There are so many things I love about our lives here.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
A Saturday afternoon
There are so many things I love about our lives here.
This means you!
Had to put some of these words on his next spelling test, but I've gotta give the kid some credit for sounding menacing. (Who knew his room was government property?)
I do have some idea what might make it "highly flammable".
Friday, February 15, 2013
The Valentine
It was almost dinnertime tonight when my friend Semei--our rather lifesaving Financial Administrator at the office (even running our payments to the electric company)--coasted through our gate on his motorcycle. He's always got such a wide, easy smile. And he had something even better resting between the handles: A cushioned manila envelope with my name in red Sharpie. My dad's handwriting.
I knew it would come! I'm thirty-two now. I live in Africa with my husband and four kids. But every year, my dad sends me a valentine.
This year, it had a purple crew-neck women's tee in my size (can't get new ones here) and even some neutral lipstick and gloss (thanks for the help, Mom!). Even better, there was a sparkly pink card inscribed with my dad's characteristic mix of lowercase and capitals. They say he is "so proud" of me.
(Sniff.)
Love you too, Dad.
I knew it would come! I'm thirty-two now. I live in Africa with my husband and four kids. But every year, my dad sends me a valentine.
This year, it had a purple crew-neck women's tee in my size (can't get new ones here) and even some neutral lipstick and gloss (thanks for the help, Mom!). Even better, there was a sparkly pink card inscribed with my dad's characteristic mix of lowercase and capitals. They say he is "so proud" of me.
(Sniff.)
Love you too, Dad.
Prayer, answered
In the mornings when I shuffle out to my back deck with sleep in my eyes and a blanket on my shoulders, I can watch the smooth pink of the sun rise over the fourth-biggest lake in the world. It's a great time to pray for Uganda, because I can see some of the city beneath me: roofs of terra-cotta or corrugated tin, the silhouette of acacia trees, smoke rising in dusky ribbons from cooking fires. I pray against the corruption that seems to permeate so deeply, exacting its tax from the backs of the poor and orphaned. I pray that God would relieve extreme poverty; that Jesus would be King in the hearts of Ugandans.
It's sobering, there from the wicker couch my husband bought for me, gazing out on a slice of the city waking up for another day. I never really see the city change, apart from the weather. It's been a year now. So I admit to some discouragement that has washed over me as I continue to pray (or in all honesty, sometimes fail to continue) when things seem the same as before, despite a year of hard work and some personal heartache and costliness. In fact, they seem worse, because I'm more aware than ever of their depth, I think--which is still deeper than I'll ever really know.
I want to pray big prayers, because I think God works through them. I think of Daniel, and how his apparently "delayed" answer to prayer was actually deal to an intense spiritual battle. I think of Samuel, and his words in 1 Samuel 12:
I also can't count the times I've looked over the chaos and pain in the crush of Kampala and thought of a reaction of Jesus': When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. At any rate, the one-year mark has been a bit of a reality check. I've been convicted of my own lack of faith when I'm slogging through moments of discouragement.
But a cool thing happened at my rather long appointment at the embassy (which, BTW, is not really the little slice of America I was hoping for. Well, except the extensive security measures. Even the TV was a Chinese channel). I introduced myself to a couple I'd seen at church. Turns out the guy's working with International Justice Mission, specifically with judges and lawyers to work against corruption in a 10-year plan. It was almost as if God had His hand on my shoulder, a knowing smile on His face. And You thought I didn't hear you. Pretty cool for the couple and me, I think, to find out that God had us working together before we'd even shook hands.
Tonight I'm thankful for a God who keeps working, seen or unseen.
It's sobering, there from the wicker couch my husband bought for me, gazing out on a slice of the city waking up for another day. I never really see the city change, apart from the weather. It's been a year now. So I admit to some discouragement that has washed over me as I continue to pray (or in all honesty, sometimes fail to continue) when things seem the same as before, despite a year of hard work and some personal heartache and costliness. In fact, they seem worse, because I'm more aware than ever of their depth, I think--which is still deeper than I'll ever really know.
