Jackson

Today after worship, I went with some of the youth to Remand Home, a juvenile detention center near the church.

We visited with the boys in small groups—told them about Jesus, prayed with them, listened to their stories, if they were willing to share.

One boy, Jackson, told us that he hadn’t committed the theft that had landed him in the home, that he’d been framed by an enemy of his family. He said that these enemies had killed his father when he was a small child, because they suspected the father of being involved with witchcraft. Whether his father had been involved in witchcraft or not, it was clear to us that he’d come from a background where fear and the occult reigned, and where the love of God was unknown.

Jackson asked us how he should respond to those enemies. And possibly the most difficult answer I’ve ever had to give was: Forgive them. Love them. Pray for them.

He told us that he didn’t know how to pray, and so we offered to pray with him and for him. And he told us that he believed that Jesus was the Son of God.

Please pray for Jackson and his ongoing spiritual development. He clearly longs for the peace of God to transcend the fear and anger and revenge that have been such a part of his life.

Dear Ugandan government:

I have a fantastic idea! You should double the price of work permits for NGO workers in your country without telling anyone. That will make it more difficult for people to come into your country to help educate your citizens, and cause immense frustration for NGO workers who are already here. Who wouldn't benefit from that?

Sincerely,
Emily

A few photos

Jennifer, Brooklyn, and me by the Nile River -- Jinja, Uganda


Little Patrick at Kitale Children's Home

The newborn baby of Bosco and Nancy, houseparents at Kitale.


Our night watchman Benard, his wife Juliet, and their two little girls. One of the girls, Deena, is schedule to have surgery for a cyst early next month.

Scripture autobiography

Earlier this afternoon, I was doing an exercise for ladies' Bible study -- the assignment was to write a personal purpose statement, a mission statement of sorts. To brainstorm, I started listing Bible verses that I've memorized and meditated on at various points since my baptism 8 years. The result was not exactly a statement of my life's purpose, but perhaps more of a scriptural autobiography? Each of these verses God placed on my heart to draw me closer to him during a specific situation or a season:


“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6) (15 years)

“To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given to me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me, but he said, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly in persecutions, in hardships, in trials, and in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (1 Cor. 12) (17 years)

“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Mt. 6:33) (18 years)

“For I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto him against that day.” (2 Tim. 1:12) (19 years)

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 4:4-7) (20 years)

“For we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:23) (21 years)

Anyway, I just enjoyed reflecting on these verses this afternoon, and thought I'd share.

Speaks for itself.

Adventure of a lifetime?

People back in the States frequently tell me, "Wow! You must be having the adventure of a lifetime!" And in a way, they're right: I've rafted the Nile. I've slept on the Serengeti Plains. I've danced to traditional Zambian instruments. I've swum under waterfalls. I've greeted and sang and made a fool of myself in more languages than I can remember.

But a lot of the time, life is just life. I do dishes and I sort library books and I interact with houseworkers and guards and children. I make sure the water filter stays filled. I teach math and grammar and reading to bright, hard-headed students. I oversleep. I pray for the sick children of my friends. I spend too much time on Facebook. I bake with Blue Band instead of butter and wish I could get good raspberry jam.

And that's okay.

Teacups and Rhinoceroses

On the team retreat, we did a team-building exercise called the Teacup Game. Laura put a teacup on a table in the middle of us, and told us: Write five sentences about the teacup. Then we went around the circle and read our sentences. The point of the activity was to show how various people approach situations and problems differently.

Many people made lists of the teacup’s features: pink and yellow flowers, gold rim, saucer, ornate handle, etc.

Phillip’s included: “If the teacup is really porcelain, it could probably hold up a small car.”

Mary Beth’s was a paragraph about the teacup’s four generations of owners.

My first instinct was to write a descriptive list – I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. But instead I started mine: “A rampaging rhinoceros overturned the table and shattered the teacup to bits.”

I think maybe I’ve had a similar attitude towards blogging lately. My first instinct is that I ought to chronicle the “big” things that have happened – rafting, teaching at Natalie’s school, SEE ministries, etc. But why should I do that? Why shouldn't I embrace my inner Virginia Woolf and write whatever I take a mind to writing?

There and back again

Hello,

I'm back home (in Mbale) for awhile after a busy couple of weeks -- a weekend rafting the Nile in Jinja, a few days resting in rural Kenya on team retreat, a few more days at Kitale Children's Home playing with babies. I intend to post bits from my trip journal (and hopefully some pictures, if the internet cooperates!) sometime in the next couple of days, but I just thought I'd stop by and say I'm doing well. :)

Feel free to laugh at me for this. I did.

Yesterday I had what I think is best described as a culture-shock day.

Last night, I was sitting in the living room talking to Joanna on gmail chat, and I kept hearing a click-click-click noise. At first I thought it was the fan blowing things across the reed mat.

But then I saw it.

The demon scorpion spider of doom.

You might think I'm exaggerating a bit. But you'd be wrong. In Zambia they're called rain spiders. I'm not sure what they're called here. Whatever they are, they're about two inches in diameter (not including legs), dark brown, speedy little buggers. And they are nigh impossible to kill. Even if you're fast enough to get to it and hit it, I swear to you that it has some sort of armor. Spiders are not supposed to have hard exoskeletons, but somehow these do. You can whack them with a shoe, and they hardly seem to notice. You have to truly beat them in order to kill them.

