bug) filled hotel room on my first trip
-Getting lost trying to find the UN offices.
-The ridiculous sunburn that followed getting lost trying to find the UN offices.
-Listening to the local instruments play during worship.
-Mary leaving her hand outside her mosquito net and getting 500 bites.
-Buying cold water bottles and putting them on our necks to cool us down on hot days.
-Watching Shem and Kate play basketball.
-Watching Shem dunk on Kate.
-Getting asked for our phone numbers at the Chinese restaurant and having Kacie tell them to google us.
-Attempting to speak Acholi...and getting laughed at.
-Being a part of enrolling new kids and hearing their stories.
-Going to my first village burial.
-Walking through the bush on home visits; my favorite thing.
-The family handing the live chicken straight to Kacie, the only vegetarian.
-Walking arm in arm with Charles on the way to the hut that he shared with his two sisters.
-So many sweat filled nights…and days…

Goodbye to the Hope Alive! staff.
Goodbye to the Hope Alive! kids.
Goodbye to the intense heat.
Goodbye to the 50600399903724 NGO’s.
Goodbye to the dusty roads.
Goodbye to the familiar roads.
Goodbye to the random Chinese restaurant who has no lighting.
Goodbye to sweet Daffine and her family.
Goodbye to the small market.
Goodbye to the feeding centre.

Goodbye, Gulu. You remain in my heart and memories forever. I will see you again...

First Class: Part 2

2011-01-03T08:43:00.000-05:00

Back in 2007, I went on a trip to Kenya, We flew with Virgin Atlantic. Our first flight from DC was canceled due to a hole in the plane (encouraging, right?) and they gave us a LOT of miles due to that plus the miles we got from our journey. Those miles were expiring this December and were enough to get me a flight to Nairobi. Sweet.

Ever since I had planned this trip to the States, I had no idea what I was going to do about my 16 hour layover in London. I knew that I didn’t want to spend 16 hours in the main insane area of Heathrow. Due to it being December, I also knew that I didn’t want to spend 16 hours out in the frigid cold. Virgin Atlantic has a lounge in Heathrow for their first class passengers. I had looked at the possibility of buying miles to upgrade to first class purely for the lounge. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. When I got to the airport in DC, I asked what the cost would be to upgrade to first class. When she quoted $1300, I knew that I was in for a long layover in the crazy main area of Heathrow. She told me to check with the lounge in London to see if I could get a day pass. A day pass!? I didn’t even know those existed. When I landed in London, I went to their counter to ask about a day pass. They directed me to the lounge who told me that I could come four hours before my flight. Um, and what about the next 12 hours? They then directed me to the American Airlines lounge directly below for the meantime. The American Airlines lounge was surprisingly pretty cheap, had great showers, free food, drinks and WiFi. Since I had a bazillion tests to finish for WorldVenture, I settled in and got everything done.

When it was four hours before my flight, I debated on whether to go up to the Virgin Atlantic lounge since I was already so comfortable in the American Airlines lounge. Knowing that I’d never get this chance again, I headed up to the VA lounge.

My first thought upon entering the VA lounge: Oh, so this is what first class people experience.
My second thought: I stick out like a sore thumb. It's like they know my shoes are from Payless and I got my Gap jeans on sale. I shrugged my shoulders and sat down to enjoy an amazing meal. In the lounge, they offered free services to their spa so I got a good manicure. It was incredible. Once my layover ended, I was feeling so blessed. Beginning that day, I had no idea if I’d have a quiet place to get things done and God provided above and beyond. I headed toward my gate feeling productive and relaxed.

When I arrived at my gate, the agent took my ticket and put it under the scanner. It beeped kinda weird and he looked at it again. He then looked up at me and said, “Congratulations, you’re now in upper class”. Um, say what? No. Way. Again? I thanked him and walked into the gate. It was extremely hot, crowded and stuffy but all I could do was marvel. For months, I had been wondering how everything would work out. I’m such a planner and I was worried what would happen in those 16 hours. I had looked at all sorts of options but none worked out. Instead, it all worked out far better than what I had imagined and BONUS, I got first class. Again. How the heck?

I knew from my time searching VA’s website before that their first class was unlike any other. I was right. The “seats” are more like your own little cubicle.

When you want to sleep, the flight attendant comes, flips the seat around and down and boom, you have an entire bed. I slept for most of the flight (thank you Ambien, for all you’ve done in my life) and was for some reason crazy nauseous throughout. I barely touched the meals they gave me and sipped gingerale throughout. Despite that, it was definitely amazing.

I still can’t believe it, really. I mean, this stuff never happens to me…and twice? However, really, God’s hands were all over this. I was checking BBC after I returned and saw that the same day that I was in London, there were crazy protests and riots. They were in all of the areas that I would have headed. I had some tests sent to me from WorldVenture right before I left the States and had been wondering when on earth I’d have the time to complete them. He gave me the perfect time and place to do so. It was also fascinating to people watch. Many people find their identity in that crazy lifestyle.

God is a God of details, as I’ve said many times and again and again, He shows it to me. I don’t deserve His love, His grace, His mercy, His forgiveness…or random blessings like a quiet relaxing place to get things done or even first class.

First Class: Part 1

2011-01-03T08:23:00.000-05:00

I’ve been promising this blog for a year now so, at last, here you go. There was just going to be one first class blog since well, it had only happened to me once. Alas, this past trip back to Uganda, it happened again. I'm usually the person that randomly gets pooped on by a bird or randomly selected for an intrusive pat down in security instead of something good like first class. I’m going to divide them up into two blogs since each deserves it’s own blog.

I had just had a great three weeks back in the States. On the way back to Uganda, I had a long layover in Atlanta. Originally, I was going to try to hang out with my friend Jill on my long layover but she ended up not being able to come to the airport so I had lots of time to kill. I got to Atlanta and did my traditional Atlanta airport stops: get a gyro from Great Wraps and a coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. I got to my gate for my flight to Amsterdam and within a few minutes, they were announcing that they needed volunteers to take a later flight. My first thought was, “I can’t do it. I need to get back to Uganda and have no way of contacting Kate and Kacie if I don’t come on time”. But then, I wondered if it was even possible. I packed my things and headed up toward the counter to see if it was even a possibility. When I finally reached the counter, they told me that I could do it but that I’d be on the same flight the next day.

I was stuck. I had about 30 seconds to decide. I knew that I really wanted to see my friend Jill but, since I didn’t have my American cell phone, I had no way of contacting her. It was like I heard myself saying, “I’ll do it!”. I began to question that decision for the next two hours of my life. In the meantime, I discovered that the guy in front of me was also heading to Uganda. He asked the Delta worker if he could also have first class. The Delta worker told him that he could either have first class or the kick awesome voucher. He chose first class. I chose the kick awesome voucher. They gave me all of my vouchers and I was free to go.

Panic set in. WHAT had I just done!? I am a planner…and I just did something incredibly spontaneous. I walked away from the gate and went to find a place to sit down. I wanted to find free Wi-Fi so that I could get on skype and call Jill. Luckily, Jill’s cell phone number was one of the 3 or so numbers I had memorized. There was no Wi-Fi…and my panic increased. There was a guy and girl sitting across from me and I wondered if they’d even consider letting some random girl borrow their phone. I couldn’t do it….but I was desperate so I had to do it. I asked them, they agreed and I hurriedly called Jill. I’m pretty sure the conversation went a little something like this:

Jill: Hello?
Me: JILL! It’s Sarah and I’vedonethecraziesthingintheworldIjustchosealaterflightsoIaminAtlantauntiltomorrowcanyouhangout!?
Jill: Um…what? Calm down. Say that again.

I calmed myself enough to talk slower and Jill understood what I was saying. She had to figure out what was going to be best and told me to call back in 10 minutes. I said sure…not knowing what I’d do in 10 minutes. I thanked the kind boy and girl and headed out. I couldn’t ask to use their phone AGAIN so I thought I’d wander and see if there was another place that I could get free WiFi. No dice. I found some pay phones but had zero American change on me. There were these Delta workers that were trying to sell something (a Delta credit card? Don’t remember). They kept trying to get people to talk to them so when I approached them, they were clearly excited. I asked one of them if there was a phone I could use or even if I could borrow one of their cell phones. To my surprise, they said “yes!”. I was so surprised that two people at that point had agreed to let me use their cell phone. I called Jill really quick and we confirmed which stop I was to get off on the MARTA, Atlanta’s rail system. I hung up, thanked them, and headed towards the exit. I got on the MARTA (which, by the way, at night, is kind of sketchy) and got off at my stop. I wanted to call Jill again to let her know that I was there…but how? There was this girl that was dressed like an angry rocker. She was my only option. I figured if I’d already asked two others, what was the harm in one more? I timidly asked to use her phone and she responded in the most bubbly Southern voice that I’ve heard in awhile. A voice that did not match her outfit. At. All. I called Jill quick and then waited…in the freezing cold…for a long time. Jill came and we had a great time hanging out. It so happened that Jill and some of her friends were flying to New York City the next day so I would just go to the airport with them in the morning and hang out there until my flight.

The next morning while everyone else checked into their flight, I headed over to check into mine. I got my new tickets and saw that I was in row 3. Um, row THREE? This is an international flight. There is no way that can be anything but first class…right? I didn’t want to assume anything until I was in my seat taking off and in first class so I didn’t get my hopes up. I had meal vouchers from Delta as well so I grabbed breakfast at Starbucks and sat with Jill and her friends until their flight took off. Hugs all around and they were gone. I knew that I needed to occupy my entire day at the airport since my flight wasn’t until that night. I found free WiFi in a food court and settled in. I watched a lot of American TV shows that I’d missed in Uganda. I had dinner there right before my flight, wanting to get the most out of those vouchers.

I went to my gate once again and they called my section up. I didn’t know what to expect. I got on the plane and…there it was. Row 3. First class. Unreal. I put my carry ons away (I actually had to ask the guy sitting next to me to put up my one carry on since I was carrying the entire Wal-mart store in my carry on to take back). When I sat down, I was just waiting for it. I was waiting for them to come up and say, “Ma’am, there’s been a terrible mistake. You actually belong in the back of the plane.” Instead, a stewardess came up and said, “Miss Pisney, how are you tonight? Would you like anything to drink?” She then showed me the menu (oh yes, I said menu) and encouraged me to pick out whatever I’d like for dinner that night. When the plane took off, I was finally convinced that they weren’t going to move me. The food was fabulous. They gave me a down comforter blanket and pillow even though I couldn’t sleep. The guy next to me works on oil rigs throughout the world. It was fun to see his face when I was all, “Yeah, I’m a missionary in Africa…and I have no idea how I got this seat”. He also

The problem? My next flight was from Amsterdam to Uganda. I was back in Economy where I belong. But, I knew. I KNEW what was happening those rows ahead of me.

And it has spoiled me for life.

Beatrice's Story

2011-01-03T07:53:00.000-05:00

I first met Beatrice on my first trip to Masaka. We were enrolling 10 new children into Hope Alive! that day. The new kids had come early for us to get their information, take their picture and such. There was something about Beatrice that drew me to her. Perhaps it was her ability to make the perfect fish face. I was drawn to her and we had lots of giggles throughout the day. Since she knew little English, our communication was done through either a translator or silly faces.

Right before my trip to Masaka, my former boss signed up to sponsor a child. Upon meeting Beatrice, I knew that I wanted him to sponsor her. She needed someone who would love her and I knew he and his wife would. At that point, I didn’t know how much she needed that love.

A few months ago, we were contacted by Rose, our site director in Masaka about Beatrice. When we first enrolled her, we knew that her parents were separated. She was living with her father’s mother. Her grandmother died and her father took her to live with him.

The father’s neighbors had come to Rose concerned for Beatrice. Beating children is common here, including in schools. A father beating his child would be nothing out of the ordinary. However, what was happening to little Beatrice was not ordinary. Her father would leave the house for a day or more and not leave food for her. He would beat her so severely that the neighbors began to notice. They saw that she was being starved and abused and went to talk to leader of their district about it. The leader of the district happened to be Beatrice’s grandfather, the father of her father. The grandfather said that because it was dealing with his son, he could do nothing…and nothing is what he did. The neighbors knew that they could not let this continue. Knowing that Beatrice was sponsored through Hope Alive!, they went to talk to Rose. When Rose became aware of what was happening, they took Beatrice to a doctor in order for her wounds to be documented. They contacted her mother and asked if Beatrice could stay with her instead of the father. Details then came out that her father had refused Beatrice to stay with her mother in the first place which was why she was first with his mother and then her. It was pertinent that we get her out of her current living situation and so Beatrice was moved to her mother’s house.

When I heard of what had happened to Beatrice, my heart broke. I thought of how tiny Beatrice is and how the beatings would have hurt her little body. I wondered how all of this effected how she viewed God. Since God is our Father, would she see Him like she sees her earthly father? Would she be afraid that God would hurt her like her dad did? I just wanted to hold her. To tell her that she is loved not only by me, but by God. Until then, I prayed for her. I prayed that God would do a miracle in her heart.

My friends Maria and Gloria came to do mentor training in Kampala but also in Masaka. At last, I was going to be able to go back to Masaka again and see Beatrice! I made plans with Rose for us to go out to her mother’s home to see her. Her mom lives very far away from our site in Masaka, out in the middle of the bush. I could now teach a class on Bush Driving: 101, specializing in topics such as: “What To Do When The Road Disappears”, “Avoiding Potholes: When The Road Is Just One Big Pothole” and “How To Avoid Livestock That Run In Front Of Your Vehicle”.

Beatrice’s father has been making some efforts with her and would often take her home from Saturday Club. That day, he told Rose that he wanted to come with us to her mother’s home. In ways, I was excited about his interest. In other ways, I was concerned how this would affect Beatrice. Her father guided us to their little house and without him, we would have been wandering off somewhere with pigs and goats. When I parked the car, I saw her immediately. I’m smiling just remembering. The timid smile on her small frame. Her recognition of me. The glimpses of fear in her eyes showed how she felt towards her father. When I got out of the car, we hugged for a long time. I didn’t want to let go of her and it was clear that she didn’t want to let go either. We had brought food for the family and got it out for her mom to see. It gave us time away from the rest of the family to talk about all that had gone on.

Beatrice’s mother struggles to find work. She helps different farmers around their house to make a small bit of money but it is not enough to help Beatrice and her three siblings. While Beatrice is sponsored and able to go to school, her mom doesn’t have the money to send her younger brother. The struggle of their lives is evident. The joy that comes from within her bursts from her smile. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she is a born again Christian and it encouraged me that Beatrice had a mother who followed Christ. She explained to us that she still had a rough relationship with the father. Her fear of him was also evident. My heart broke for this little family. Beatrice and I played with each other for a little longer. She can still do one of the best fish faces I’ve ever seen.

In the language of Luganda, “I love you” is “Nkwagala”. To say, “I love you very much”, you would say, “Nkwagala nyo”. I would look down and tell Beatrice:

“Nkwagala nyo nyo nyo!”

She would look up at me and say, “nyo”.

I would repeat back, “nyo”.

And we would continue for awhile adding “very” onto “I love you”.

It was hard to leave. I didn’t want to let go of her but I knew that I’d be seeing her on Saturday for the Christmas Party.

Saturday came and I knew Beatrice was there when she came and sat on my lap. It was such a great day seeing all of the kids perform in song, dance, skit, poems and more. When the day ended and I had to say goodbye to Beatrice…oh, it was hard. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just hold her and not let anything bad happen to her again. I had someone translate for me so that I could tell her that not only was she loved by me, but that she was loved by God. I waved goodbye and left her in God’s hands.

Please pray for Beatrice’s father. Pray that God does a miracle in his life and that he sees how he has hurt his family. Pray that he sees the need to change. Pray that, above all, he comes to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. Pray for Beatrice’s mom. Life is so difficult for her. Pray that she is able to find more consistent work so that she can provide for her children. Pray that she chooses to forgive her husband for what he has done to her and their children. Pray for little Beatrice. Pray that she works through the hurt and pain that she has experienced in her little life. Pray that she chooses to forgive her father. Pray that she comes to understand the great love that her Heavenly Father has for her. Pray that she chooses to have a relationship with Jesus Christ.

Me Vs. The Coral. Me - 0, Coral - 1.

2010-11-05T14:37:00.002-04:00

The first week of October we all headed to Kenya. WorldVenture was having an East Africa Spiritual Renewal conference in Malindi and I for one was excited to be spiritually renewed. God and I had a lot to talk about and I was looking forward to the time set apart to do so.

We had planned to arrive early for the conference so that we would have a day to relax before the conference started. The tide had gone out leaving the coral exposed allowing us to be able to walk around on it. As we walked out onto the beach, a swarm of men came around us, each one wanting to show us all of the different kinds of fish in the tide pools. While they were at it, they also tried to convince us to pay lots of money and go on safaris and boat tours. I quickly realized that I had worn the wrong shoes for this, opting for my zero traction flip flops instead of my lots of traction sandals. The coral wasn’t extremely slippery but walking across it meant jumping over tide pools all on uneven ground. We left the one area of coral and headed down the beach, passing little shops selling scarves and jewelry. We saw a group of people on another part of coral and headed their way. Clearly, they were seeing something cool and we wanted to see it too.

When we joined the others, we saw that they were gathered around a starfish.

There were more Kenyan guides there wanting to show us everything. They brought us to a tide pool with a group of eels, which were creepy looking. I was glad to see them from above and not in the water. We walked on the coral from tide pool to tide pool, marveling over the unique creations of God. It was fascinating!

The guides called to us as they had spotted the illusive lionfish. The lionfish swam throughout the coral tunnels under the water with us going from tide pool to tide pool to keep up with him. I had never seen such a unique and beautiful fish in real life. I couldn’t get a good picture of him because he was so dang fast.

He had swum to another area and Hannah was able to get a good picture of him. I walked over to that tide pool, almost losing my balance at one point. Did I mention that walking on the coral was tricky and uneven, not to mention more difficult by avoiding the open tide pools? Ok, good.

I reached that tide pool and was trying to get a good picture of the lionfish before he swam away. The next thing I knew, I was sliding on the coral into the tide pool with the lionfish. Did I mention that lionfish are poisonous? Luckily, the lionfish swam away and I landed sitting on the coral with my legs in the water. Stunned, I stood up again, wondering what had happened to cause my slide. It was then that I saw that I had been scratched up in the process. My legs were apparently still in shock as the pain had yet to begin. I was feeling pretty dumb at this point.

And then the blood started.