I want to pray big prayers, because I think God works through them. I think of Daniel, and how his apparently "delayed" answer to prayer was actually deal to an intense spiritual battle. I think of Samuel, and his words in 1 Samuel 12:
For the Lord will not forsake his people, for his great name's sake, because it has pleased the Lord to make you a people for himself. Moreover, as for me, far be it from me that I should sin against the Lord by ceasing to pray for you...
I also can't count the times I've looked over the chaos and pain in the crush of Kampala and thought of a reaction of Jesus': When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. At any rate, the one-year mark has been a bit of a reality check. I've been convicted of my own lack of faith when I'm slogging through moments of discouragement.
But a cool thing happened at my rather long appointment at the embassy (which, BTW, is not really the little slice of America I was hoping for. Well, except the extensive security measures. Even the TV was a Chinese channel). I introduced myself to a couple I'd seen at church. Turns out the guy's working with International Justice Mission, specifically with judges and lawyers to work against corruption in a 10-year plan. It was almost as if God had His hand on my shoulder, a knowing smile on His face. And You thought I didn't hear you. Pretty cool for the couple and me, I think, to find out that God had us working together before we'd even shook hands.
Tonight I'm thankful for a God who keeps working, seen or unseen.
Friday, February 1, 2013
I call it the "exhausted mzungu stare"
Oh, yes indeed. The mzungu "I'm-stressed-enough-that-I'm-going-to-my-own-quiet-corner-of-the-house" situation needed a bit of intentional strategy over here. Today on MomLifeToday.com is my take on Chillin' with my Husband: Time for a Plan.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The One Year Interview
Today's the day--we've been in Uganda an entire year.
There are a thousand reflections I could share with you on this day. But for fun, I thought I'd interview the kids for their perspective.
For the record—B. is 8 now, W. is newly 7, C. is 5, and J. is 3.
There are a thousand reflections I could share with you on this day. But for fun, I thought I'd interview the kids for their perspective.
For the record—B. is 8 now, W. is newly 7, C. is 5, and J. is 3.
Why did we move here,
do you think?
C: We are going to help Ugandans know God.
W: We are going to build some things.
What things do you
like about living Uganda?
B: We can buy things with our very own money since they’re
right down the street.
C: We can get packages in the mail!
W, C, and J: We have more friends, and they’re not very far
away.
B: We can find igneous rocks! [Like the one Daddy just
brought home from Kilimanjaro…technically not in Uganda.]
C: We can raise money for eMi [through Kilimanjaro].
W: That I have a little [decorative] canoe from the craft
market! And that I live in a compound, so I can go out in the front yard! Safaris
are the best thing about Uganda! And that we have a tire swing we can swing on
whenever we want. And the avocadoes and all the different kinds of animals and
birds, like ibises. Our climbing tree.
J: I do like safaris, and the two scooters we have now. I
like Zac.
What are things you
miss about living in the U.S.?
W: The power would always stay on, and we could carve
pumpkins. I miss visiting Grandma every week.
B: I miss the state fair.
C: I miss the parades, and playing on the playground [there
are few playgrounds in Uganda].
Who are people that
you really enjoy in Uganda?
W and B: Oliver,
Zane, Jonathan, Lachie, Maddie, Sophia, and Janet. Yokaneh, Joseph, and Julius,
and Moses, and Patrick [our night and weekend guards].
J: Zac. And Yokaneh and Julius!
C: Evelyn, Leah (she’s not here any more), Sophia, Mercy,
Haven, and Hannah. And Oliver! And Yokaneh, and Patrick, and Wilson, and Moses
[guards], and Stephen [Ugandan eMi staff].
Who are people you
really miss from the U.S.?
C: I miss my friends. And Emma and Drew and Sophie (cousins)
and Miss Rebecca. And all my aunts and uncles. And everybody!
W and C and B: Grandmas and grandpas!
W: Emma and Drew and Sophie! We have never seen Sophie!
What are some things
you see here that you hadn’t seen before you moved here—that you think are
interesting?
W: Ndizi (little, finger-like bananas) and animals, like
chickens and monkeys. And taxis. Cacti.
B: Matatus (15-passenger taxis) and bodas (motorcycle taxis).
Guards. Igneous rock.
C: Igneous rock [can you tell that this rock is making an
impression?]. Cactus trees, like the one in our yard.
What are things that
you think Ugandans are good at?