Now, I'm not easily freaked out by creepy-crawly things. I can handle the daddy long-legs-looking spider that lives in my bathroom. I can handle wall spiders. I can even handle the itty-bitty jumping spiders that pop out of nowhere.

What I can not handle is a spider that makes clack-clack-clack noises as it runs across my living room floor. But spiders are not supposed to clack-clack-clack. Just like spiders are not supposed to have hard exoskeletons. If it were just a slight rustling, shuffling sort of noise, I could forgive it. I cannot forgive a spider that clack-clack-clacks across my living room and clack-clack-clacks under the couch where I am sitting.

So I hurried to bed not long after that, eager for the protection of my mosquito net. But as I was changing into my pajamas, I heard a faint "meow!" And then again, but more distressed, "Meooooow!" I looked around the room. I saw no cat. I continued about my business. But there it was again: "Meeeoooooow!"

We have been trying to train Chi to be an outside cat ever since I've been here -- I'm allergic to him, and none of us particularly like him. But, well, he's not the brightest kitty in the litter, I'm afraid, and he's previously been spoiled, so the training hasn't gone so well. Lately he's taken to hiding in odd places -- the school library, the teacher workroom, the bathtub -- and getting locked in until someone discovers him many hours later.

His newest hiding place? ... My underwear drawer.

We've decided that the cat needs to find a new home.





Now, neither of these two incidents is really a big deal. And I know that. But somehow, some days, everything is a big deal, and yesterday was one of them. This is, of course, a sign of mild culture shock, and I know that, too. And today I can laugh about it. But sometimes it's just the little things that are frustrating, you know?

Quiz time!

Even though English is a widely spoken, official language in Uganda, what people actually speak is in some ways a far cry from the English we speak in America. There are, of course, loanwords from local languages: chapati (food), goomez (clothing), matatu (van), mzungu (foreigner), boda (bike), gnuts (food), and piki-piki (motorcycle), and many others, have all become part of my daily vocabulary.

But then there are normal English words that are used in very non-standard ways. For instance, can you guess the meaning of the following phrases?

1) Can you pick me for church on Sunday?
a. May I lead a prayer on Sunday?
b. Will you give me a ride?
c. Will you tell me what time to arrive?

2) Will you extend?
a. May I shake your hand?
b. Are you staying here tonight?
c. Please move over.

3) I am shifting.
a. I’m getting sick.
b. I’m moving to a new home.
c. I got a new car.

4) You are lost.
a. You don’t know where you are.
b. I haven’t seen you in awhile.
c. I have a bad phone connection – let me call you back.

Mzungu! How are you?

“Mzungu” is Swahili for “foreigner.” Children call it out with amusement when they see me out running. Merchants yell it to call my attention to their wares in the marketplace. Fellow mzungu use it ironically when talking about the strange things we mzungu women do – like stop the car to get a newborn baby goat out of the middle of the road:

Saturday afternoon I went with Joan, a friend from the youth group, to a waterfall partway up Mount Wanale. On our way we passed through several villages on the outskirts of Mbale. Mzungu don’t wander up that direction very often, so we attracted a good bit of attention. English is taught in schools here, but all the English some of the smaller children seem to know is, “How are you?” So as we walked through the villages, children would call to me, “Mzungu! How are you?” They trailed after us like I was the Pied Piper all the way up to the falls, and when I got my camera out, crowded around with a mixture of eagerness, shyness and, fear.

All in all, I frequently feel like I’m going to be the subject of some small child’s dinnertime conversation.

AIDS Orphans' Day

The AIDS Orphans Program (AOP) that the Mbale team coordinates sponsors children to live with extended family members or other guardians who might not be able to care for them without assistance. The program provides the children with basic necessities like food, clothes, and school fees. A few times a year, all the children and their guardians gather in Mbale for an Orphan Day.



Kimberly, the program’s leader, asked me to deliver a Bible lesson for this Saturday’s Orphan Day. I spoke on David and Goliath, soliciting help from one of the youngest children and one of the oldest children to play the two parts.

I think Mbale is really home now, because I have:
-had two little girls plop themselves down in my lap at church;
-made two dinners for myself and Jennifer;
-successfully lit a gas stove and gas oven;
-baked an ugly-but-tasty strawberry cake that only sort of followed the recipe;
-and shared said ugly-but-tasty cake with assorted friends.



So yes, I am doing well here. Today I'll be going to youth group at the church, and then next Tuesday school starts.

Mbale is beautiful. I need to post pictures eventually, but I'm afraid that may have to wait awhile -- the internet is down at my house, so I'm borrowing from one of the other missionaries right now. So if I'm a bit slow responding to emails and such, that's why. But I'll write again when I can.

Hello from Mbale!

I've now arrived safely in Mbale and am beginning to settle into my new home. I'm sharing a house with Jennifer, one of the other schoolteachers, and (soon) Brooklyn, a Harding student who'll be interning here starting in a few weeks. The schoolhouse is on our compound, which is also walking distance from the homes of several of the missionaries.

So far I haven't done much. Jennifer and Linda, one of the missionaries, picked me up from the Entebbe airport yesterday. We ran a few errands in Kampala, the capital city, buying assorted things that aren't available in Mbale. Had dinner with most of the team, then came home and crashed. I slept 15 or 16 hours last night -- which I'm not sure I've done ever in my life -- and am still sleepy.

I intend to use this blog to keep my friends and family updated on my life, work, and thoughts while I'm in Uganda this next year. Check back for more updates later!