On my first step, I realized that the fall had also broken my flip-flops. I took them off and walked gingerly on the rough coral.
Our Kenyan guides called us over wanting to show us “Nemo”. I told them that we needed to head back to the hotel to take care of my wounds. We walked carefully back over the coral until we got to the beach. I was concerned that sand would get in the scratches. My legs were stinging and my main concern was that we would have to climb a sand bank to get back up to the hotel. I managed it up the sand well and one of the hotel workers saw my wounds and guided us towards the first aid area. We waited for someone to come and I realized that my wounds were more extensive than what I first saw. Somehow, the coral scratches spiraled from my ankle all the way up my left leg. On my right leg, my calf was scratched from my ankle to my knee.

The hotel first aid guy came and unlocked the first aid box. He brought out iodine and started applying it to my wounds to clean them. Oh, that’s when the pain started. I’m not sure if you’ve ever put iodine on an open wound but suggestion, don’t. My roommate is a nurse and later stated that even in the Emergency Room, they delude the iodine, as straight iodine is too caustic. Tears filled my eyes as the cleaning continued.

It. Hurt.

The days after were filled with pain. It hurt to shower. It hurt to sit. It hurt to lay down. It hurt to do most things which cut out any future trips to the beach or swims to the pool. In ways, this was good. It forced me to have more time to focus on journaling and talking to God. It also allowed me to have good conversations with fellow missionaries there.

(this is me trying to be positive…is it working?)

Healing took awhile and even now, almost a month later, you can still see the scars. I’m hoping those eventually go away. Until then, from now on, I’ll be reealllly careful about walking on coral. You be careful too.

Miracles: Big and Small: The Computer Miracle

2010-09-15T04:08:00.000-04:00

There are some things that happen that can only be ascribed to God. Last month, one of those situations happened. For months, the charger in my computer had been on and off working. Also, my battery hadn’t seemed to be fitting right. One morning, I woke up to a dead computer because my charger just hadn’t charged all night. That was the start of it all. The timing of everything was impossible but alas, through God, nothing is impossible. I’m putting dates in so that you can see all that happened and the timing of it.

Monday, August 9:
I updated my Twitter at 7:45am:” I think my computer charger bit the dust overnight. Woke up to a dead computer. Um…what to do?”
At 8:15am, my friend Matt, who happens to work at an Apple Store, responded and asked about it. At the time, I thought it was just my charger that needed replacing. That afternoon, Matt happened to be online and we chatted about my computer woes. I told him how my charger sometimes wouldn’t charge when I plugged it in. I offhandedly mentioned how my battery seemed to not be fitting right. When he realized that it wasn’t because of it not being in correctly, he asked if it was bulging. Ah, bulging! Yes, that was the word I had been looking for. It was bulging. When Matt realized that, he got concerned and explained that though most batteries work great, there’s the 1% that are bad. If they’re bulging, they have the potential to explode and ruin the entire charging system. He explained that the situation was urgent.

Tuesday, August 10:
That morning, a woman dropped off a package at the office to send with a woman back to the States. I didn’t know the woman that would be coming other than that her name was Sara.

My battery had been bulging for months. This is probably why I was in such shock that my computer needed repair…and fast. In another conversation with Matt, he expressed that I needed to get the computer back to the States for repair as soon as possible. He meant days, not weeks. Depending on how bad it was, the repair could take anywhere from 2 days to 2 weeks. I panicked. I didn’t know anyone going back to the States anytime soon and even if it got there, how was it going to come back? I remembered the lady that was going to be coming to pick up the box but I couldn’t just ask a stranger to add a computer to her carry on and ship my computer to Matt. Well, until it became my only option.

I knew that I had to hand over all control to God. He’s in the details…right?

Wednesday, August 11:
That day, I turned off my computer and handed my most valuable possession to strangers. Sounds weird, I know. I had talked to Sara on the phone and she so graciously agreed to take my computer and ship it to Matt. Such a huge answer to prayer! She sent some friends to pick it up. It was weird handing my computer over, not knowing how long it would be until I saw it again.

Thursday, August 12-Friday, August 13:
Sara flew out of Uganda and reached Oregon on Friday.

Monday, August 16:
Sara ships my computer to Matt in Wisconsin.

Wednesday, August 18:
Matt receives my computer.

Thursday, August 19-Saturday, August 21:
Matt took my computer in to get fixed. Luckily, my charging system was not affected. Because of this, the repair didn’t take two weeks but two days. They replaced my: charger, battery, top case, touch pad and I feel like something else too. Matt installed the latest software on my computer as well as backing up everything for me and then putting everything back on my computer. He also set up everything on my computer so that literally, when I received it back, all I needed to do was turn it on and all was set up.

Monday, August 23:
Matt ships my computer to Ned and Karen in New York.

Wednesday, August 25:
Ned and Karen receive my computer.

Thursday, August 26:
Early that morning, Karen boarded a flight to Uganda.

Friday, August 27:
Karen was coming with a team to Uganda, Most of the team was staying in a location in Kampala that was about an hour away from my house. However, Karen and two others were staying on my compound, three houses down from me. Friday morning, I walked down to the house and got my computer back.

Literally, there’s no way that this could have happened any faster. If one thing would have gone wrong, it wouldn't have worked out. God was in every single detail and it was stunning to see Him work so meticulously. In the missionary world, we’re used to things not going right and everything taking a LOT longer than expected. I was without my computer for 16 days as it went from Uganda to Oregon to Wisconsin to New York and then back to Uganda. That’s just unreal. That’s just God.

I often forget how detailed God is. It’s such a reminder that though He is the Big Almighty Creator and Savior, He’s also my Abba who cares for every detail in my life. I needed that reminder.

Huge thanks goes to Sara, Matt and Karen. Without each of their willingness, none of this could have happened. It required sacrifice for each one of them (especially Matt, who spent hours and hours working on my baby). You were all a part of God’s story and through that, showed me more about our Abba. I pray that each of you were able to see His work as well.

Blown Out: The Bombings in Kampala

2010-09-11T11:29:00.000-04:00

It is interesting to write this entry on September 11th. This date is associated with terrorism and now, July 11th is as well. The following is what the day of and after the bombings was like for me as well as some extras.

July 11, 2010
My friend Mary was in town and we joined another group that went to Ndere Dancers, a show that highlights the different tribal dances around Uganda. I had been wanting to go for awhile and Mary coming gave the perfect opportunity. We had a fun night watching all the dancing. The World Cup final was on that night and they were hurrying to finish so that people could watch it. They were even showing it at the place if people wanted to stay. I was almost tempted. I REALLY wanted to watch it and we don’t have a TV at our house. We drove back home. It was about 9:30-10:00pm. The rugby club is a place we pass daily as it is on our way home. We passed it that night. Inside were hundreds of people watching the World Cup final. An hour later, two bombs went off killing many.

July 12, 2010.
5:50am: my alarm went off. I quickly turned off the annoying sound. It was still dark outside. I changed into my work out clothes as Kate and I were going to go running. As I was about to walk out of my room, Kate knocked.

“I just talked with Catharine…there’s been a bombing…”

“…a WHAT?” I interrupted. “Here!? A BOMB? Like, a BOMB? Who would bomb here!?” I couldn’t believe it. We’re in Uganda, not Iraq or Afghanistan.

Kate went on to explain that they didn’t know yet who was responsible. Since we drive to a certain area of town to run, we would be driving right by one of the bombsites. Catharine thought it’d be safe for us to still go but Kate and I decided to play it safe and stay home.

My mind wouldn’t stop going. The rugby club that two bombs went off is extremely close to our church and the Hope Alive! site. It’s also very close to many of our friends and students. Since it was the last game of the World Cup, it would be no surprise if many people we knew were there. There was another bomb at an Ethiopian restaurant about 15 minutes away from our house.

It was a waiting game to find out more details. Until I knew more, I had to tell Mary, my friend and visitor, what was going on. Clearly, we always want our visitors to have a good time and have nothing bad happen to them and it’s the same here. At the time, details were so scarce that I didn’t feel as though there was anything for us to be scared for our own personal safety. It’s hard to convey that though.

We went to work that morning, passing a man selling newspapers with a gory picture of the dead on front. Our route to work passed the rugby club. Traffic was insane. People were standing around watching the police presence that surrounded the area. There are walls around the rugby club so you’re not able to ever see in. That was a really good thing that morning. It was crazy to think what happened there the night before.

We got to work in time for our Monday staff meeting. It was there that we discovered that we had friends that were there. Shammah, my dear friend who is a Hope Alive! mentor and helps lead the girls Bible study with me, was there rooting for Spain. She was with two of our friends. She still came to our meeting that morning. It was crazy to hear her first hand account. They were two rows away from those that were killed. Two rows. The things they saw that night can never be forgotten. One of our Hope Alive! girls who also comes to the Bible study was there. Molly and her sister went to watch the game. Her sister was one of the dead. I haven’t seen Molly since (which, if any of my Ugandan friends are reading this, have you talked with her? I literally haven’t seen her since)

After the bombings, security was extremely tight. To this day, I can’t get into some grocery stores without my car and purse being searched, sometimes being wanded down. Rumors were flying everywhere about other bombs being found in neighborhoods, homes, schools and more. Luckily, none of those ended up being true. Security has lessened over the last few months but the presence of police is still everywhere.

The media coverage here was a culture shock in its own. While in the States, the media often won't take gory pictures of the dead, but here there is no filter. There are many pictures that remain in my mind due to the lack of filter amongst newspapers here. There was a picture of a man going through the pockets of one of the dead. That's apparently a common practice. Can you imagine? It must have been difficult to identify the dead with all of their wallets missing. There are others that I won't mention so that you won't have those mental images. Too much. The media coverage from outside was another factor. It was amazing the amount of misinformation that had come out. My mom e-mailed me at one point with concern that they were targeting Americans. I really don't know where that came from since both of the attacks were at places where Ugandans hang out. If they had wanted to attack Americans, there are definitely places and times that would have been more conducive for that. But, they didn't. They knew who they wanted to hurt and it wasn't foreigners.

I wondered if it was all too surreal for me or if I was just trying to put on a good face for Mary. However, I don’t think it was either of those. Truly, there wasn’t a time where I felt unsafe. I knew that Americans weren’t the target (no matter what was told in the American press) and the military presence after the attacks was so intense that I felt protected. I also firmly believe that my life is not in my hands but in the hands of my Lord, my Protector. And it still is.

Please pray for Uganda. Pray for no other attacks to occur. Pray for the families and friends of those that died. Pray for the injured that are still recovering. Pray for those that were there that can’t erase the memories. Pray for God to be clearly seen, for people to draw closer to Him and to see their need for a relationship with Him.

*Note: Some of my specifics of the bombing may be off, especially about timing. My memory is hazy of what time they went off and my internet isn’t working well enough to research the exact details.

Mary's Visit; My Perspective

2010-09-10T16:30:00.000-04:00

What? You thought that I had shut down my blog since I haven’t written in forever? I KNOW! While I clearly haven’t been the most consistent blogger, this has been a particularly long absence. I have a reason though! My dear friend Mary was here in July for three weeks, life was crazy and then, my computer was back in the States for repair for three weeks. I’ll be splitting those two up in two blogs. I’m such a tease, I know.

Mary flew into Kampala on the year anniversary of my arrival here. It was fun to go to the airport on that same day, reminiscing of when I flew in. We spent the first week of Mary being here in Kampala. It was filled with trips to various markets, exploring downtown Kampala, Saturday club with the kids, church at our church, tutoring kids and more. She also led a seminar to our tutoring teachers about methods of teaching.

We headed up to Gulu after that for Mary to do another tutoring training plus for our Hope Alive! Senior Staff meetings. That Saturday, we went to the Saturday Club in Gulu. One of my favorite things about Hope Alive! (I have many) is that it’s not cookie cutter. Not all of our sites look the same or do things the same way. Kampala, a huge massive city, will need to do things differently than Gulu, a small town where our kids are scattered in the surrounding small villages. I was excited for Mary to see the differences in the Gulu site and I was excited to be up there again. One of the harder parts of being in Gulu is the language barrier. While the kids in Kampala are pretty fluent in English, the kids in Gulu struggle. This came into play for me that day as I helped Shem, our site director, enroll some new kids.

My heart always breaks when I see new kids come into the project. I’ve now been a part of that process in Masaka, Kampala and Gulu. There’s a shyness and uncertainty that each of the kids have. They know their life is about to change. It’s incredible to see the before and after’s of this. I remember the first day of two of our kids in Kampala. They both had dressed in the nicest clothes they owned, which were close to rags. It’s been a joy to see them open up over these last few months. Their shyness has disappeared replaced by their beautiful personalities shining through.

With these new kids in Gulu, their life experiences were unreal. Since I was filling out the information sheet, with the help of a translator, I had to ask some questions that ended up being difficult. I had to ask who they were living with, if their parents were alive and if their parents had died, how they had died. For many, their fathers had died. Pain would fill their eyes as they shared how he had died. With each child, I would place my hand on their knee, look into their sad eyes and tell them how sorry I was. It was a small action but it was clear by each of their reactions that they had not received such sympathy in a long time. It was hard to keep my tears in.

After Saturday Club, Mary taught the tutoring teachers different methods of teaching. In the meantime, Shem informed me that his youngest sister just died. She was only 15. At that time, they said it was cerebral malaria and TB. Weeks after the burial, it came out that she was poisoned by a friend’s mother. As I had talked with the new students that day, I found out that poisoning was all too common.

The burial was going to be the next day with the rest of the Hope Alive! staff coming in the morning. I had yet to be to a burial but had heard a little about them. I knew that Mary and I were both in for a new cultural experience. We drove out to the middle of the bush, literally. We turned by these bushes in the middle of nowhere and ended up by these huts where the burial was taking place. There were no quiet tears of mourning but instead, loud wailing. It was an emotional service. Her classmates wailed throughout. Shem’s mother put on a strong face but the pain in her eyes could not be hidden. Deaths are indeed common here but that day I saw the heartache behind it firsthand.

The rest of our time in Gulu was spent visiting schools. There was a child headed household in particular that made their way into our hearts. I will save that story for another blog as I would hate to shorten it and this entry is already getting long enough.

We headed to Murchison Falls National Park after our time in Gulu. I had warned Mary that I’m one of those people that everything happens to. So, she was warned, right? I had set up a driver to take us to the park who could also take us on a game drive to see the animals after which would take us back to Kampala. It was a mess confirming who was taking us and in what vehicle. We ended up in a white van that looked as though it could shake apart at the next pothole. We arrived safely in Murchison Falls with all the van parts still on. Amazing. As we were waiting for a ferry to get across the Nile, a herd of elephants came within about 50 feet of us. It was amazing to watch them! Game drives start at dawn due to the activity of the animals at the early morning. However, the next morning, there was a problem with the van and we were unable to go on our game drive. Surprise, surprise. Instead, we went to the top of Murchison Falls and then on a boat ride on the Nile. Our main annoyance while there? Our shaky van had no AC and the front windows didn’t go up properly. That’d be fine and all if a certain tsetse fly didn’t exist. If you’re unsure of what a tsetse fly is, google it. Please. Because, if you do, you’ll understand what we experienced. I had heard that the tsetse fly bites hurt but had no idea how much until it happened numerous times on that trip. Holy. Cow. It was either suffer of heat stroke or get bitten by these torturous flies. Great options. We had a great game drive the next day as we watched a lioness and her three cubs wander around.

Back in Kampala, we had only a few days left of Mary’s trip. We visited some of our kids homes here and fell in love with Andrew and Joseph’s mom. She is taking care of I forget how many children that aren’t her own. The love of God flows through her. Through broken English and mainly Luganda, she expressed how God is her Provider all while insisting on serving us tea and mandazi.
On the day Mary left, I was determined that she experience Lake Victoria. We ate lunch in Entebbe, where the airport is, and then headed to the beach. I love having my toes in sand. With that last thing done, we headed to the airport.
It was so great to show Mary my life here. She met the people I love, went to my church, experienced how I get groceries and more. As much as I can tell people what my life is like here, it was great to have Mary live it with me. It was great to see her fall in love with the people here, just as I have. It was great to see God overflow her with love for the people of Uganda, just as He has in me.

Our God is so much bigger than all us and works His plan in our lives. I love seeing glimpses of it. In the three weeks that Mary was here, we were both able to see many many glimpses of our great God. To Him be the glory.

Miracles: Big and Small: The Bicycle Accident

2010-07-06T11:32:00.001-04:00

Back in March, my roommate Kate went back to visit the States. Upon her return, Kacie and I went to pick her up at the airport. Since the airport is a good distance from our house and Kate was coming in at night, we opted to hire a driver to take us to and from the airport. Driving at night here is a completely different story than driving at night in the States. It’s extremely difficult. The roads are unlit and filled with people, bikes, motorcycles and cars all trying to manage their way around. It’s not fun. At all. We were glad to have someone else deal with all of that.

Our original driver called to say he could not make it so he was sending another driver. Our new driver, Matthew, arrived and we were off. We got into crazy traffic in town but at last managed our way through it. Traffic cleared up some once we were on the road to the airport. I noted Matthew was driving pretty fast and almost commented to him that we had plenty of time so he could slow down. Not that it would have changed anything.

I noticed a bicyclist come along the side of the car. What happened next plays and rewinds in my mind numerous times a day.
The bicyclist turned into our lane wanting to cross the road to get to the other side. It was like in slow motion.
As I saw him turn, thoughts went racing in my mind: “Oh no, what is he doing? We need to slow down. We’re going to hit him.”
Words wanted to come out of my mouth but it just all happened too quickly.

Impact.

We hit the bike and the bicyclist disappeared.

BAM. The bicyclist slams onto the hood.

CRASH. He slides into the windshield.

SQUEAL. The car is still trying to stop. The bicyclist slides off the car.

THUD. We drive over something. I think it’s the bicyclist.

At last, we’re stopped. I’m covered in shards of glass from the windshield. The bicyclist is nowhere in site and I figure we had driven over him. I’m shaking. I have no idea what to do.

Chaos began.

As fast as the accident happened, our car was surrounded. People were all around us, yelling in different languages. I looked to our driver to tell us what to do. He had his head in his hands. Kacie, sitting in the back seat, started repeatedly telling me to call our business manager, Robert. Shaking and in shock, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t figure out why we needed to call him and I just wanted to hide.

In the meantime, the bicyclist stood up, blood dripping down his face. We had driven over his bicycle, not him. I was so relieved he was alive. At the speed we were going, I don’t know how he survived. The driver moved from the road to the side of the road. We were panicking as he did so, worrying that another accident would occur since there was zero visibility out of the smashed windshield. We safely got to the side of the road. The mob of people followed us and it seemed as though the yelling was getting even louder. A random man approached the driver side and told our driver that he could take us the rest of the way. I had no idea if we could trust this random man and I found it really shady. I tried to call Robert. I could barely hear over the yelling, was completely confused by the random man telling us to go with him, our driver telling us to go with him and unable to stop shaking and get out of shock. Robert answered his phone. All I could muster was a noise. I wanted to break down in sobs. I wanted to get out. I wanted to be safe. I couldn’t express anything in that moment. While attempting to communicate with Robert, Kacie was on the phone with our boss Catharine who told us to go with the random man and to get out of the situation as soon as possible. I hung up with Robert determining to call him back when I could form a sentence.