B: They are good at making ropes and being resourceful.
W: And jump ropes too!
C: I think Ugandans are good at making with their hands.
W and C: And carrying things on their heads!
What are some things
you’ve learned this year?
B: How to make a jump rope.
W: How to make guacamole.
What is something
here that would be hard to describe to people who live in the U.S.?
W and C: The Ugandan language.
C: All sorts of Ugandan things, like making things with
their hands and carrying them on their heads.
W: And all the different kinds of taxis.
What are some things
that make you sad here?
W: That we don’t have all our family here.
B: Ugandan suffering.
C: Same as will and Baden.
What foods do you
like here?
C: Posho! [Maize-meal mush] Avocadoes. Maize. Radishes.
G-nut sauce [like peanut sauce].
B: Mangoes.
What American foods
do you miss?
W, C, and B: Pickles.
B and C: Corn on the cob.
B: I don’t mean to be rude, but when is this interview going
to be over?
What is one of your
favorite Luganda words?
B: Ssebo (sir).
C: Nyabo (ma’am).
W: Kati, kati (now, now).
What’s something that
you like, but didn’t expect to like here?
B: Here [i.e. I didn’t expect to like it here, but I like
it].
W: Ndizi.
C: I didn’t expect to like G-nuts or maize, but now I do.
What do your parents
do here to help people?
B, W, and C: Give them food.
B: Give them homes (through eMi).
What is cool about
growing up in Africa?
W: The rainy seasons are so fun!
B: Learning things to make us better people.
The con
He arrived at our gate a couple of Sunday evenings ago, gripping the wrought iron and somehow looking a shade nervous: sweating, timid. My husband was gone, leaving our guard Yokaneh, and the kids and I.
When I heard him speaking with Yokaneh, I stepped out of the door and greeted the man in Luganda, smiling at him, trying to ease his anxiety somehow, to welcome him without opening my gate. Because I've been counseled not to open for strangers--a culturally acceptable practice--I spoke to him through the parallel bars.
He handed a wrinkled receipt from a local clinic, filled out in ballpoint pen for an eight-year-old girl named Jane. She was being treated for typhoid; his daughter, he explained. He'd known someone who'd worked next door (i.e. at eMi) in 2006. The mzungu--Joel, by name--no longer lived in Uganda, but my visitor was wondering if possibly someone could help him still. The bills were too steep for his daughter's treatment.
It's at moments like these where I'm starting, out of habit, to just pray for wisdom as soon as I encounter them. It's as if my faith is being tested. What's it really made of? What does it look like here? Goodness' sakes, Lord, what do I do? The obvious biblical reference would be the parable of Lazarus, who waited at the rich man's gate for scraps from his table. Still, it's far from a perfect parallel. When Helping Hurts--though it's not gospel, per se--has done a lot to remind me what happens when I make conscience-soothing efforts by flashing my cash with my white-lady presence as opposed to truly offering relief, development, or whatever's needed "as fits the occasion" (Ephesians 4:29). Unfortunately, the legacy of "hurtful helping" has sometimes prolonged or worsened the suffering of a lot of Ugandans. And things are far complex than my naive little eyes usually know. Solution: Ask Somebody who does.
The amount my visitor was indirectly requesting, African-style, was relatively small; maybe the equivalent of $40 USD. Still at a loss, I simply offered to pray for him and his daughter there through the bars, so pray we did.
Yokaneh piped up behind me that Stephen, a Ugandan who handles much of our local staff administration, was up at the office; the man could go and talk to him. Perfect! Someone who would hopefully know better than I how to handle odd situations like this (i.e. a perfect stranger asks me for money presumably because of my ethnicity, i.e. economic status). Again, the question in my mind: Am I just saying "be warmed and filled"? (Again, looking at the verse, not a good parallel.)
As a gesture, I offered to escort the man up to the office. Yokaneh took a polite step forward. "I don't think that's a good idea." Got it. Yokaneh is doing his job, and I am fine with that. Despite sharing height my shortest sister (at 5'1"), the guy is a superb guard.
When the man turned the corner, Yokaneh relaxed. His rhythmic African accent: "Dat guy ees a cone man." I.e., That guy is a con-man.
Eh?