Exiting the car. Our driver and the random man kept urging us to hurry and telling us that we needed to get out of there as soon as possible. I had no idea what to expect from all these people. Here’s what I knew: they were angry. I gathered my things and quickly got out of the car to walk to the random man’s car in front of ours. Every step was painful as my shoes were also covered in glass. We entered his car. I tried to get in the back seat but his wife had moved back with their kids and had me sit in the passenger seat. I was not ready to be in that seat again, especially after what had just happened. I closed my eyes and prayed. A lot.

The rest of the drive to the airport was somewhat uneventful. At one point, the random man (I forget his name now) pulled over to get gas and asked me how much I was going to put in his tank for the rest of the way. We negotiated. After all we had been through that far, I was so frustrated that he wanted to overcharge me. I eventually gave in. On the way, I called our original driver in order to arrange for a ride back. We at last arrived safely. From what I know, Matthew the driver took the bicyclist to the hospital.

In the States, when you’re in an accident, both parties stop, get out, exchange insurance information, the police are called, etc. It’s a whole different world here. If there’s an accident and no one is injured, the two parties work it out amongst themselves, pay for things then and leave. No police involvement if it can be avoided. If someone is injured, it’s a whole different story. Mobs form quickly wanting justice to be served. They plan on giving that justice. If I was ever driving and injure someone, I’m not supposed to stop but instead leave. I then look for the nearest police post and report it there. I can then go back with the police. If I stop, a mob will form to take their justice out on me.

For our situation, the mob blamed us. The random man was telling us that people kept yelling that it was our fault and that we should pay for everything. Clearly, I in the passenger seat had nothing to do with what happened. Even if our driver had been driving slower, the bicyclist did not even look and crossed the road and it all still would have happened. It was clearly his fault. However, that wasn’t to be seen. We were white and, according to the mob, had money and thus, should be fully responsible. If we had not left when we did, things would have escalated and the chance of us being physically harmed is high. Our driver and the random man clearly knew this, hence their urgency for us to leave.

There are times when I’m trying to sleep at nights that those first few seconds repeat themselves in my head again. The panic of those moments is still fresh in my mind. Driving after that incident has been filled with more worry as I am always looking out for bikes and praying that I don’t hit one.

This past week, I had some friends from my hometown that were in Uganda. In order to hang out with them on Friday, I had to drive down that fateful road. All. By. Myself. I was seriously nervous. I knew I had to conquer my fear. The drive went smoothly (praise GOD!) and I feel more comfortable driving there. Not completely but…more.

Cultural lessons always come when I least expect it., especially when it’s such a contrast from my own culture. God’s protection amazes me. None of us in the car were injured. I had a few small cuts from glass but nothing big. It all could have been so much worse. God did the miraculous.

Death And All His Friends

2010-06-27T09:00:00.000-04:00

Death is something that each of us will experience one day. It’s also something that is experienced often with loved ones dying. Though we know these truths, it doesn’t make it any easier when it hits our life. The stages of grief linger longer than expected making me wonder if they ever truly end.

I’ve also wondered which is “better”: an expected death or an unexpected one. When my grandpa had lung cancer, we knew he was going to die. I was young enough to not fully understand all that was going on but knew the inevitable: cancer would take his life. However, with my aunt, it was terribly sudden. I don’t think the memories of that day will ever leave me. I remember the phone call, hearing my mom’s cries and feeling a complete sense of disbelief and denial. She couldn’t be dead…right? The next few days were a blur of difficult decisions and me never wanting to leave my grieving mother’s side. I sat next to her as she called her parents to tell them that their daughter had died, praying and crying throughout the call.

Though statistics give vital information, the downside of them is that it gives you numbers and takes out the humanity. How often have we heard stats about Africa? The deaths from genocide, wars, AIDS, malaria, typhoid, etc. Because it happens so often, it may seem that death is more “normal” here. Since so many atrocities have occurred, aren’t people used to it? Perhaps the pain is less?

My roommates and I have talked about the commonality of death here. I have been here now for one year and could list for you the people that I know that have died in that time. As I have seen my friends grieve, my heart has been broken for them. Even in the States, funerals are an expensive matter. The same is true here. Traditionally, the person must be taken back to their village to be buried there. The family then must find transportation for the body as well as the family members to get to the village. Since most people do not have a car, they have to hire someone to do this. The expenses rack up quickly adding worry and debt to grief. The consequences of death here reach far deeper than I could have ever believed, far beyond financially. When my friend Dorothy’s mom died, there was no one left to care for the family. There are now five children without an adult to care for them. How do they pay rent? Buy food? Pay for school fees?

This past week, my friend Jonah’s brother died. He had been sick for a few weeks. I had talked with Jonah the day before and he said it seemed as though he was getting better. The next day, Jonah came to church to play the drums. He then announced to the church the death of his brother. I gasped and my jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. He was married with four children. Seeing Jonah’s tears and pain…it was so difficult. We were able to help with the transporting of the family and body but what now? There are four children without a father; a family with no source of income.

Jonah updated the church today and asked for prayer as him and his family takes on the responsibility of his brother’s family. Amidst a continent that sees death far too often is a community culture that comes through. Though this woman now has four children to raise, she is not doing it alone. Though there is no adult caring for Dorothy and her family, members of the community have come together to help them. Will they all still struggle? Yes! Life will be much more difficult. In addition, as we all know, nothing replaces a person. I will always miss my grandpa. I will always miss my aunt. I will always miss those that were once in my life but now are not. The same is true here. But, the beauty in this culture is the people. They have a resilience that stuns me and a community that comes together.

There is no getting used to death. Atrocities never become “normal”. The pain is overwhelming, no matter what culture you are from. I came to Africa seeking faces behind the statistics. There is humanity that is lost behind those empty numbers. Next time you hear one of those numbers, think of these people. They are beautiful, caring and loving. They get hurt and cry. They experience the unthinkable and refuse to give up.

They humble me.

Fancy Pants

2010-06-22T14:08:00.002-04:00

Ooooh, check out my new design. Fancy. Pants. Do you see how the background is an elephant? I know, it's SO African. My blog now totally matches my life here. Totally.

Things have been busy and life has again been flying by. I keep wondering when things are going to slow down and then I realize that the true insanity is just beginning. In two weeks, my dear friend Mary arrives. She'll be here for three weeks helping our tutoring teachers learn different methods of teaching plus have loads of fun with me. Then, in August, two of my fabulous friends Glo and Mars (Gloria and Maria, for those who don't know their endearing nicknames) are coming to share their intense Biblical knowledge with many of our mentors with Hope Alive! as well as our kids. They will also have loads of fun with me.

It will be crazy to have my two worlds collide. My roommates and I have talked often how we feel like double agents here. We have our live in America and our life here. They look completely different from the other. There is very little similar in those two lives. I'm trying to think of a way to compare them and I can't even think of anything right now. It's like two completely different lives...

...that will collide together in two weeks.

I cannot WAIT to share my life here though. It has been so difficult to put into words all that I experience in my life here. Words and pictures are limited and cannot do justice to being here. Perhaps those awesome friends of mine will be able to express this even more for you. Perhaps you should just come and check this out for yourself.

Until then...let's hope another month won't go by before I write again. With this new design, how can I resist!?

Realizing The Great Plan of God

2010-05-19T11:52:00.005-04:00

Somehow another month went by and I barely blogged. Sorry about that...again. I feel like days and months are just flying by...which, they are.

I'm in the middle of my 10th month of living in Uganda. Almost a year has gone by and I can barely believe it! Life here seems so normal at times...and then other times, it feels like complete insanity. But, mostly, it's life. I've adjusted to this life and I love it.

This past week, there have been two moments where I got a glimpse of the great plan of God.

Moment #1: It was fall of 2002, my sophomore year in college. I had yet to declare my major and was debating what to do. I was thinking either Psychology or Communications. Due to randomly taking three Religion courses that semester and starting my new job as a student worker in the School of Religion, I started playing with the idea of minoring in Religion. It was a huge step of faith for me that I remember well. I was walking up the stairs by the Hangar as I debated all of this in my head. It was as though I could hear God asking, "do you trust me enough to major in Religion?" It was a question that stopped me in the middle of those stairs.

My first response? "No."

After much debate, I surrendered to Him. My life was His which meant that my degree was His as well. God had led me to get my undergrad in Religion which I saw zero future in. I mean, what kind of job can a girl get with that? I'm now qualified to lead a Bible study? Sweet.

Fast forward. It was fall of 2005. I had graduated that spring and was planning on going towards my Masters in Counseling. It was a great plan, really. I had this oh so useless undergrad that I had no future job with and wanted to partner it with a practical masters that I could get a job and have a decent future with. I had to take a statistics class in order to get into the program. I detest math with a passion and hated that class even more. God started working on my heart: "I want you to go to Seminary". Um, say what, God? Are you kidding me? One useless degree wasn't enough? It was our biggest fight. I did NOT want to go to Seminary. Did He WANT me to never have a paying job? Or at least a degree that would enable me to get a job? At last, I surrendered, kicking and screaming the whole way. Our next fight happened when the Intercultural Studies degree was created. I remember sitting in Ministry Chapel as they announced it thinking, "I'll never get that, even if I do go into missions. There's just no point". I swear God finds humor in these thoughts of mine, especially the ones where I say "never".

I remember looking at the job description for what I was to be doing here and wondered if I could really keep doing an administrative job. I'd done it for the past four years. I knew it wasn't my heart and passion but I wanted to first see if I would actually like living in Africa. Sure, I'd been to Kenya on two short term trips but what would it be like if I actually lived there? It was a means to an end. I wanted to see not only if I could live in Africa but what possibilities there were and what I could do. I mean, I had those useless degrees, right?

These past 10 months God has given me a love and passion for the high school girls here. A Bible study was started but bigger than that, relationships began. God overflowed my heart with a love for them. Their need for discipleship is indescribable. They've never had it. It's been said many times that "Christianity in Africa is a mile wide and an inch deep" and for many of these girls, it's true. They've never been able to truly go from the Bible stories they've heard in Sunday School to grasping how they live in relationship with Christ. As I've been able to talk more with girls one on one, it's been amazing to glimpse into their every day life. Heartbreaking, mainly. I feel as though I'm bursting with His love for them.

This realization came a couple nights ago when I was discussing my future with my roommates. Now that I can see what kind of ministry I could get involved with here, I'm wondering how to go about future plans and such. It hit me: what is needed is sound Biblical teaching. What I have are two degrees worth of information that God allowed me to get for such a time as this. Oh gosh, did you just get chills? I did.

Moment #2. I just started language study today in Luganda. There's over 50 tribal languages in Uganda and with English as the national language, there isn't a need for me to know one of the tribal languages since I'm based in Kampala where most everyone speaks English. However, I want to. I want to understand the culture on a deeper level. I want to be able to communicate with people in their native tongue. And darn it, I want cheaper prices at the market. I'm not great at languages. I didn't excel in Spanish in high school (when the teacher would tell us what page to turn to in Spanish, I'd ask my friend what page to go to) and never really dedicated myself to any other study. However, I started studying Swahili while in Seminary. I knew a girl who grew up in Tanzania and with my strong interest in Kenya, I wanted to learn. The timing wasn't the best. I was working full time, taking a full load of Seminary classes and attempting to not go crazy. Attempting to learn a language was not my focus. I did learn some from it but would need a huge refresher if I were to ever attempt to speak it again.

My first lesson in Luganda was today. It was overwhelming. We went over the formal greetings for the morning and afternoon...and that filled up our hour long session. What was amazing to me was the general similarities with Swahili. They're both Bantu languages which gives them that similarity. I never realized how that random studying of Swahili would ever come to play again. And who knows, it still might not make a huge difference...but I know it will help. It will also help living in the area that I can speak this language and practice it. I never knew how those lessons would come into play. That God had put the desire in my heart to learn Swahili for such a time as this.

There's many more moments and that will continue the rest of my life. His plans are huge. They're so much greater than my own. At the time, they made absolutely no sense. I wasn't happy, especially about my education. This was NOT the direction I ever saw my life going. But, thankfully, He is the Alpha and Omega. The Beginning and the End. He put these desires in my heart and then fulfilled them. He has such a greater plan for my life than I could ever dream of.

And truly, I'm living my dream.

Land Of A Thousand Hills – Part 4

2010-04-22T16:54:00.003-04:00

Easter Sunday was an interesting holiday to spend in Rwanda. We were going to church that morning with another missionary family with WorldVenture. Before church, Kacie had made coffee cake to celebrate the day. I totally wish that I would have taken pictures of us in our Easter dresses (which were really just dresses that could be rolled up easily into our backpacks) but alas, I have no visual proof of our Easter looks. To quell any fears, neither of us wore large white hats or white socks with the lace on top that would be rolled over. The Brubakers picked us up in their van and we sat with their three incredibly adorable children on the way to church. They explain a bit about the church we were going to. Since Tim, the husband, works with local pastors, they often do not have a regular church that they are at every Sunday. When they’re in Kigali, they attend the one we went to. It’s a popular church in Kigali and a place where many government officials, expatriates and lots of white people attend. They’re also one of the only that speaks English, which is a bonus for their kids (and us). There could truly be nothing more opposite with the church that we attend in Kampala where I’d be shocked if a government official showed up and where we’re one of the few white people. The service in Kigali was perhaps the most Western service that we’ve been to since being in Africa. Wait, perhaps? Sorry. Yes, yes it was. There was this white man leading the choir on his keyboard and it was all very Don Moen-esque, if that makes sense. A white man leading worship on a keyboard also made me think of David McKinney and where he’ll be in 30 years. J

Though normally they have a white man who speaks, this Sunday they had one of their Rwandan staff. It was a fascinating day to be there. That Wednesday would be the start of memorial week. That Wednesday, it would be exactly 16 years since the start of the genocide. If we understood correctly, the memorial week was a time of mourning for the country but the mourning would continue for the next 100 days, the length of the genocide. On Easter, we celebrate not only death in the death of Christ but we celebrate life in His resurrection. The message encouraged its listeners to see how death was defeated but also to live a life of forgiveness.

Forgiveness was a theme we heard throughout our days in Rwanda. Stephen, our guide at Nyamata church, had told us how he had forgiven the man that had killed his family. They actually have a good relationship now. In the museum, we learned how those that were killers in the genocide are on parole but living in neighborhoods throughout the city. When they come to live in a neighborhood, the whole group meets together where the person is introduced to their neighbors and admits what they have done. They are paying their sentence still and the neighbors are asked to live in forgiveness with them. It was inspiring to see the theme of forgiveness that was weaved into the culture.

It’s an incredible look into forgiveness which, to be honest, is something that I’ve been working on here. Over the years, seeing what I saw, living where I did and working where I did, cynicism and hurt was built up. I knew I was cynical then but I didn’t understand how deep it went and all that it affected. It became this accepted form of life. Add living in the Bible belt and in the mix of that, my relationship with God became a religion. I added all these to-do’s and not-to-do’s to my relationship with Him. I lived a life of expectations instead of expectancy. To expound on that, I give you one more excerpt from “The Shack”:

(Papa/God) “Let’s use the example of friendship and how removing the element of life from a noun can drastically alter a relationship. Mack, if you and I are friends, there is an expectancy that exists within our relationship. When we see each other or are apart, there is expectancy of being together, of laughing and talking. That expectancy has no concrete definition; it is alive and dynamic and everything that emerges from our being together is a unique gift shared by no one else. But what happens if I change that ‘expectancy’ to an ‘expectation’ – spoken or unspoken? Suddenly, law has entered into our relationship. You are now expected to perform in a way that meets my expectations. Our living friendship rapidly deteriorates into a dead thing with rules and requirements. It is no longer about you and me, but about what friends are supposed to do, or the responsibilities of a good friend”… “I’ve never placed an expectation on you or anyone else. The idea behind expectations requires that someone does not know the future or outcome and is trying to control behavior to get the desired result. Humans try to control behavior largely through expectations, I know you and everything about you. Why would I have an expectation other than what I already know? That would be foolish. And beyond that, because I have no expectations, you never disappoint me.” (Young, 205-206)

This whole concept has radically changed my relationship with Christ. Perhaps it’s why “The Shack” was such a needed book for me during this trip. It strips all that excess insanity that we add on to what is a beautiful relationship with the Most High God. I’ve been seeing lately how much has gotten in the way between my Abba and me, mainly because of living with expectations. How beautiful to live in expectancy with my Savior.

All that to say, unforgiveness was one of those things that I was holding onto that slowly by slowly, God’s been healing and working with me on. I had bitterness and anger stored deep inside for people who would never ask for my forgiveness. Is forgiveness reserved only for when someone asks for it?

Forgiveness is a choice. A hard one, yes, but still a choice. It’s not something that you wake up one day and you “feel” it. What many (clearly, not all) Rwandans have realized is that they have a choice to make. Unforgiveness ruins you. If that were the route that Rwandans chose, they would be the walking dead; still alive physically but ruined inside. Instead, many have chosen forgiveness. Their country was in shambles. They had many choices to make but there had to be forgiveness. Isn’t that insane? When I think of what all they saw and experienced, I can’t imagine getting to the point of not only forgiving but also befriending. To see someone one day hacking your mother to death and then years later, considering that person your friend. The effects of forgiveness run deep and wide as do the effects of unforgiveness. I’ve seen both sides in my life. Living it out is difficult. But, I think, if those Rwandans can forgive their killers, how can I hold things against people for less? And, even more, if God can forgive me, how could I possibly not forgive others?

After church on Sunday, we were dropped back at Audrey’s place. I spent the day finishing up “Redeeming Love”. The book ends with Angel stripping all the layers off that have kept her between her and her Husband. The first few times I’d read the book, I always thought it was the oddest ending. But, how true! In order for me to experience His love, I need to rid myself of what I’ve put between us. It’s so…freeing. Not living by expectations but living in expectancy. Throwing off all that hinders and living in His love. It feels like weights have been lifted off my heart.

My journey to Rwanda was more than a bus ride. It was more than genocide and museums. It became a part of my journey with God in the most unexpected ways. It had me grappling with God and myself in ways that I had avoided before.

On Monday, we rode the bus back to Uganda. I looked at those same streams that were once filled with bodies and marveled. I marveled at how our great God works in the most wretched of circumstances. I was amazed at His forgiveness. I was completely humbled by the depth of His love, by His expectancy in our relationship with Him.

Though I still mourn for Rwanda, I’m filled with hope for their future. With a focus on forgiveness, they’re taking steps forward. I pray that each Rwandan chooses forgiveness and that they discover the freedom in a relationship with Christ.

Land Of A Thousand Hills – Part 3

2010-04-20T16:24:00.007-04:00

Sorry for the incredibly long delay in getting this out. I also had little time to edit this so pardon any misspellings, poor grammar, random sentences that make no sense, etc. Part 4 will hopefully follow soon. Enjoy!

We got ready on Saturday bracing for an adventurous day. We didn’t know if the genocide museum would be open but either way, we knew we’d be driving around Kigali. While the road system is absolutely incredible in Rwanda (have I emphasized that enough?), they drive on the right side of the road. As we’ve adjusted to driving on the left side of the road in Uganda, it would be an adventure remembering right instead of left.

Kacie driving on the LEFT side of the car and on the RIGHT side of the road. So weird.

Me in the passenger seat feeling like I was supposed to be driving.

It was also a city that we had never navigated, only having crudely drawn marker maps from Audrey. We looked up Google Maps (praise God for the internet…and Google Maps) and made up our own crudely drawn maps for our route that day. We got to the museum with this:

The Gisozi Genocide Museum

We set off and found the genocide museum easily. After attempting to go in the wrong entrance and having to back up awkwardly into traffic to then get to the right entrance, we were golden. The museum was just that, a museum. In ways, I had heard most of the information before due to all the research I’ve done on the genocide. There were parts that I had not seen and understood. There were pictures of people that I had only heard their names. Knowing that Bagosora was one of the instrumental organizers of the genocide, I anticipated seeing his face for the first time. I looked at the picture, stared at his eyes and wondered how any man could do such horrific things. There were some pictures of the dead. I stared at their cut up bodies and mourned. There was one particular picture that I could not take my eyes from. In ways, it sounds so morbid. However, it was staring at everything I had read. I had seen the words but even through that, could not visualize this horror. The museum put pictures to the words. It put faces to those who were slaughtered and to those who slaughtered.

At the end of the informational part of the museum, they had a room of pictures. The pictures were of those who had died in the genocide, brought by their family and friends. They had five or so sections that had picture after picture lined. Pictures that were full of life. A husband and wife on their wedding day. A large family celebrating over a feast of food. A family picture filled with the smiles of children. The pictures were full of LIFE being lived out. And that life was taken away.

It was there that I broke down. They had little chairs in each section. I sat in one, rocking back and forth, tears filling my eyes, silently asking, “why God why God why God WHY?” Why did You let this happen? Why were these beautiful people so horribly killed? It makes no sense. Though I’m sure I’m sounding like a broken record about this, it was then that I went back to my readings from “The Shack”. I had to rest in my knowledge of God. I had to rest in His purpose. I could not be the judge of God for He is the judge, not me. I worked through a lot in that little room. Though there were thousands, I wanted to look at every single picture. Each picture represented a life. I wanted them to be seen. I wanted to see them.

After that part of the museum, you head upstairs to the children’s section. It makes me want to throw up remembering. There, they would have a picture of a child. There would be a placard below listing their name, their favorite food, their favorite thing to do and finally, how they were killed. It was truly unthinkable. You look into their faces, into their eyes, and wonder, “how could anyone do such a thing to you?”.

At the end of that exhibit, you can walk outside and enter into these beautiful gardens. Also outside is a mass grave of, get this, approximately 258,000. Two hundred fifty eight thousand human beings, all slaughtered to death. For what? For what purpose were they tortured and killed? Because, as we learned in the museum, at one point, their ancestors either had more than ten cows or less than ten cows. When the Germans came to colonize Rwanda, it was they who split the people into two groups. Prior to colonization, there was no distinction. The Germans came and proclaimed that whoever had more than ten cows was a Tutsi and those who had less than ten cows was a Hutu. And that was that. Though the Tutsi’s ruled for awhile, they were the minority and were thrown over by the majority. Ever since the 1960’s, there have been mass killings of Tutsi’s. Genocide was attempted long before April of 1994 and was tried many times. This time, they were almost successful of completely wiping out the Tutsi’s. Almost.

100 days. 1 million people.

Kacie and I talked about this a lot: we were alive. 1994. I mean, where were you? I was in what, 5^th grade? I was alive. My grandparents can talk about World War 2 but I have no memories. I was alive during this genocide and knew nothing about it. Even more tragic, the country I lived in knew all about it and did absolutely nothing to help or stop it.

As I mentioned before, if ever I were in trouble in the States, I would call the police. But, if the US were ever in a mass killing scenario controlled by the government, I would think, ‘but surely, other countries will come and help us! They see that we’re all getting killed here, need help and they will come! Surely, Britain! Other countries that we have helped, they will come. We’ll be saved!”

I can’t imagine what it’s like for Rwandans today. The thing is, they know the truth. They know that even if this all happens again, no one will come. How? Because no one came before. No one came to save them. The UN presence was crippled by the lack of world support and was reduced to being attacked and watching the slaughter happen before their eyes (read “Shake Hands With The Devil” by Romeo Dallaire, the UN Commander there at the time. Stunning.). The world watched them be slaughtered and did nothing. Can you imagine the hopelessness they have today? I can’t even begin to imagine it.

After the heaviness of the museum, we could handle no more genocide. We navigated our way to the Union Trade Center, a shopping mall in Kigali using our handy dandy drawn map.

We parked there and walked in the torrential downpour that began to a restaurant that we had heard about. We took a wrong turn (always a plus in the rain) and happened upon the Hotel des Milles Collines, aka THE Hotel Rwanda.

I had a mix of emotions. I forget if I mentioned this before and it’s far too late for me to double check so bear with me if this is a repeat. When we asked about visiting Hotel Rwanda, we were informed by our hostess that all was not as it seemed. The infamous hotel manager, Paul, is currently in America. He couldn’t come back to Rwanda if he wanted to as, if he did, he would be arrested and charged with genocide crimes. Though he did save some people in the hotel, he also allowed others to be killed instead of his family and took place in the killings as well.

I KNOW! I was totally heartbroken. Rwandans apparently can’t stand him, especially as he’s presented himself to be so incredible when, in fact, he wasn’t.

Since it was pouring, we passed the hotel in search of Shokola, a delicious Mediterranean restaurant which would be our retreat in the rain. A block later, we discovered our oasis and relaxed. We read some, discussed and processed the past two days of overwhelming genocide overload, ate delicious food and waited for the rain to pass.

A blurry picture of Hotel des Milles Collines thanks to Kacie not wanting to deal with the taxi's constantly asking if we wanted a ride.

Once it did, we went back to the hotel where I was determined to take a picture and go inside. A lot happened at that hotel, no matter what truth Paul told or not. The hotel was beautiful inside. I looked around the upscale lobby and wondered how it all went down. By the way, it looks nothing like the movie. They should have filmed it there though since it is truly beautiful. I wonder if they’ve remodeled. Anyway, Kacie was NOT about being a tourist at this place so we headed out quickly. It’s a good thing the guards ignored the two random white girls just walking around.

We headed back towards the Union Trade Center and attempted to find Rwandan crafts, particularly the pottery that they are known for. We searched to no avail. We wandered the Union Trade Center, which was much less exciting than I anticipated. We then headed back home to make dinner, relax and read. Our time in Rwanda was such a great time to just READ. I made my way through “Redeeming Love” each day and saw myself in Angel while overwhelmed by God’s pursuing and faithful love. I needed to grasp His love during this trip…and He knew it.

I also made some of the best white sauce I’ve ever made that night. Mm…

Land Of A Thousand Hills – Part 2

2010-04-08T14:49:00.006-04:00

We awoke on Good Friday morning wondering what our plans would be for the day. Audrey was in town until around noon and was able to draw us some maps and give us a number for a taxi driver. Since it was Good Friday, we weren’t sure what would be open making our plans tentative. Audrey drew some maps for us, Charles, our taxi driver, arrived and we were off.

First stop: the airport…but not to fly away. While Uganda has lots of ATMs in which to retrieve money, Rwanda doesn’t. One of the only places she knew of where to use an ATM was the airport. While Rwanda is way ahead of Uganda in some ways (must I tell you again how incredible the road system is there!?), they are behind in other ways. We got our money and headed to Bourbon Café, this infamous coffee shop in Kigali. It’s the only coffee shop that I’ve heard of in Africa where you can get coffee to go. Sure, if I asked here in Kampala, they would stick it in a small Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid that doesn’t have a drink tab (and would take at least 20 min…but that part is everywhere in Africa) but clearly, not the same. We had lunch there and felt somehow like we were in America with the typical coffee shop décor.

After lunch, we called Charles again. Once we figured out that the genocide museum wasn’t open, we decided to go to Nyamata church, a place of massacre during the genocide. I didn’t realize that we would be going so far out of Kigali. Charles headed towards the countryside and all of those lush green hills. I couldn’t stop staring out the window as we passed shacks, running children and that stunning scenery.

We arrived at the church and walked up, unsure of what to expect. Even writing about this, my heart is just aching at what I heard and saw. I will try to do it justice.

On April 7, 1994, the genocide in Rwanda began. An Italian nun started to protect Tutsi’s at the Catholic church in the rural town of Nyamata. It was discovered that she was protecting Tutsi’s and, as she was about to enter her home one night, she was murdered. With the attention her murder received, the protected Tutsi’s at the church were discovered. At that time, there were 10,000 men, women and children packed in behind the iron gates of the church. Some killers came to “rid the land of the cockroaches”. Some of the Tutsi men came to fight them off. Once the killers realized that there was such opposition, they called in the army.

Wait, did you read that right? Did I just say that the government was involved in the genocide? Yes. Yes, I did. Please put yourself in the shoes of these people. If you felt your life was at risk, what would you do? Who would you call? In America, you call the police. You can trust them. They have your safety in mind. What if it were the police that were trying to kill you? What would you do? Maybe call a close friend? What if that close friend wanted to kill you too? Is there a sense of helplessness that’s invading your mind right now? It did mine when I processed through that at the church. These people had no one fighting for them and nowhere to go. They went to the place where they thought they would be safe: a church.

While the killers only had access to such weapons as hammers and machetes, the army had powerful weapons and grenades. Grenades were thrown in killing some, injuring more. The iron bars of the church were chopped off…and the torturous massacre began.

When I think of mass killing, I think of a quick death that kills many. I think of people being shot in mass groups. It was not so for those at the church. Armed with machetes, the men entered the church. They killed some but their goal was to instill fear. I’ve been unsure of what to share since these stories are horrific. I want to share their stories not to be grotesque but praying that your heart will break for people that may be thousands of miles away from you, but are still people. They are humans, just like you and me...and they are no less human and no less important than you or me. So, here are some of the stories of such God-created and loved humans...

There was a pregnant Hutu woman who was married to a Tutsi man. When asked why she married a “cockroach”, she answered that she was in love with him. They then gave her two options: kill him or you will both be killed. Sobbing, she informed them that she could not kill the man she loved. They then told her that they wanted to see what a Tutsi baby looked like and preceded to drag her to the front of the church towards the altar. They laid her on the altar, cut her stomach open and took the baby out. After seeing what they wanted, they killed the baby. She was then killed along with her husband. The above picture is the altar in which she was tortured and killed on.

In the process of their killings, they cut one man’s head off. After this, they threw his head to a group of Tutsi’s, forcing them play soccer with the dead man’s head as the “ball”.

Killing 10,000 people by machete and hammers is exhausting work. Their first blow would not be lethal. They would often cut off the arms and feet first so that the person could not escape. They were slowly hacking the people to death. With the men tiring in their killing, they recruited the help of their wives to kill the women and children. The children had been cordoned off in an area of the church to keep them safe. There was no safe place in this church. The women would pick up the children by their legs and swing their heads towards the brick wall. If a male killer wanted to test the sharpness of his machete, fearing it would have become dull with all the killing, they would bring a child for him to cut their head off. The above picture shows the section where the children had been kept. I touched the walls tearing over the weapon they had become.

It’s the children that make me want to sob. I can’t imagine looking at these young innocent faces and doing this to them.

Our guide at the church told us that people who had money were actually paying the killers to shoot them with a gun instead of a torturous death by machete. Can you imagine?

It took two days to kill so many. The ones that were still alive at the end of the first day were injured to the point where they would not be able to move. The killers returned the next day to finish off the rest.

There were seven people who survived the massacre at Nyamata church. One of these was our guide. My heart breaks for him. Every single day, he relives the worst day of his life. Every day, he returns to the place that he experienced hell on earth. Please pray for him. I’m not sure where he is at in the forgiveness process but I can’t imagine how it is for him.

Today, the benches of the church are filled with the clothes of those who died in the genocide. Some of the clothes are the ones that were on those who died in the church that day. Some are from others who died in the genocide elsewhere but their remaining loved ones have brought a piece of clothing to the church to remember them. It’s eerie. You walk around seeing shoes, hats, shirts, pants, jewelry, rosaries and more. Personal items of those who died for no reason.

Also at the church is a mass grave of 48,000 of those who died in the genocide. We walked through these underground graves filled with skulls with machete marks and many bones. For every skull, I thought of the person that it had belonged to. I almost broke down in sobs while standing there. Why did these people have to die? And in this way? It was all just so nonsensical. Only a few of the bodies in the mass graves have been identified. The rest are in a pile of bones; their personalities, talents and life wiped away from the earth. We will never know their smiles. We will never know what they loved to do or what they were good at. We will never know how they could have bettered the world we live in. I couldn’t take any pictures of the bones. Though they had died in the most disrespectful way, I wanted to at least give them that respect in their grave.

The ride back to Kigali was filled with a somber silence. I stared out the windows again at the beautiful countryside wondering how it had been full of such tragedy. I watched the children running by and wondered how anyone could hurt them. I saw men and women going about their work wondering what they experienced and what nightmares they have at night. Were they survivors or killers?

There was another Rwandan, Stephen, who also led us around the church. He wasn’t at the church during the genocide but he survived the genocide and has lost all of his family besides his sister and grandmother because of it. As we walked around the church outside, he stated, “there are some things that I wish I could ask God someday like, “where were you during this time? Did you know this was going on?”.

Kacie and I talked later about how, in a really twisted way, the genocide was an act of God’s love. God hasn’t made us puppets but has given us a free will to make choices. God cares so much about giving us this free will that things like this happen. Reading “The Shack” was a big part of me being able to process this day. Allow me to insert an excerpt of the book to show you what I mean:

(Mack)“But, if I understand what you’re saying, the consequences of our selfishness are part of the process that brings but to the end of our delusions, and help us find you. Is that why you don’t stop every evil?...

(Papa/God) “If only it were that simple, Mackenzie. Nobody knows what horrors I have saved the world from ‘cuz people can’t see what never happened. All evil flows from independence, and independence is your choice. If I were to simply revoke all the choices of independence, the world as you know it would cease to exist and love would have no meaning. This world is not a playground where I keep all my children free from evil. Evil is the chaos of this age that you brought to me, but it will not have the final say. Now it touches everyone that I love, those who follow me and those who don’t. If I take away the consequences of people’s choices, I destroy the possibility of love. Love that is forced is no love at all.” (Young, 190, emphasis added)

Do you see what I mean?

The evil that was chosen on that fateful day in April is indescribable, unbelievable and heart wrenching. The stories are etched in my heart and mind and still make my stomach curl in disgust. In the next 100 days, one million people would be slaughtered in this way. Some by strangers. Some by husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, neighbors, pastors and more. I’m still processing this. I can’t understand the “why” because there’s not an excusable answer that would suffice. I have a choice to either shake my fist and, like Stephen, ask God, “where were You!? Did You know what was going on and did nothing!?”.

Or, I can praise Him that His love extends to depths that I will never fully comprehend.

It is my choice.

Land Of A Thousand Hills, Part 1

2010-04-07T04:26:00.001-04:00

Allow me to give some background to these next few entries. I have wanted to go to Rwanda since before I even moved to Uganda; intrigued, curious and saddened by the genocide so many years ago. When I landed in Uganda, it became an obsession. I had so desperately wanted fully understand this despicable time in history. I wanted to feel it, see it, touch it, smell it. I’ve read numerous books that detailed the before, during and after of the genocide as well as personal survivor stories. I finished one a few weeks ago and determined that I was done. I could read no more of these horrible atrocities. My heart had been completely broken. When the opportunity came up to go to Rwanda, I was nervous. I didn’t know if I could take it. I didn’t know if emotionally, I would be able to handle it. I had read all the words, felt the emotions but had yet to see, touch and smell. I was about to do just that.

It was Tuesday night. Kacie and I were both sitting at the table bemoaning the fact that Kate was leaving the next day for the States to be gone for three weeks and that we would be all alone without her and falling apart. Maybe that was just me. It was then that we realized that we had a four day weekend coming up. It was decided that we should DO something. We’d both wanted to go to Rwanda and since Kate has already gone, it was decided. Within minutes, the planning began. 24 hours later, I was packing for Rwanda ready to head on a bus down on Thursday morning.

5 days. 26 hours on a bus. 1 backpack.

I’m a girl. Do you even know how hard this was to pack for!?

We (um, I) were running late on Thursday morning. We planned on taking boda’s down to where the bus left. Traffic was insane getting into town. The day before when I had bought the tickets, my friend had informed me that these buses “kept time”. Here, most everything is African time, which translates into whenever it happens, it happens. But, when they say that something or someone “keeps time”, it means that it is on time. I started getting worried as I continued to check my watch. The bus was taking off at 8:30am and we were cutting it close. At one point, I told my boda that we needed to get there FAST (something I never tell them for fear of them doing something crazy to get me somewhere) as the bus was about to leave. In that process, I got hit (not hard) by a taxi (totally the taxi’s fault, not my boda’s) but it added to my frustration of the morning. At that point, it was 8:30. We weren’t there.

Oh. My. Word.

We literally pulled up as the bus was backing up. We busted our tails on the bus, sat in our seats and breathed a sigh of relief…knowing also that we wouldn’t be moving from these positions for the next 13 hours. There were some hilarious moments that could only happen here…and to me. We stopped about five or so hours into the trip so people could get off the bus, get food from the local vendors around, etc. Last minute, I decided I want a chapatti. The guy was taking forever and won’t go down in his price. The bus started honking and pulling away. I literally RAN back to the bus and boarded to a chorus of “sorry”’s as I walked back to my seat. Almost left twice in one day. I was apparently more on African time than the Africans themselves.

Knowing that I would have ample time to read, I brought two books along. I had read “The Shack” (William Paul Young) on my way home to the States. After hearing a variety of opinions on it, I was intrigued enough to read it. There are three books that I could say that have revolutionized my life and view of God: the Bible, Redeeming Love (Francine Rivers) and now, The Shack. I rarely desire to reread a book numerous times but I know that no matter how many times I reread those three, I will never stop learning. All that to say, I was excited to reread “The Shack”. God had a purpose in the timing of that reading as if I hadn’t, I would not have been able to handle all that I saw, heard, felt, smelt and more during my time in Rwanda.