"Patrick"--the guard at eMi, who often chats with our guard over our brick wall, hanging out in the avocado tree (quite literally)--"whistled and told me he was coming. A couple of years ago Janet Strike posted his picture on the door at the office and said that if we saw him, we should chase him away. Every once in awhile he comes back with a new story: His family's been in an accident, what, what." ("What-what" is Ugandan for "etcetera, etcetera".) "He goes to jail, then comes back out and starts again."
Well. I bent over, expelling air in relief. Here I was, thinking, what does it say about my faith when I turn away--well, delegate, at least--the man at my own gate?
"You can only give money to people you know here," Yokaneh says. Another Ugandan went so far this week to tell me not to give money to Ugandans (!--after I was lied to yet again, praying again, being spared my own naivete again); to simply give things people need.
Compassion is so...complicated sometimes.
Thank God for answered prayer.
When I heard him speaking with Yokaneh, I stepped out of the door and greeted the man in Luganda, smiling at him, trying to ease his anxiety somehow, to welcome him without opening my gate. Because I've been counseled not to open for strangers--a culturally acceptable practice--I spoke to him through the parallel bars.
He handed a wrinkled receipt from a local clinic, filled out in ballpoint pen for an eight-year-old girl named Jane. She was being treated for typhoid; his daughter, he explained. He'd known someone who'd worked next door (i.e. at eMi) in 2006. The mzungu--Joel, by name--no longer lived in Uganda, but my visitor was wondering if possibly someone could help him still. The bills were too steep for his daughter's treatment.
It's at moments like these where I'm starting, out of habit, to just pray for wisdom as soon as I encounter them. It's as if my faith is being tested. What's it really made of? What does it look like here? Goodness' sakes, Lord, what do I do? The obvious biblical reference would be the parable of Lazarus, who waited at the rich man's gate for scraps from his table. Still, it's far from a perfect parallel. When Helping Hurts--though it's not gospel, per se--has done a lot to remind me what happens when I make conscience-soothing efforts by flashing my cash with my white-lady presence as opposed to truly offering relief, development, or whatever's needed "as fits the occasion" (Ephesians 4:29). Unfortunately, the legacy of "hurtful helping" has sometimes prolonged or worsened the suffering of a lot of Ugandans. And things are far complex than my naive little eyes usually know. Solution: Ask Somebody who does.
The amount my visitor was indirectly requesting, African-style, was relatively small; maybe the equivalent of $40 USD. Still at a loss, I simply offered to pray for him and his daughter there through the bars, so pray we did.
Yokaneh piped up behind me that Stephen, a Ugandan who handles much of our local staff administration, was up at the office; the man could go and talk to him. Perfect! Someone who would hopefully know better than I how to handle odd situations like this (i.e. a perfect stranger asks me for money presumably because of my ethnicity, i.e. economic status). Again, the question in my mind: Am I just saying "be warmed and filled"? (Again, looking at the verse, not a good parallel.)
As a gesture, I offered to escort the man up to the office. Yokaneh took a polite step forward. "I don't think that's a good idea." Got it. Yokaneh is doing his job, and I am fine with that. Despite sharing height my shortest sister (at 5'1"), the guy is a superb guard.
When the man turned the corner, Yokaneh relaxed. His rhythmic African accent: "Dat guy ees a cone man." I.e., That guy is a con-man.
Eh?
"Patrick"--the guard at eMi, who often chats with our guard over our brick wall, hanging out in the avocado tree (quite literally)--"whistled and told me he was coming. A couple of years ago Janet Strike posted his picture on the door at the office and said that if we saw him, we should chase him away. Every once in awhile he comes back with a new story: His family's been in an accident, what, what." ("What-what" is Ugandan for "etcetera, etcetera".) "He goes to jail, then comes back out and starts again."
Well. I bent over, expelling air in relief. Here I was, thinking, what does it say about my faith when I turn away--well, delegate, at least--the man at my own gate?
"You can only give money to people you know here," Yokaneh says. Another Ugandan went so far this week to tell me not to give money to Ugandans (!--after I was lied to yet again, praying again, being spared my own naivete again); to simply give things people need.
Compassion is so...complicated sometimes.
Thank God for answered prayer.
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