There were many times during my days in Rwanda that I wanted to scream towards Heaven and ask “WHY?”. Why did You let this happen? Why didn’t You stop this insanity? Why, God, WHY? It was my readings on the way that helped me process, grapple and understand how He works through the most difficult times of life (this may or may not be a shameless promotion of this book. However, if you haven’t read this book, I literally BEG you to read it. It will change your life and your view of God). I’m not done processing, as I’m sure these entries will showcase.

Though Rwanda is a different country, I didn’t expect it to be THAT different. I mean, we’re neighbors. However, they don’t speak English but instead French and Kinyarwanda. I had never wished that I had taken French in high school more than at the time we were crossing the border and trying to figure out what in the world was going on. The bus stopped and everyone got off. We assumed it was a bathroom break and since neither of us needed that, we stayed on the bus…until a man said something like, “Hurry! Hurry!” It was then that we looked across the street to see a sign that said “Immigration” and realized we were at the border and needed to get off the bus to go through all the paperwork. When we walked across the bridge to Rwanda, we did our paperwork on that end and watched all of our bags on the bus get tossed out. Plastic bags aren’t allowed in Rwanda (like your typical Wal-mart bag, not Ziploc) so bags were gone through and plastic bags (called “cavarras” here) were torn and thrown out. We stood for awhile trying to figure out what the heck was going on with no one around us speaking a bit of English. They also drive on the right side of the road in Rwanda which is just CRAZY after getting used to driving on the left side in Uganda. It was fascinating to note the architectural differences as well as the organization of Kigali. There was an order and neatness to everything that was just astounding.

When we crossed the border, it seemed as though everything became more beautiful. There’s a reason that Rwanda is known as the Land of A Thousand Hills. It is truly stunning. The hills were lush and green flowing into valleys filled with crops. The streams flowing by the road made everything picturesque. So often, I wish my eyes were cameras that could capture the beauty surrounding me. This was one of those times. Though beautiful, there was a sadness to it all. With all of my readings on the genocide, each stream made me remember that every stream, lake and river was filled with bodies during the genocide. A particular story that the UN General during the genocide, Romeo Dallaire (his book, “Shake Hands With The Devil”, is an overwhelming and excellent book on all that happened), told about driving through a body filled stream came to mind. Though boards had been put down to cross the stream, it was the bodies that became the “bridge” for the vehicle.

We arrived in Kigali that night, making it in 10 hours instead of the expected 13. My body fully appreciated that. Audrey, a WorldVenture midtermer in Kigali, picked us up and brought us to her place that was to be our home for the next few days. Her parents are WorldVenture missionaries in Uganda (we love them!) and she was leaving the next day to spend Easter with them. We would have the house to ourselves but also have to navigate Kigali on our own. That whole driving on the right side of the road deal came into play while we attempted to navigate our way around the capital city with our crudely hand drawn maps. But, more on that later. That night, Audrey had meetings and plans, which fit well for us since that drive had exhausted us completely. We both perused her book collection which, to my happy surprise, she had “Redeeming Love”. After giving my (extremely worn and used) copy away prior to moving here, I meant to buy another but had yet to. These past few months I had especially wanted to reread it, as I knew I needed it. God answered my prayer and I delved into it. God knew just what I needed.

I needed to have a better understanding of His love and purpose before I headed into the aftermath of genocide; the wretched depravity of the human heart contrasting the depth of His love.

Home Visits And How They Have Changed My Life

2010-03-24T15:37:00.008-04:00

My first trip to Kenya was life-changing. It was four girls heading to Africa having a plan to spend the entire time at an orphanage delving into the lives of the kids. One of the team, Joy, was Kenyan and we would be joining her parents there to do ministry with them. This was the plan until the day before where we learned we could no longer to go the orphanage. Our entire trip changed and God took over the details. Because of this, we were able to visit a village in the middle of nowhere bringing food and other supplies to needy families in the bush. The above picture shows Mrs. Kaleli (Joy's mom and a woman who I also now call "mom"), Joy's cousin, Joy, me, Maria and Liz with one of the families we visited. It was my favorite experience there; tromping through the African bush to bring food to these families deep in poverty. There was nothing like seeing dirt covered children dressed in rags nervous of our white skin. Looks of hopelessness were already filling some of their eyes as they realized the difficulties of life at such a young age. I will never forget the look of gratitude in the eyes of the parents as they realized that they would have food for at least the next week to give to their children. As I’ve shared many times, that was the trip that God poured His love for the people of Africa in and through me. I knew that my life would change forever knowing that I couldn’t just go back to America and live a white picket fence life with a husband and 2.5 kids living the American dream. I couldn’t walk away from what I’d seen. I had to do something to help. My life would never be the same again and I knew it.

That was five years ago.

Such experiences years ago make home visits one of my favorite things about living here in Uganda. There’s much that I love that Hope Alive! does but the most incredible thing to see is the relationship between the mentor and their children. Children aren’t a number in our project but instead, each child has a mentor who visits their home at least twice a month to see how they are REALLY doing. They invest in their spiritual life as well as seeing that they’re taken care of physically. Each mentor has about 10 kids that they mentor and care for. It’s personal. And I love it. Though I’ve gone on numerous home visits in Kampala, I’d never been able to go at our other sites. That is, until this past week.

The three of us girls took a trip to Gulu this past week. Kate was starting a tutoring program for the kids and Kacie had a lot of nursing things to figure out and implement. I was along for the ride to help both of them in whatever they needed. The biggest enticement for me to come was that we would be able to do home visits, something I’d been dying to do in Gulu.
Though most of our kids were once close together in the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps, they are now spread out in the villages surrounding Gulu. Because they are so spread out, the Ugandans we traversed with were concerned that we would tire too quickly.

For the most part, all Ugandans think we’re crazy weak. This is mainly because we have a car and we drive places whereas they walk everywhere they do. Hence, they think we’re incapable of walking. Anywhere. Ever. They think we’ll tire too easily. Even when we tell them how many miles we run in the mornings, they just think we can’t do it. It’s become hilarious. Once we convinced them that we’d be able to walk without collapsing in exhaustion in the middle of nowhere, we were off.

Our first stop ended up being right near the feeding center that we have for our site. There we met this adorable elderly man who was caring for his four grandchildren, all who are sponsored through Hope Alive! He is nearly blind and is disabled making him unable to support these children. His son and daughter both died leaving him as the only caretaker for these children. He told us many times how much he appreciates what Hope Alive! is doing and how much it has made a difference in their life. His grandchildren get breakfast and dinner each day at our feeding center. I can’t even imagine where they would be or how they would be surviving without such help. There were many moments during our conversation with him that I had to hold back tears. He apologized numerous times that he had nothing to offer us as his guests. We insisted that being with him was all we needed. I know that, culturally, that had to be hard for him. In the midst of him sharing his heart, baby chicks were walking freely around the living room area while neighboring children occasionally looking through the door at all the visitors, especially those white ones. We left their house to visit more kids. Our Ugandan friends, Concy (mentor and asst. site manager) and two Michael’s (both mentors) tried to then encourage us to drive as far as we could to get to the next location as it was far. We again told them that there was no chance of us tiring and we went. Storm clouds were brewing in the distance so we picked up our pace. I couldn’t even tell you how far we walked. We went from the IDP camp to the main road and walked that for awhile. We branched off the main road onto a small dirt path taking us deep into the bush. As we walked, we passed many huts with naked children running around and mothers at work. Living in the crowded city of Kampala, I had desperately missed being in a place like this. It was refreshing!

At last, we arrived at Josca’s hut. Josca takes care of four of her own children but also seven (yes, SEVEN) children of her brother’s and sister’s who have all died. If I remember right, four of them are sponsored by Hope Alive! She alone cares for eleven children in her small hut. ELEVEN, people. Can you even imagine!? When I heard that, my first thought was, “Oh, this would just never happen in America”. One woman caring for 11 children? The woman would have her own dang show on TLC. It’s truly unbelievable. What was more surprising was the state of her little mud hut. Everything was in its place. Space was used creatively and efficiently. It was extremely tidy. This is truly a remarkable woman. Her eyes displayed her intelligence as well as her kindness. I was drawn to her and kept asking her questions about how she does what she does. While we were there, her mother came from a couple huts over to greet us. Daffine, the one in blue, is one of our sponsored kids as well as the one next to her who I forget her name. We were about to leave but she said that she had already started a meal for us. Her hospitality was overwhelming and humbling. Concy asked if it we were able to stay and we left it up to Concy. Concy had plans so we sadly had to leave and tell them we would be back another time for dinner. Since she could not give us a meal, she handed us a bag full of sesame seeds (called “sim sim” here). I left full of joy, admiration and…humility.

We went on more home visits the next day after spending the day at Saturday Club with all of the kids at the Gulu site. But really, this is long enough. I’ll stop with those two families but each family had their own story.

Being where I am and doing what I’m doing, I hear lots of stories. Everyone has been though such heart wrenching times in their life that it is overwhelming. Sometimes, the reality of the situation doesn’t hit me completely. Spending time with these two families, it struck me so deep. It helps me to go to their homes because I see how they LIVE. It’s not just a picture showing the poverty of the situation. It’s not just words on paper. I’m seeing their life and how they live day to day. It’s overwhelming. It’s heartbreaking. It’s…amazing. Seeing life change like this is…indescribable.

When I was in Kenya, I wanted to make a difference. I knew that a bag of flour would not make a long term difference and I wanted to be a part of something that would. God heard my prayers and visiting those homes showed me how He had answered me. I could clearly see the difference in their lives! I was seeing the effect of the family of God in the most beautiful way. There are times that I feel so undeserving to be a part of this. Why me, God? Why do I get to see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears how You’re working? I’m so honored. Often people ask me with how I could live here or say things like, “you’re so good” or “good for you”. Many times it’s in that “Oh heck, I could NEVER live in Africa so good on you for doing that” (which is seriously how I used to be). Oh, how little all of this is about me! That’s right, none of it is. I’ve said it a million times but…I’m the lucky one. I absolutely LOVE being here and being a part of God’s work here! There are times that His work just smacks me in the face as this trip did.

This trip was also monumental in another way. This was my absolutely first roach free Gulu trip!! Do I even need to tell you how exciting that is!?!? Every time I opened the door to my hotel room, I expected to see the scattered movement but it never happened. What a relief! I did have this fear that one would have gotten into my luggage just as a bit of torture for my life and appear here at the house. Kind of like, “you didn’t see us there but mwahaha, we came home with you!”. And then they’d twitch their nasty antennae, spread their wings and fly to divebomb my face. Because that’s just so what would happen. Did I mention that I have an active imagination, especially when it comes to insects? I swear I know their secret conversations and plans to ruin my life. But, no roach hid in my duffel bag and I was freeeee!

Now, how to get rid of that mouse in our kitchen…

Cute Moments

2010-03-08T11:37:00.004-05:00

Since I work with kids, there's many moments that are just cute. They're usually hard to explain unless you know the child but I thought you'd appreciate them.

We have a Bible time with the different age groups during Saturday Club. A few Saturday's ago, I sat in with the lower primary kids. It was a rainy day which made everyone all the more antsy and distracted. In the midst of one of those extra distracted moments, I caught Agnes' eye. Agnes is one of our tiniest kids. She's not one of the youngest but she's just little! Her nickname by many of the kids is "Baby". She's also downright adorable, as you can see. The picture above was taken at our Fun Day after I painted her face. Cutest little kitten you've ever seen, right? With our eyes caught, I blew a kiss at her. She immediately clasped her hand on her cheek to show where the kiss had landed. I about melted to the floor.

During that same Bible session, there was another irresistibly cute moment. Meet Andrew. This picture was also taken on Fun Day after he got his face painted making him look more like a girl and taking away from the absolute cuteness that is Andrew. Just know, he's one of the sweetest and cutest boys ever. For real. Right after I regained my composure after Agnes' cuteness, I caught eyes with Andrew and winked at him. Most kids don't know how to wink here but it's been my determination that I WILL teach them all how to wink, cross their eyes and make a fish face. True essentials for life, I tell you. To my absolute surprise and enjoyment, Andrew winked right back! Two ridiculously cute moments in the span of five minutes was almost too much for me. It was all I could do to hide my reactions and not be even more of a distraction.

There's many times that I can't get over the adorableness (that's totally a word) of watching the kids worship God. They get so into it by clapping and dancing. Where so many are too self-conscious to do it (um, that'd be me), they dance with all their little hearts. Or when we pull up to Saturday Club and they all surround the vehicle pining to be the first that gets a hug. This usually ends up in a mass group hug.

For so many, I look at them in awe. I know their stories and backgrounds. And yet, they come with wide smiles and huge hugs. Through all that they've gone through, you see the incredible weight of responsibility that they carry. Kids here generally have a lot of responsibility in ways that we would never even think of doing in America. But, kids are still kids. It's moments like these that remind me of that.

I know that I'm forgetting about 5000 other cute moments but I'm tired and we're about to watch a movie and since it's Women's Day, I win. :) I'll try to keep this as a running topic though so I can share with you the other incredibly irresistible cute moments that I'm lucky enough to experience. Perhaps you'll fall in love with these kids just like I have.

A Few Of My Favorite Things

2010-03-05T05:59:00.006-05:00

While I could list for you quite a few of my favorite things (the pumpkin pancakes I made this morning would be hitting near the top of the list), there's parts of my life here that truly amaze me. One of my favorite parts of my job (my official admin. asst. job, that is) is seeing the relationship that is developed between sponsors and their kids. For many, it's just a $35 check that they write each month. For others, it's a chance to develop a relationship with a child in Uganda and truly be a part of changing their life. Part of my job has me going through the packages that sponsors send to their kids. I crazy love it. I love that they even care enough to send a package full of goodies that they want to give their child. I love that they write letters to them, pray for them and LOVE them. Even better, I love reading the letters that the kids write back to them. Many of the kids refer to their sponsors as "mum and dad" because for many of them, it's the only mom and dad they've ever really known. Gets me all teary.

An example of this amazing relationship came into my Inbox this week. One of our sponsors sent Christmas gifts to her three children back in December. The box was returned to her since the post office here never notified us of it and they sent it back. She went to her local post office and the below happened. Her story warmed my heart and with her permission, I share it with you now in hopes that you're also amazed at how the love of Christ can pour through so many:

After struggling as to why God would not allow this package to be delivered to our sponsored kids in the first place, He answered that question yesterday in a unique way as He allowed me to do a little "advertising" for Hope Alive at the post office yesterday. After being there at noon and getting the full explanation as to why the package was returned and what it would cost me to send it again, (I had to pay for the postage of it being sent back as well as the postage to send it again.), I returned and asked to speak with the postmaster who was in on the noon conversation. When she came around the corner and I told her I had decided to resend the package, she looked at me and said, " You realize you have to pay $38.81 to get it back plus $56 to send it again?" "Yes, I realize that." "You are willing to pay nearly $100 to resend this package with no guarantees that it will arrive and not be delivered? Why? Why would you do that?" I then pulled the three pictures of our kids out of my purse and put them on the counter. " Here are the three reasons why. How can I not send it again? They are waiting for their Christmas presents from us". With tears in her eyes, she turned and gave instructions to the postal clerk. I then gave her a DVD of our trip to Uganda 2 years ago as to which she replied, " I will make sure everyone in this office sees this." Who knows...maybe another sponsorship or two will come of this. At least I got my answer as to why the kids didn't get the package the first time sent. Dunlap post office needed to see the ministry of Hope Alive!

Oh, sorry, do you need a tissue? Because I might. I LOVE her love for these kids. Please join me in praying that these packages will AT LAST get to her kids but that above all, these kids will see the immense love of Christ that is flowing through their sponsor.

Life change is something that's easily seen here. This child's life was once like this but NOW it's like THIS. This child hadn't gone to school in years because of lack of money but NOW they're back in school. This child never knew anyone loved them but NOW they know about a God who loved them so much He would die for them, plus they have a mentor who is involved in their life and BONUS: they have a sponsor who, though thousands of miles away, loves them as well. Sponsors shrink the distance between them and the children of Uganda by being a part of this awesome life change. And I, the lucky one, get to see it. I encourage you all to sponsor a child. I wish words could do justice for the difference that you will make in a child's life. In this way, I wish you could see what I see. Pray about it. Seek His face. And change the world for Christ, one child at a time.

Gulu: Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

2010-02-25T14:44:00.001-05:00

Ahh, it’s been a MONTH since I’ve written. I’m totally kicking myself over this. I had been doing so well too! Blaaaast.

For this particular post, you’re going to need to do a couple things to really feel like you’re experiencing it. First, put Mat Kearney on your iTunes. Particularly the entire City of Black and White album but putting “All I Need” and “Fire and Rain” on repeat would be perfect and doing what I did for the entire trip. Now, put on three pairs of heavy socks, thermal underwear (top and bottom, please), three long sleeve t-shirts, a sweatshirt (or two, if you can fit it), sweatpants (snow pants would be a bonus), hat, gloves and a scarf. Or you could just turn the temperature in your house up to 95 degrees because that was the temperature of our hotel room in Gulu. Literally. Once you are covered in sweat from your head to your toes, start feeling the sweat drip down your body and wonder if you have the beginnings of heat stroke, you may proceed to the rest of the blog.

I had wanted to go back up to Gulu ever since we first went in August. At last, the chance came up again. The big difference is that we went in dry season. Not sure what dry season is like? Let’s go back to that whole 95 degrees in my hotel room deal. There’s no winter, spring, summer and fall here. It’s just rainy and dry season. Dry season is HOT, really really HOT. Also opposite from the States, the north here is hotter than the south.

Quick Uganda geography lesson for you: Kampala is south of Gulu. (See? You learn somethin’ new eveeery day)

Gulu is in the north. All that to say, it had been ridiculously hot in Kampala before we headed up to Gulu. I was nervous as to what Gulu would be like.

And for good reason.

We (Kate, Catharine, Al, Richard and I) piled into the Prado early Wednesday morning to head up north. The ride up was filled with naps (for me, at least), counting speed bumps, talking and games of “Would You Rather”. We reached Gulu around noon and the heat was stifling. We stopped first at our feeding center and greeted Shem (or as I call him, Shem Diddy Shem. He’s secretly ghetto, like me), our assistant site manager. Our feeding center is located in one of the IDP (Internally Displaced Peoples) camps around Gulu. Since the war is over, it’s emptied out considerably. There’s still half naked children that yell “Mzungu!” and run alongside your car with huge smiles when you drive through, but not near as many as there used to be. I even noticed a difference from when we came in August. We then drove to the church to greet Alfred, our site manager.

If you hadn’t noted, greeting is a big deal here. When anyone enters a room full of people, you go around and shake hands with each person and ask how they’re doing. Quite different than the American “hello” that encompasses the entire room and takes some getting used to.

Our trip to Gulu was not one filled with cute kids but instead, meetings. While I’m not a fan of meetings, especially all day ones, they were much needed. As stated, the situation in Gulu has changed considerably over the years. Whereas before, all of the kids were together in the IDP camp, they have now all scattered into various far reaching villages. In ways, this is great! There is at last peace and the children are free and safe to be in the villages. However, it makes what we do as Hope Alive! more difficult. One of my favorite things about Hope Alive! is the active involvement in the child’s life. Each child has a mentor that visits their home, gets to know their life and helps them spiritually. With the kids so far out, it makes it difficult for the mentors to visit them. There’s also not as good of schools far out in the village. We had come to discover that one in a fun way. Shem had gone to visit a school one day and discovered that only one teacher had decided to show up that day. He visited a different school another day only to find out that they had only taught one math lesson the entire year. Seriously, can you even imagine!? Clearly, we needed to change some things around with what schools our kids attend and how to reach them best.

It was fun seeing this logistics side of things, especially hearing Alfred and Shem brainstorm over the best possibilities. The longer I’m here, the more I realize how little I know. With two trips to Kenya under my belt, I came to Uganda thinking that I had at least a small grasp on the culture. Oh, how wrong and naive I was. I had always heard about cultural layers but didn’t truly understand it until now. I’ve only been here for seven months and feel like I still know nothing in comparison to the vast amount of cultural knowledge that there is. Sitting listening to the wisdom of Alfred and Shem showed me how much cultural understanding makes such a difference. Part of my job also has me sitting in on the Hope Alive! Advisory Board meetings. The board is full of people from a variety of backgrounds that understand the culture in such deep ways that help us know how to do what we do best. I can’t imagine doing anything here without Ugandans. That may seem obvious but obviously many try to separate themselves. I am so lucky that we get to work with the amazing people that we do. I am especially lucky that these people have let me into their lives, are ok with me asking lots of questions, not understanding things and doing lots of things wrong (especially their traditional dance. I do that really really wrong).

We got a lot of things worked out in Gulu and I can’t wait to see how it makes a difference in the lives of the kids. Though we had meetings during the day, we had fun at night. I had wanted to go up to Gulu with Richard at some point since he’s from the North and it would just be so much more fun. We watched Shem play basketball at nights. Kate joined in one night while I opted to read (“Shake Hands With The Devil”. Amazing) AND cheer at the same time. I’m a woman of many talents. Clearly. Nights were also a time of much prayer. Every night when I went to bed, I prayed (begged?) that God would keep the electricity on so that the fan in my room would keep going. Even with the fan, I woke up numerous times each night swimming in pools of sweat. The last night, God decided to show me why He chose hell to be hot instead of cold. I’ve thought in depth about this. If you’re too cold, you die. If you’re too hot, you SUFFER. I get it, God. I do. Really. But, I apparently hadn’t REALLY gotten it. That last night, the electricity went off at 2:30am and never turned back on. I was awake when it happened and was then awake the rest of the night…sweating…profusely…tossing…turning…begging. My little battery powered fan helped some but couldn’t do the work that was needed. Are you still wearing those heavy layers of clothes? It’d really help me if I knew you were suffering like we did. J

Pray for Gulu. Pray for the leadership there, from the site directors to the mentors; that they would honor God in ALL they do and lead with integrity. Pray that God would fill their hearts with love for the children. Pray for the kids that they would desire to honor God in ALL they do, including their studies. Pray that they would not just see what’s happening in their life now but would look to the future and see how the choices that they are making now will effect the rest of their lives. Pray that I would continue to work through the layers of this culture and in turn, love the people even more.

Peeling Onions

2010-01-25T11:15:00.004-05:00

I love onions. They add such a great flavor to every dish (even if my roommate doesn't believe it). Chopping them, however, is my least favorite thing. My eyes start to sting to the point that I can no longer keep them open. I squeeze my eyes in pain while tears form. Is it worth it? I give it a resounding "YES!"

I've been in Uganda now for almost seven months. As I've mentioned before, there is a community culture here, not individualistic. Relationships mean more than anything. But, as with every relationship, it deepens when you go through the layers. I feel as though I'm finally at the point in many relationships here that the layers have been peeled away and a true relationship exists. Seriously, there's this love in my heart that just wants to gush out! God put His love in my heart for the people of Africa 5 years ago. Now, I can look to specific people and friendships and have this overwhelming God-love for them. With every relationship, you start surfacey. The "how are you" and "what have you been up to" type questions. With some, there comes a point where deeper questions begin. There's a genuine care and love. There's a relationship being formed. There's also specific situations that melt my heart. Let me give you some examples.

I look at the friendships that God has provided me here. There are so many incredible God-serving people here that challenge the MESS out of me. I see them as they serve our King and I'm just amazed. As I've gotten to know so many better, I've been able to go deeper with them. Layer by layer.

Those Bible study girls. Gosh, I love them. Seriously. I look at them and love fills my heart. The more we are together, the more I realize how NO ONE else has attempted this before. No one else has tried to speak truth into their lives. No one else has tried to answer their questions. No one else has cared enough to...which is just baffling. These are GREAT girls. I see how God put these girls on Shammah and my heart. I see His timing. I see His incredible love for these girls. I see their life situations and my heart is broken. However, I see their potential and I cannot WAIT to see how God's going to revolutionize their lives. God has filled me with a love for these girls that I can't even describe. As we've discussed everything from our own personal lives to family to friends (and this Wednesday, boooys!), their questions have gotten deeper and deeper opening us into their lives more. I have seriously been amazed by their questions. I love that they feel free enough to ask. It's even led to some huge openings; deep and honest conversations. It's is my absolute honor to even be involved in these girls lives. Layer by layer.

And then there's those heartbreaking situations. I've truly held back on this blog on many things mainly because I don't want to exploit these kids or manipulate you as my readers. It's a hard line for me. However, I know that you pray for these wonderful children and such details help you to pray for them.

With my job, I get to know every circumstance of every child. There's no words to describe this. Reading these often makes me want to sob. Knowing that we're able to make such a difference in their lives is an honor. We recently had three new kids join our site here in Kampala. Their first day at Saturday club, I almost wept. Literally. For Saturday Club, I always wear my most casual clothes since we play games and run around with the kids. A lot of the kids dress up to come as it's a special thing for them to come to. The newer ones especially do this. These particular new ones came for our Fun Day. There I met Lawrence. He stood out as he was clearly wearing the absolute best clothes that he owned: a tattered button down shirt that was once white, navy dress pants that had been worn to threads and black dress shoes. Amidst the water balloon games and tug of war, he proudly wore his best. This was such a big deal for him. He knew his life was going to change drastically and he dressed accordingly. His timid smile revealed how nervous he was. I wanted to sit down and weep at the site of him. I knew what him and his sister had been through.

The third new one has a particularly heartbreaking story. Her parents have both died from AIDS and knowing her age, she had to have watched them die a terrible death. She was then sent to one of her uncles who sexually abused her. An aunt then took her in to spare her the constant abuse only to add her own. How we came to hear about her was because the aunt came by the office to give her to us. She no longer wanted to "deal" with her. After realizing that we provide sponsorship but don't house the children, she decided to keep her knowing that the child's school fees and more would be paid for. The girl is 14 years old. Can you even imagine what her self-esteem is after this? I've seen her thrive in these past weeks. She's gotten involved in Hope Alive! as well as the church. She is one that I always make sure to talk to every time; hugging her, letting her know how happy I am to see her and telling her that she is beautiful. She IS so beautiful. Reading her information sheet made me tear up. Such a sweet precious girl with loads of talent and a beaming smile.

Peeling an onion layer by layer can be like relationships. Sometimes it's painful and it stings. Each layer leads us to the core and though painful and difficult, it is WORTH it. I have been so honored to not only be here but to be allowed deeper into the layers of many people here. The more layers, the deeper the love. They each add such flavor to my life.

Right now, I hate that I have a time limit here. Though I have a year and a half left, it doesn't seem like long enough. I don't ever want to leave this place or these people. How did I get to be so lucky to be here doing what I love? Ah, can't wait to see what more God has in store...

Leadership Corps Worship

2010-01-24T15:20:00.003-05:00

For some reason, our internet here does NOT like to upload videos to facebook. I have all these great videos to show from my time here but error messages abound and it doesn't like to work. I was hoping it would work on HERE. So, let's try this out. :)

This video is from August!...or September. SO LONG AGO. Each site at Hope Alive! has a Leadership Corps made up of those at that site that are, well, leaders. They get extra leadership training and are seriously amazing. In August (or September...I really need to check), we had them ALL come to Kampala for a Leadership Corps conference. It was SO great to meet all of the kids, see them interact as they discovered cultural differences and see how God is working in their lives. Their last night here, we all met at the head office for dinner and a end of the conference meeting. It started to DOWNPOUR like I've never seen here before. Instead of being bummed that they were all stuck inside, they started to worship God. This is one of those "this would so never happen in America" moments. These are all high school kids who are dancing, cheering and praising God.

At the end, they turned on us...HA! I think they were wanting to put us on some shoulders like they did with those mentors. I think I disappeared upstairs for a bit after that to avoid that... :)

It was my honor to be there and witness this. I hope you can get a glimpse at the love for God that these kids have.

Killer Death Ants and Me: Worst Combo Ever

2010-01-18T14:22:00.007-05:00

First, come on, blogging three days in a row!? Is this a record? My New Year’s resolution is starting off AWESOME. Let’s hope I can keep this up. J

We all know those people that things just happen to them. Crazy situations abound and the only answer is, “well of course, this stuff only happens to YOU!”

Hi. I’m one of those. Jill Walker, you’ll also especially appreciate this since you’re one of those as well. For all those others who are one of “those”, I hope you also appreciate this.

As blogged previously, I climbed Mt. Sabinyo last Monday. The most memorable part of the climb was not on the way up but, in fact, on the way down. We had almost reached the bottom of the mountain when our armed guard guy stopped to point something out to us.

“Here, you see the mobile insect. It is very very dangerous.”

(Mobile is pronounced like a mobile phone, not Mobile, Alabama. That’s for all you Southerners out there. J)

I had never heard of such an insect. My mind pictured some grossly large insect that he would point out at a distance that, knowing my luck, would probably dive bomb my face. When I got up to where he was, he pointed down to the ground where I saw a line of what I thought were ants.

Me: “These don’t look thaat bad-ooooh, I see.”

They looked like normal ants until one got a closer look to see the scorpion like pinchers on their head.

“Ah, yeah, I can see how those would hurt. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

We continued to walk on until…

“Um, OW!”

The sharp stinging pain on my thigh told me that something was amiss.

*shriek* “Ooww!”

Then came my knee.

Then the back of my thigh.

A quick look into my pants revealed my worst nightmare. The mobiles (aka. Safari ants) had made their way up INTO MY PANTS.

Let me set this scene for you real quick. I’m in the middle of nowhere Uganda on a mountain. I am with three men: the armed guard guy, the porter, and my fellow missionary Al. I have killer pinching stinging ants all up in my pants.

As the stings continued throughout my body, all I wanted to do was to scream and strip off all of my clothing to rid myself of each one of these torturous insects. Let’s go back to that whole being with three males thing. No can do. Every time that I thought I had gotten rid of them and we kept walking, another would strike. Every new look would reveal more that were climbing, stinging and pinching their way up my body. Though they were mainly on my legs, they stung their way through my stomach, arm and more. I would literally have to rip them off my body as their pinchers had sunk in to my flesh. The further we went, the more I began to wonder about the guard’s “very very dangerous” comment.

“Um, so exactly how dangerous are these things? Like, are they poisonous?”

Translation: Am I going to die!?

Armed guard guy (I somehow never got his name) was vague on exactly how they were dangerous. If the “only” danger was the extreme stinging pain that was crossing my body, then I could deal. If I was about to die in the middle of a mountain from venomous scorpion ants, I wanted to be prepared for that…not that I could really prepare but it would have been nice to know if death were near.

At one point, my porter walked me off the trail and said something to the point of, “check yourself”. He spoke little English making moments like that funny…only I wasn’t quite at the laughing stage. The guys were off somewhere and I took that moment to quickly search if any remaining torture agents remained. I didn’t see any but wanted to wait until I was in serious privacy before an extensive search happened. I could just see, after all that, some other random hiking group happening upon me as I “checked” myself.

I couldn’t find a picture of “my” kind of death ant. The one below will give you an idea. Mine were smaller, brown and had a more defined scorpion look. When I’ve asked my Ugandan friends about this, they all express concern about the danger of the ants and the pain. Apparently the kind that attacked me are the ones that they are more familiar with. You can also read wikipedia’s article on them which, at one point, states that “there have been reported cases of people—usually the young, infirm, or otherwise debilitated who could not escape—being killed and eventually consumed by them, often dying of asphyxiation” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Safari_ants). Encouraging, right!?

So whenever you’re feeling down about your life and wondering why things can’t be better, hey, at least you don’t have thousands of death ants wanting to consume you. And, at least, you’re not the lone female in a group of men getting attacked my killer death ants. Your day is totally already better. Trust me.

Climbing Mt. Sabinyo

2010-01-17T06:50:00.004-05:00

A view of Mt. Sabinyo as we were hiking to the mountain

At last, the time had come. We were climbing Mt. Sabinyo. I had anticipated and dreaded this moment for months. We’d been training for months and I still didn’t feel ready. Maybe that was just fear. Allow me to start by saying that I had never actually climbed a mountain before. I know what you’re thinking: “Sarah, you grew up in IOWA. I can’t believe you didn’t grow up mountain climbing!” This may shock you but…Iowa has no mountains. Should I have had you sit down? I know that’s probably overwhelming for you. There are many beeeeautiful rolling hills in parts of Iowa but those are hills, not mountains. Given, I could have climbed more when I lived in Virginia but after a busy week of work and school, when one weighs out a “Pride and Prejudice” marathon with climbing a mountain, Mr. Darcy always wins.

We arrived in Kabale on Saturday night. Sunday was spent getting things together for the hike. We all had lunch together and then left for Kisoro, the town at the base of the volcano mountains. It was a three hour drive to Kisoro and my eyes couldn’t leave the scenery outside the car windows. It reminded me of Ireland only (I never thought I'd say this about anywhere)…more beautiful. The road to Kisoro was narrow, taking us high up into the mountains offering breathtaking views of the area. Kampala is so huge, dusty and cramped. Southern Uganda is filled with green lush mountains dotted with little villages balancing on the steep terrain. Once we got to Kisoro, we checked in to our hotel, the Golden Monkey. If you can picture a hotel in a rural Ugandan town, then you probably got what we stayed in. The girls and I were lucky to have a bathroom (with an actual toilet!...that only worked for the first 10 hours of our stay there) in our concrete walled room. We were one of the few that did. After checking in, we walked around Kisoro to check in with the Ugandan Wildlife Association (UWA) about our hike and to see the area. We ate dinner at another local hotel where I attempted again to have my fish and chips. I’ve now officially given up until we go to a more reputable restaurant.

We went to bed early that night in order to be well rested for our mountain climb. I barely slept that night. I think that when you KNOW you have to get up earlier than normal, your body goes into freak out mode in order not to oversleep and then you just don’t sleep. Annoying. I was awake to hear the downpour of rain that came down that entire night. It was still raining when we got up in the morning. There was discussion as to if we should still go knowing that the climb would be made much more complicated and dangerous with the rain. Mt. Sabinyo has many wooden ladders to climb and they would have become slick with rain. Jenny and her dad decided not to climb which left the climbing crew as myself, Kacie, Kate, Al, Laura and her two sons Austin and Grant.

We left the hotel at 7:30am for the 30 min drive to the base. The road was volcanic rock with large volcanic rocks in the mix. If one weren’t already awake, that ride would have jolted you to alertness. It was still raining when we got to the office to pay and check in. They provided us with a guide and two armed guards. The guards were in case we came across any dangerous animals, not people. They told us about the mountain, gave us walking sticks and introduced us to our porters. Al and I had decided the day before to share a porter. At that point, I didn’t realize that I was about to spend the best 15000 USH (a little over $7) of my life.

Mt. Sabinyo has three peaks and is about 14,000 in elevation. It was my goal to reach all three peaks but I had no clue about my ability to do so. I was starting out the climb with a cold, which was annoying. Combine altitude with congestion and it’s not fun. I was determined to do as much as I possibly could. It was about an hour hike to the mountain from the base. The trail had become a mud filled stream that we walked up. It was literally like walking through a stream, little waterfalls included. Any attempt to keep my feet dry was done in vain. Soon enough, the water and mud had poured over into my shoes making it feel as though my toes were swimming with each step. We slipped and slided our way up to the mountain. Because of how difficult the trail had become, it was taking much longer than we expected. It was during that walk that Charles, our dear porter, began to see that he had a helpless clumsy slipping and sliding girl on his hands. At the beginning of our hike, I didn’t need my walking stick anymore and it was getting in the way. I tried to ask if I could put it down and just pick it up when we came back. Instead, Charles held onto the stick for me. It was like he knew that I would have been dead without it…and he did. He began to help me cross the muddiest areas without falling and without him, I would have faceplanted it about a thousand times. He spoke very little English which made communication interesting. The rain stopped about an hour or so into our climb. It was such a relief! That, however, did not dry the trail. The climb is truly a blur of ladders, Clif bars, blowing my nose, coughing, pain and mud. I can’t remember much of it. Apparently, from what my experienced mountain climbing buddies told me, most mountain climbs zig zag their way up the mountain. Not so here. It was a straight up climb with very little zig zag. The trail remained muddy and slippery throughout making it all the more difficult. Every step was a decision on where it would be best to put ones foot without sliding and falling. There were sets of slippery wooden ladders and mud "stairs". Between my walking stick and Charles, I made it up those rough ones. I am literally typing this today because of Charles. For some reason, my balance got WAY off adding to slipping everywhere, I seriously almost slid off the mountain a few times. Really, there were some close ones. My lower back had started to kill, my left hip went crazy at some point and weakness came. I could NOT give up. I was living for that first peak.

At LAST, finally, it came! I had one huge bit of steps (were there steps? Gosh, I can barely remember) and I was THERE! Those last steps were ROUGH...but the relief of being on TOP was overwhelming. On the first peak, you are in Uganda and Rwanda at the same time. I collapsed on top in Rwanda’s side just laid there for a few minutes, feeling too dizzy to move. I had to decide if I was to continue to the next two peaks and I knew that there was no way. Physically, I could probably do it. It would have taken me a longer time and with our limited daylight, there wasn’t much extra time. I also knew that I needed energy to go back down. With how slippery it was coming up, it would be even worse going down. I had reached the peak and was thrilled that I even got there alive. With that, Al and I decided to head back down. We took our time at the first peak eating lunch, resting and taking pictures. We headed down with an armed guide and Charles. Before we stepped off the peak, the guard informed us that the climb up was easy compared to going down. So encouraging. He was right, though. With the mud, the climb down was ROUGH. We very slowly made our way down the mountain. I literally held onto Charles almost the entire time. Between him and my walking stick (cannot believe I was about to put that thing down), I got down the mountain. Without either of those two, I would still be on the mountain…or have fallen off. Even with those two components, I slid around and had many near falls. On the way down, I met safari ants which will be a whole other blog that you are SURE to enjoy as it was one of the most torturous and awkward experiences of my life….because, seriously, this kind of stuff always happens to ME.

All of this to say, I’m glad I did it. It was HARD. There were many times where I would have been happy to give up but I didn’t. I kept singing my life song “Lead of Love” by Caedmon’s Call throughout the climb: “I had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view”. Oh, so true.

Looking back You know You had to bring me through

All that I was so afraid of

Though I questioned the sky

Now I see why

I had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view

Looking back, I see your lead of love

The Adventurous Road Trip to Kabale

2010-01-16T11:26:00.009-05:00

Last Saturday, we (Catharine, Kate, Kacie, Al and I) took the long trip down to Kabale located in southern Uganda. With our Uganda WorldVenture field meetings starting on Tuesday, we were heading down early to climb Mt. Sabinyo. It would be an 8 hour trip down and we were going to be driving our Prado. At least, that was our plan.

We got the Prado all loaded up with all of our stuff and started it to go pick up Al. Wait, I mean, tried to start it. Kacie says she heard an original clunking noise as she was outside of the car. Besides that, the car wasn’t starting, clicking or making any noise to indicate that it wanted to start. A check under the hood revealed little. We then emptied the Prado and loaded everything into Catharine’s Rav. We picked up Al 45 minutes late and headed on our way. We had given ourselves two extra hours of daylight (driving at night is atrocious and avoided) so we were still good.

We didn’t realize how much we did need that extra time.

We were right before the equator so about two hours in to our long journey. There was a bicycle on our side of the road and a large truck coming from the other direction making it so that there was not enough room for us to pass the bike. Catharine slowed behind the bike and when the truck passed, moved past the bike. A taxi appeared by our side passing us and we heard the CLUNK as it hit us. “Did he knock me?” Catharine asked, using the Ugandan term for getting hit. Kacie, who was mere inches from where the collision occurred. The taxi had already zoomed past us showing no attempt to stop. Catharine accelerated and passed the taxi honking the whole way. She pulled in front of the taxi, slowing down in order to force him to slow down. We pulled over. What happened next was one bit of cultural hilarity after another. Catharine got out of the car to talk to the taxi driver. We looked back to discover about 5 men conversing with Catharine so we told Al to go out and support her. The three of us girls stayed in the car. One of the male passengers in the taxi walked right in front of Catharine’s car, squatted and preceded to um, GO to the bathroom. On the side of the road. Now, we see guys peeing on the side of the road all the time. In Kampala, if we see a guy near a ditch, we just assume he’s doing his deal and we look away. This was no #1. This guy was straight up doing #2 approximately 2 feet away from us. What was happening behind the car was apparently more interesting, as we found out when Catharine got back in the car about 10 minutes later.

When she got out of the car, the taxi driver stayed in the taxi while a few of the passengers got out. They told Catharine that everyone in the taxi agreed that it was their fault but that they were on their way to an event so couldn’t she just forgive them and let them be on their way? Dead serious. That’s what they said. They kept repeating that everyone agreed it was their fault. We were thrilled there was a consensus. The huge dent in Catharine’s car wouldn’t allow her to agree to their form of forgiveness. The taxi driver came out at some point telling Catharine that he had no insurance (most likely a lie). He stated that he knew that it was his fault but couldn’t she “please just accept me as I am”? We’re not sure exactly what that means. Accept that you’re a crappy driver and hit us? Done. We can do that. Driving away like nothing happened? Um, no, we can’t do that one. Catharine got their vehicle information and we all drove off. A phone call to Robert, our kick awesome business director (referenced earlier as the one who took care of all my passport stuff) informed Catharine that she needed to report this to the police. Ah yes, another stop on our long journey. We then searched for a police post, which is way easier said than done. We at last found one underneath a sign for Sleeping Baby. Can YOU find the hidden police post?

We waited in the (hot) car while being surrounded by children who kept repeating “mzungu” over and over again. We were like our own little mzungu zoo. The police promised to track down the taxi driver and we again headed on our way to Kabale.

With all that behind us, we stop for lunch. Stopping for lunch here is no quick McDonalds stop. We knew it’d be a bit but again, got more than we bargained for. Three of us ordered fish and chips, Al ordered a hamburger and Kacie ordered a tomato and cheese sandwich. After a LONG wait (even for Ugandan standards), our food arrived. My tilapia looked…weird. Like this:

Cutting into it was tough and we soon realized that there was no way that this was fish. Chewing it was another indicator. Catharine went to find the waiter who went to the kitchen area to see what happened. All of the kitchen staff looked at the order sheet and agreed that yes, it said fish but instead, they had given us pepper steak. So glad that again, we have a consensus on that they were in the wrong but alas, again, who was to pay? Us. Al wasn’t much better off than us. His hamburger consisted of mystery yellow meat (oh yes, yellow) on sandwich bread. It looked like-a this:

The only decent meal was Kacie’s tomato and cheese sandwich. She utilized that moment to try to convert us all over to a vegetarian life. No dice, my friend.

After all that, the rest of our trip was happily uneventful. We arrived at the Slater’s house in Kabale excited to spend time with their family with no extra adventures included…

…well, until we climbed a 14000 ft. mountain two days later…

Delirious In First Class

2009-12-30T04:07:00.003-05:00

I'm planning on having an entire first class post later but let's be clear, the state of my mind at this point is not ready for that. You, internet, are not ready for that. My flight to Amsterdam was supposed to be my sleeping Ambien induced flight. Didn't work. Ugh. So now I'm even groggier than ever and just...woozy. Woozy sounds like nausea's involved which it isn't. It's more like a "woooooooooo" where everything is kind of spinning and you think you'll find your head near the ceiling.

All this to say, I'm in Amsterdam and I got here FIRST CLASS. I seriously kept waiting for them to come up to me and say, "ma'am, I'm sorry, we've made a mistake. We need you to move to the back of the plane where you belong...". But instead, I was treated like a queen. Amazing. More details on that later.

Since my eyes keep opening and closing, I'm taking that as a hint from my body that I should stop typing things for people to see when I'm in this state...although I'm sure at some point this would get entertaining.

See you in KAMPALA!! :)

Sponteneity

2009-12-29T11:53:00.002-05:00

Before I tell you what the last 19 hours have been like, I must note how much traveling gives me the opportunity to blog more. Kind of nice. :)

So, I flew from Moline, IL to Atlanta yesterday afternoon. I got into the ATL at about 3:30. Per tradition, I took the tram straight to Terminal A for my traditional ATL airport eats: Great Wraps and Dunkin' Donuts. I happily consumed my gyro which was especially good. I think they knew it was going to be my last American meal so they just made it extra yummy. That's what I was thinking each bite, at least. After that, I headed to Terminal E for my Amsterdam flight. I had just sat down when they announced that they were looking for volunteers with flexible schedules to go on another flight. They offered an awesome amount of money in Delta vouchers plus meals, hotel, etc. My first thought was, "no way, can't do it".

Allow me to give you a little back story. Jill and I were going to meet up at the airport here during my layover to hang out one last time. If we were going to meet up, I was going to bring my American cell phone for us to be able to meet up easier. She would then ship it back to my parents. That morning, Jill found out that she couldn't come due to work. Knowing security would be extra insane, I figured it was for the best as well.

Back to Terminal E. On two ends, I didn't think I could even check to see if changing my flight would work. I didn't have my cell phone to communicate with Jill and I had no way of contacting my roommates in Kampala to tell them of any changed planes. As I sat, I thought of how great it would be to see Jill again AND get kick awesome vouchers. I packed my things and got into line to see what changes would need to happen and if it would work. The cute Asian Delta woman (I love Asians :)) explained that I would be taking the exact same flight tomorrow and therefore would need to spend the night in Atlanta.

This was it.

Decision time.

I had about 15 seconds to make the decision.

My mind went from Jill wondering if this would work for her to my roommates and if this would cause major problems with them to what I would do with the voucher money.

"Ok, I'll do it!"

Wait, did I just say that?

She started clicking her computer and immediately I started second guessing my decision. I had NO way of getting in touch with Jill and knew I'd have to find internet somewhere in the airport to get on Skype. I didn't know what my roomies had planned for this week and was praying that nothing was planned the next night. There was a man next to me who is also flying to Kampala that took Delta up on their deal. We chatted a bit since, I mean, Kampala isn't your "normal" destination from Atlanta. :) He requested first class instead of the Delta money voucher. After I received all of my vouchers, I headed towards a gate in hopes of internet. Two weeks ago when I was here, I could find free WiFi everywhere so I had high hopes...

...that were soon dashed to smithereens.

I went through the process to pay for internet and it still wouldn't work. By this time, it was about 5:30 and I knew Jill would have already left work. I didn't know what her plans were for the night but I knew I had to get ahold of her soon for anything to work out. I started to get REALLY frustrated. My brilliant spontaneous plan was not going well. There was a guy and a girl across from me so I decided to brave it and ask to borrow one of their cell phones. The girl agreed. Feeling flustered and frustrated, I call Jill.

*speaking 500004938 miles an hour* "JILL! I did something crazy! They asked for volunteers and I said YES and so now I'm here until tomorrow what are you doing RIGHT NOW and tomorrow and will this work for you!?"

Jill laughed and we planned out for me to take the MARTA (Metro Atlanta Rail Transit...Something) where she could pick me up. She had to call her friend to find out which station for me to go to and told me to call her back in five minutes. Hm, easier said than done. Not wanting to bother the nice people any longer, I packed my things and left to find a Delta counter where I could perhaps use a phone. I found a Delta station where they had phones. It was too late when I realized that their phones only called Delta agents. Not helpful, my Delta friends, not helpful. I looked at some pay phones, which I don't think I've used since perhaps junior high in order for my mom to come pick me up from a movie. However, since I don't quite live in America anymore, I don't have American change to use the pay phone. Frustrated, I looked around to see if I could find another nice person who would let me use their cell phone. There were some Delta workers and I went up to explain my situation and ask if there was a cell phone I could use. One of the guys pulled his out. I called Jill quickly and we arranged to meet at the Doraville stop.

I hauled my carry-ons towards the tram once again. I should note that my rolling carry-on weighs approximately the weight of a checked bag. My arm is seriously sore. Anyway. I headed to the MARTA to ride across the ATL. The train hadn't arrived yet and it was then that I realized what would be my main concern for the night: it was cold. Really cold. Really really cold. It was a decently long ride. My iPod kept me company as I also people-watched. My stop came, I got off, and that earlier concern about the weather became a reality. Jill had mentioned there was horrible traffic so I knew I was in for a wait in the cold. Considering she had just rearranged her night and life for me, I wasn't about to complain. :) I carried my carry-on down the stairs (seriously, people, the weight of this thing is ridiculous) and looked around wondering where to go to meet her. Oh, meeting her. Gosh, I hadn't even thought to plan WHERE in this place to meet. I walked down one way for a bit before I realized that it was a parking garage that I probably didn't want to go to. As I walked back the other way, I saw a girl waiting and prayed that she'd be my third cell phone to borrow. She was dressed kind of punkish but had the most Southern accent ever. Made me smile. She was SUPER nice. I left Jill a message as to where I'd be. The Southern punk girl asked if I was from this area, where I was going, etc. She pointed me in the right direction.

I headed out in the cold and waited...and waited. I think I was there for about 40 minutes. The temp was I think in the 20's-30's at most. Brrrr. I also prayed for Jill like crazy. Things like, "Lord, please move that traffic and guide Jill here and ooooh Lord it is COOOOLD". God and I had some well needed and good conversations during that time.

Jill picked me up and we met Amberly at a restaurant for dinner. Jill mentioned on the drive to the restaurant that she'd be leaving for NYC with Amberly and others the next day so she would already be heading to the airport. WHEW. What a God-thing! It hadn't even crossed my mind how I would get BACK to the airport if Jill would have been at work. After dinner, Jill and I went shopping for last minute NYC items for Jill. With that, we didn't get to Jill's home until after 11:00pm. Jill packed while I showered. She even washed my clothes so I didn't have to wear the same outfit three days in a row unwashed. Ah, great friends are...great. :) I Benadryled up due to the cats in the house and was asleep by about 1:30am. We left the house this morning at 8:45, met up with their friend Reggie and then off to the airport. We all checked in and then hung out until they left for their flight at 11:30. I AT LAST found free WiFi in this airport and am now happily connected to the world (and you!). My flight is in a little less than five hours so I have lots of time to be connected.

One more tidbit of happiness. When I checked in this morning, my seats were changed and I saw that I was in the fourth row of the plane. Wait...huge plane...row 4...FIRST CLASS!? For my flight to Kampala, I'm now in row 10 which I have no idea if that's first or business but HOLY COW! I have no clue how that happened. Since I'll be out on Ambien my flight to Amsterdam, I won't get to fully enjoy first class unless they have like, flat beds. I wonder if they will! First class on an international flight. Whoa. This is going to be INSANE! I'm seriously waiting for them to be like, "oh ma'am, sorry, we meant to give that to someone who owns a multi-million dollar business not you" which may happen. We'll see. I'll keep you posted.

Delusional Ambien-Related Travel Moments

2009-12-28T12:58:00.003-05:00

As I'm waiting in the airport for my flight back to Uganda, I'm reminded of my many travel incidents. I'm sure many of you and your distant cousins have heard of a particular delusional moment on my first trip to Kenya related to Ambien. If you haven't, meet Maria Marsico. She'll exaggerate a tale for you with crazy noises. :)

The trip to America was mainly non-eventful...or so I thought. It came to me in two different instances. While at Wal-mart this past week, I saw their Redbox rental machine and noted that I could rent "Up". I had heard about "Up" and had really wanted to see it so I happily rented it. I popped it in that night and realized that I HAD seen it. It was on one of my flights to America. While mom and I were watching it, I kept thinking, "gosh, this movie is SO short. It's going to end soon right when the house lands by the waterfall". The house landed and...it kept going! I then realized that I, in fact, had not seen the entire movie. That made me start to attempt to remember that flight...and it all was fuzzy. I couldn't tell you WHEN I saw the first part of "Up". Was it at the beginning of my flight? Near the end? No clue. I couldn't even tell you one detail about the person I sat next to because I don't remember a thing. Here's what I do remember. I brought a water bottle on the plane (security was AWESOME in Kampala) so I could take my Ambien right away since that was my sleeping flight. Otherwise I have to wait until they serve drinks and you don't know WHEN that will be and you're losing good sleeping time. See? Totally makes sense.

Another fun detail. I was uploading my HUNDREDS of pictures from the past month and a half from my camera onto my computer. I came across this picture:

I have this vague memory. I took my Ambien. They gave us drinks. Then, a meal came. I remember that there was something funny about the meal. I remember thinking, "Ha, that's funny. I need to take a picture of this". That's it. Nothing more. It looks like there's bananas on there? But I somehow remember chicken? Mashed potatoes maybe? NO IDEA.

So I'm thinking that maaaaybe I was watching "Up" while I ate my meal and then passed out for the rest of the flight. That's the only thing that makes sense to me.

Things like this make me wonder if just maybe I should not take Ambien when I'm in public. But oh, how amazing it is to conk out for an entire flight instead of to attempt to sleep, be drowsy and stare aimlessly at movies. Oh, that's another flight detail about me. I'll watch movies on planes and then remember nothing. I can usually barely remember the titles much less what the movie was about when I deplane.

I have issues.

So, as usual, my reality is surreal. I'm sitting here in the airport awaiting my flight to Atlanta and then onto Amsterdam. Oh, security there right now? Can you imagine? I don't want to. THAT reality is not going to be fun. My Ambien flight this time around is the one from Atlanta to Amsterdam. Get excited. Stories will surely abound. From Amsterdam, I head HOME to Uganda. Ahh, I can't wait! :)

Goodbye America. Helloooo Uganda!!

(And Ambien, hello to you toooo...zzzz...)

The Surreal Life

2009-12-16T15:20:00.001-05:00

Surreal. That’s how I’ve been describing my time so far in America. It doesn’t seem real that I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing. This is seriously a different world than what I live a continent away. Did I really get to hold Hudson and kiss those little cheeks? Did I really get to awkward side hug Marsico? Did I really get to sit in small group again and laugh at Chris’ endless jokes? Did I really get to eat yum yum sauce again? Did I really get to eat a ridiculously Southern brunch with Jill?

Absolutely surreal.

What’s not surreal was the blast of frigid air that hit me as I exited my flight in Detroit from Roanoke. I’m sure the Iowa air will feel equally as “real”. (Another unreal thing is how insanely short the skirt of the girl that was just sitting across from me. She just stood up and I looked in surprise at the um, “length”. She must be FREEZING!) As we were flying into Detroit, I noted all the perfect little grids of neighborhoods below. As Mrs. Reesman drove me to Roanoke for my flight this morning, I noted the well taken care of road with no mountain sized speed bumps, “diversions”, oversized trucks stopping traffic, car-sized potholes, boda bodas weaving in and out, taxis recklessly cutting everyone off, etc etc etc. It was so calm. I’ve adjusted pretty quickly to driving here again. Parking lots are seriously the hardest (think right…think RIGHT). It was almost boring at times. It was so easy. I had zero near death experiences. I mean, what a yawn. The “order” of America is so planned out, implemented and obeyed. Truly amazing.

Right now, I’m looking forward to getting off my flight in Moline and hugging my parents. I can’t wait to go to Michigan to spend time with my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew. I look forward to seeing my brother Matt and his wife (and eating the blizzards he brings me…butterfinger? Pleeeeease? J). I am so excited to hug my grandparents, especially with my grandpa’s health not doing well. I am so anxious to go to my home church and just feel…home in the family of God that has cultivated my relationship with Christ for so many years.

Right now, I’m also missing Uganda terribly. I miss the people. I miss my friends. I miss those kids so much. I miss those hugs and smiles. Oh, those smiles. Nothing in the world like those smiles. I miss the music. I miss the dancing. I’ve even kinda missed the food (I seriously craved posho the other day. Whaaat?).

Before my flight from Kampala, I had dinner in a coffee shop in the airport. In typical Ugandan style, I sat at a table with two other men who I didn’t know as there was a seat available. One was a Ugandan headed to Kigali, Rwanda and the other an Indian from Nairobi who’s flight had just been cancelled. I ended up talking to the Indian man for about 20-30 min while I ate my meal.

Here I sit prior to my flight to Iowa. Everyone around me is absorbed in their cell phone, iPod or just their own world. There’s a low hum of conversation but most sit silently like myself.

Oh the contrasts. I feel like I’m living in two different worlds and it’s weird.

The arctic air is seeping through an open door for another flight. Brrrrr. Why did I come back in winter again?

Random Delirious Thoughts While On A Layover

2009-12-10T16:53:00.002-05:00

Well, it's official. I'm in AMERICA! I have all these random thoughts running through my head of all the random and interesting (well, you can decide that one for yourself) things that I've gone through these past 4000503409 hours of traveling...of which I'm not even done. I'm on my 5 hour layover in Atlanta and desperate to make the time go faster. You receive the benefits of this.

-For some grand reason, I thought getting an ICED drink was a brilliant plan. Since I don't normally get things iced in Uganda, I was treating myself. I didn't factor in the general coldness of this place. My teeth are currently chattering and I'm slightly shaking. Why did I come back in the winter!?

-My whole check in process in Uganda was one hilarity after another. No taking my computer out of my bag, or my liquids. He pointed out this water bottle I had but I went through on the plane with it.

-Before my flight in Entebbe, I had dinner at the Good African Coffee there. In typical African form, I joined two random guys at their table. One was an Indian who was born and raised in Nairobi who is a Mason. Yes, an Indian Kenyan Mason.

-I took two Ambien on my flight to Amsterdam. I remember very little from that flight.

-Upon my arrival in Atlanta and about to go through my 100000 security line, I saw a man with an Iowa Hawkeyes hat AND shirt. I couldn't stop my grin.

-During another security line, the guy that was checking my entry pass commented on my necklace which is a paper bead necklace that one of our bead ladies made. He said he liked it and asked where I got it from. I resisted gushing all about Jennifer, the one who made the necklace but I wanted to tell him ALL about her and how they make the jewelry and how much I LOVE her. Instead, I said, "I live in Uganda and got it there". Concise enough, right?

-I keep wanting to say things with a Ugandan accent and have to stop myself.

-I keep wanting to call people "sabo" (sir) and "nyabo" (ma'am) (which I know I totally spelled them wrong but let me blame jet lag, ok?) but knowing that they wouldn't know what I was meaning. Those are the two things that I have to mentally go through whenever I speak the most.

-...but really, I haven't spoken a lot in the last 193948 hours of travel.

-It's hitting that point where my head is getting fuzzy. 5 more hours to go until I land in Lynchburg. What will my head be like then?

-When I got to Atlanta, I at last looked into a mirror. Amazing what traveling across the world does to one's appearance. Yikes.

-I seriously wish that Atlanta had a gym or at least a treadmill. I really want to run right now. Been.Sitting.Way.Too.Long.

-I'm kind of envying people with their cell phones right now. 5 hours till I get my American cell phone back.

-At LAST, I'm close to the time zones of everyone in my family! It will be so nice to not have to coordinate these crazy times zones.

-It is SO weird to see SO MANY white people! My first thought was, "where are they all coming from!?" and then I realized where I was and how obvious the answer to that is.

-Um, I want to hug an African...

-The guy I sat next to from Amsterdam to here was African-American and I almost said the above comment to him about wanting to hug black people but I didn't think that would go over so well...

-...but for real, if I see anyone that looks African, I'm going to have to resist.

-Do you people even KNOW how incredible the internet is here!?!? Holy crap, it is SO fast and consistent and just amaazing! I'm going to get spoiled here and then go back to Africa and hit the reality of crappy internet again. Until then...ooh, soo niice!

Ok, this has to be enough. Who wants to read deliriousness? Hope to SEE all of you soon. Here's to hoping that you don't have to deal with this insanity in person.

Miracles: Big and Small...and a little more. :)

2009-12-08T14:18:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow, I fly back to America. Whoa. I’ll be there for three weeks over Christmas but in ways it seems like forever. I don’t know if I’m ready for America yet. So, here I sit, the night before. We’ve been listening to old school John Mayer while making an impromptu Mexican fiesta. His music is nostalgia and greatness mixed in one. This is seriously the most organized I’ve been before a flight in my life. It’s probably because I’m barely packing any of my actual stuff. I have no clothes that I’m bringing besides what I’m wearing on the plane. I will pack my one sweatshirt that I brought to Uganda. I’ve yet to wear it here.

These past few days (weeks?) have been crazy. My main concern? Being able to leave the country. We’ve been waiting for my special visa to get cleared and in that process, those government offices need my passport. That’s cool and all unless you want to like, leave the country or something. I hadn’t really remembered it until Saturday when I started to get nervous. You can’t quite get through airport security without one of those bad boys and I didn’t know what I would do if it didn’t come through.

On Sunday, I talked to Robert, the amazing guy who works on all those details for us. He expressed concern and doubt that everything would go through before Wednesday but said he would “shake” them on Monday. I wasn’t sure what shaking included but I was a fan for anything that would get me my passport back.

Enter Monday. I text Robert and don’t hear back.

Enter today, Tuesday. We have a holiday program for the kids called Breakaway. During that time, Robert stopped by. I joined him outside to talk visa business. He said, “Sarah, I don’t think you’re going to be able to go to the US tomorrow”. I, thinking he was joking, said “are you serious!?” in a semi-joking way. He replied that he was indeed serious as he didn’t see how it would happen.

Oh, it hit me then. Worry flooded my stomach making it tighten. I mean, what if? What if the office refused to put my visa through quickly? What if they lost my passport, like has happened to many others? What if this wasn’t done in time and I couldn’t get on my flight? All the plans I've made so far with friends flashed in my head and I prayed that I wouldn't have to miss out on such times.

Questions pounded through my head as I prayed throughout themorning for God to work some kind of miracle. I prayed that Robert’s existing relationships in that office would help things run smoothly. I prayed that they could find my file and my passport. I prayed that the office would not require a bribe for everything to be completed. I prayed that God would miraculously make this happen.

Robert came by at some point to tell me that it would be ready by 2:00pm tomorrow. While I was thrilled that they had a time, it’s Africa. Things don’t necessarily happen at the time that they are planned. In fact, they rarely ever are. I’m leaving tomorrow for the airport at 6:00pm. It didn’t give me a lot of space for error.

This afternoon, Robert stopped by the office beaming with my passport in hand. I was THRILLED! I couldn’t believe how fast it all happened! Robert voiced surprise at how quickly everything was taken care of but I KNEW why. I KNEW Who was in control. Tomorrow will consist of getting all of my last minute details and packing together. I am seriously the USPS for the Ugandan missionaries. My trunks are full of letters and packages that everyone is sending to their loved ones for Christmas. Wait, does this make me Santa? I need to find a USPS uniform or a Santa costume, whichever one is warmer so I don't die of frostbite as I enter the arctic.

I look forward to seeing many of you during my time home. If we hang out, let it be indoors where I can be warm and pretend that I’m in a tropical climate again, ok? Ok.

Humanity Behind The Headlines

2009-11-15T07:42:00.005-05:00

We're a headlines culture. We like to know general facts but don't delve in deep. We may even read two or three paragraphs about something but go on with our lives. I'm one that has always liked to keep up with world news and am more than guilty of knowing general headlines but not knowing the depth of a situation or story.

I remember being in grad school and longing for the day when I could read for FUN again; reading a book because I wanted to not because I was required to. Ever since I've arrived here, I've been reading a lot of books consisting of personal stories of turmoil in Africa. Being here so close to these places makes me want to learn about them. I've seen so many headlines about Gulu, the LRA, Rwanda, Darfur but what do I really know about what went down? I know headlines, sure, but I don't know the people. I started out with "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families" that detailed the history and circumstances behind the Rwandan genocide as well as the aftermath that has effects that are lasting to this day in Rwanda and especially Congo.

My roommates recently commented on how I need to start reading some "light" books as all I read are heavy books. I can't help it. That book created a hunger in me to learn more about the area that I'm living in now and what people have experienced. It doesn't help that the bookstore I go to here has a steady supply of incredible biographies and true stories of atrocities that I've only read headlines of. I've been voraciously devouring books as my hunger for knowledge of the history around me increases. From child soldiers ("A Long Way Gone") to LRA abductions ("Aboke Girls") and much more, my mind has been constantly learning and yearning to know and understand more.

Two of the more recent books that I have read have helped me understand the plight of women in Africa. "Infidel" is written by Ayaan Hirsi Ali about her life growing up in Somalia as a Muslim. Though I'd studied Islam before, Islam in Africa is another deal. Animism gets tied in to every major religion here and as I've seen that with Christianity here in Uganda, she experience in Somalia with Islam. It also gave me an incredible background to the absolute insanity that has taken over Somalia now. In the end, she turns towards atheism as the answer which saddens me. Her journey, however, opens a door to the world of Islam in Africa. Absolutely fascinating. "Tears of the Desert" is the story of Halima Bashir, "one woman's true story of surviving the horrors of Darfur". What really got me to buy the book was a review on the book stating "Darfur has found its Anne Frank". Done. Sold. I read it in a little over a day. I couldn't put it down. The book started with her being gang raped as an adult and then zipped back to her loving childhood and went from there. So many parts of that book left me speechless, with only tears in my eyes.

Headlines. How many headlines have I read about Darfur? How many stories have I heard about the atrocities that have happened there? It's almost become "normal" to hear about it. Another village attacked. Hundreds dead. Normal. What's lost in headlines is humans. You don't see the lives that are impacted. I think of this so often when I look around to those that I love here. What if genocide hit here now? No one would know that this particular girl was so bright and smart. No one would know how talented this guy was. No one would know all that this one has already gone through in their lives and not only survived but risen so far above it. They would be summarized in a dead headline and dismissed with the next news story. That breaks my heart beyond what I can put into words. It is what the authors of these books are screaming out to the world...

...but who is listening?

Humanity is lost within headlines. It is the same with stories. I could tell you hundreds of stories about people here. The stories would break your heart. You would perhaps even shed tears. It's unreal, which is perhaps why it is so easily dismissed. It doesn't seem like the reality of the situation effects our lives and so we go on. What is lost in those stories is the humans that live those lives. I get the honor and privilege to see these lives. It's not like you hear a story about a girl who has been abandoned by her family and is struggling to survive and go back to your life. No, I see that girl as she LIVES her life this way.

My hunger for knowledge growls within me. I'll keep pursuing that as much as I can with a heart that grows heavier for God's most wondrous creation: humans.

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion,
as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.
You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.

(Psalm 139:13-16 NLT)

Musical Memory Lane

2009-10-26T11:16:00.003-04:00

As most know, I love music. All kinds. Most genres. Love it. I believe strongly in the power and influence of music, for both good and bad. Different bands and songs bring me to different memories and times in my life. It's been interesting to be here in Africa reminiscing of some of these times. It's like being a world away from these long ago memories...of which, I am. Some specifics for you...

Last week, I took a random last minute trip to Jinja, the town where the source of the Nile is, to see a couple friends there. It was my first time experiencing the public bus system here. I rode down with my friend Lori but rode back to Kampala the next day alone. I had brought my roomie's iPod (mine is in the States getting fixed) to keep me company while I rode. I flipped the iPod to Jack Johnson. Oh...Jack. The familiar songs, the calming strums of the guitar. It's the kind of music that takes you to a quiet beach or reading inside on a rainy day, all cozy on a comfortable couch.

Let me describe the situation for you. It had been pouring all day in Jinja. I was carrying this large painting with me that I had bought there. I was sitting in the last row of the bus in order not to be a nuisance with my ridiculously large painting. There were apparently holes in the roof by my head as dirty brown drops of water would hit me in different places throughout the ride. Since I was in the back, every pothole and speed bump (which since we're talking about Africa here, was A LOT) thrusted me out of my seat usually causing a "huuuah" to come out of my mouth. As we flew past fields of banana trees, naked children running alongside the road, shacks selling various items and the wide open space of the countryside, I often had to blink a few times to take me back to this world.

On Thursday, we had a day off from field meetings. Oh, there is just no way to tell you how exhausting those meetings were and how much a day off was needed! Since it was two days before my birthday, all three of us roomies celebrated by going to a local pool to lay out and swim. My standard laying out by the pool music is David Gray. I think it started on a spring break (which since we were all full time workers, it was more of a vacation days break) where Jill, Julie and I headed down to Clearwater, FL to spend some time in the sun and have fun. It was a memorable trip with so much fun had by all of us! I remember laying by the pool and by the beach there, relaxing to David Gray. Since then, it's been more of a tradition that I always listen to his "White Ladder" album when I lay out. Always. It's no different no matter what continent I'm in. That morning, I had the Beach Boys in my head. With the sunny day and a cloudless sky, "Fun Fun Fun" was in my head all morning. I started out by listening to them, tapping my toes to the tunes. I truly believe that everyone should start listening to Beach Boys while they are in California. It just fits. I remember being with my family in Monterey, CA as we drove around seeing the amazing views, stopping at Pebble Beach and eating by the shore. With my brother living in CA, there's been numerous visits to the state making it one of my favorite places to go. Listening to Beach Boys always takes me back to Monterey though. The Beach Boys were listened to first...but then I went to my staple David Gray.

Laying out in Africa was a new one for many reasons. First, the pool was right by this conference room where men in suits and women in skirts were having a serious meeting. I had my iPod on so I wasn't fully listening but it was something about children dying. And there we were, in our swimsuits, laying out. I KNOW. It was weird...and semi-awkward...ok, really awkward..especially when they took a break and were walking around the pool area...in their business suits...with us in our swimsuits. Nothing like yanking someone's mind out of Monterey, CA with that awkward situation.

So, I'm making new memories with my musical memories. What's your musical memory lane like?

I’m The Hot One…and How the Last Year of My Life Has Been Insane

2009-10-13T06:24:00.000-04:00

I’m the hot one.

I know what you’re thinking: “Sarah, how obvious, we’ve always known how ridiculously attractive you are.” No no, I’m referring to something else (but you can still keep that above thought. I won’t stop you).

My whole life, I’ve been the one that’s always cold. At work, there was a sweater that I would put around my legs for warmth. I lived in my cardigans and jackets. Liberty DID have a tendency to freeze us out but I was always especially frozen. The guys that answered my work orders for freezing temps started getting sassy as they heard from me so much. At any home I’ve lived in, I was always the one covered in blankets and sweatshirts as others walked around without such heavy covering. I have ALWAYS been the cold one…

…until now.

I am now officially the hot one. I have NO idea how this happened. When my other friends are searching for their jackets, I’m wiping away sweat. I had a ceiling fan installed in my room a few weeks after arriving due to that I was SO HOT at nights that I would wake up sweating. In addition to the ceiling fan, I have a fan by my head that I use on extra hot nights (which is most, to me). At the same time, we got a ceiling fan installed in the living room and it is I that always begs to have it turned on. Lately, due to rainy season, it’s been much cooler here in Kampala. One night, I even pulled out a blanket and put socks on. I haven’t have socks on my feet since I arrived (I think. This can’t be confirmed because I really don’t remember). It does increase sympathy towards all of my family, friends, co-workers and roommates that I’ve had, especially the ones that were always hot. So, to you I say, I’m sorry. I now know how you feel. It’s not fun. I probably put you through all sorts of hot and uncomfortable temperatures and for that, I am sorry.

All this to say, I am most likely going to die when I’m back in the States for Christmas. I’ve gotten more used to this tropical climate and I cannot imagine what cold feels like anymore which, frankly, is an awesome thing. For those that I will see in Lynchburg and Cedar Rapids, get the warm blankets ready. I’ll bring my own socks.

I was thinking today of how insane the last year of my life has been. Last June, my life was thrown a part. I cancelled my plans to move to Thailand and wondered what in the WORLD God was doing. July and August were spent searching various organizations to see where God was guiding. I had many long conversations with different organizations and friends. I remember when God had closed doors so that the only two options left were missions organizations. Missions!? Lord, are you serious? Raise support? Be dependent on people?...and even more, be dependent on You? Missions was a big one to swallow but even after that, I had to make a choice. I was getting antsy. I just wanted to GO into the world and serve Him but I was stuck. I had to choose an organization to go with first. This decision was the hardest for me. As much as I would open my arms wide and shout to God, “I am willing to go ANYWHERE for YOU!”, He would whisper in my ear, “I have put specific passions and desires in your heart for My glory”. Oh, but I was willing. I got a gold star in willingness. Unfortunately, in that willingness, I threw aside all that I knew God had put in my heart to do.

I remember the conversation clearly. I was talking with Jeremy at WorldVenture. Jeremy still deserves a huge raise for dealing with me during this time…or at least some kind of extra cool jewel on his crown in heaven. We had many conversations on where God was leading me and why him and his wife had chosen WorldVenture. I always knew that WorldVenture was the best organization, I just wasn’t sure if it was best for ME. In that conversation, Jeremy asked if I needed options to see to help me decide. I emphatically said “YES!” and he sent me about six options in Africa. I read through the descriptions and stopped on this option with an organization called Hope Alive! I went to their website, read what they did and…stopped. I got this weird feeling in my stomach. Chills began on my arms. Everything they did fulfilled the passions and desires that God had put on my heart. It was almost too good to be true. I quickly sent the link to Maria and called her.

Me: You need to go to the website I just sent you…like, now.
Maria (while reading): Sarah, this is everything you’ve ever prayed about. This is YOU!
Me: I KNOW! Isn’t it SO SCARY!?

At that moment, I knew what God was doing. I couldn’t believe it. I was so willing to go to a place that I knew I would hate to do something that I wasn’t passionate about and…why? God had the PERFECT option for me. He is too good to me.

That was…September, I think? I started the application process for WorldVenture in which they searched every nook and cranny in my life to see if I was normal. Officially, I am normal. Whew. I didn’t find out those results until late December/early January. The pressure of knowing if I was normal or not was overwhelming. Ok, not really. Those months in between were so up in the air. I just kept thinking, “what if I’m not accepted? What if God has something else up His sleeve? Could He? This seems so perfect.” I wondered if I should have some kind of cool back up plan if this didn’t pan out. I remember being at the Catalyst conference, exactly a year ago. As I wandered the arena looking at the different booths that were set up, I wondered if I should even stop at any. Should I talk to other NGO’s? Missions organizations? Step by step, God kept the door open. Step by step, I passed the different tests until I found out that I was officially accepted. God had paved the way.

Once I had been accepted, life went crazy. The thought of raising support with the addition of the unknown timeline of when I’ve be moving thousands of miles away to another continent made me shake. While God provided friends who came alongside me during my church visits (Mary!!!) and those who prayed for me during that time (You!!), He was paving the way. Step by step.

In ways, I still can’t believe I’m here. In ways, I can’t believe HE did it. Wow. I am blessed in more ways than I could ever deserve. This past year has been insane and I could never imagine all that He would do.

And step by step He leads me, and I will follow Him all of my days…