Seems something is in the water here… there are 4 weddings planned for the next two months. I wish I could somehow transcribe the events that lead up to the actual wedding but it is impossible. First there is the introduction: the man and representatives come to meet or rather, come to be introduced to, the woman’s family. There is big pomp and circumstance. From what I understand, the man is not allowed to speak at the introduction, his representatives speak for him. The two groups agree on the bride price and then the man and woman are officially engaged.
After the engagement the woman is responsible for raising funds for the Give Away and the man is responsible for raising funds for the wedding. We have one Give Away to contribute for, and three Weddings.
Mollie and I attended a meeting today, the first meeting for the first wedding. It was Mollie’s first time attending such an event, my second. It goes something like this:
Twenty Two people crammed into a room each handed a budget. Yes, a budget for the wedding. The purpose of this first meeting is to review the budget, and then pledge money to cover the cost of the wedding. No, I am not kidding. The meeting turns into a shouting match as attendees argue about the required contribution (the obligatory contribution) and the friendship contribution (that you give as ‘men’).
Mollie and I spend the meeting fixing spelling errors on the budget, laughing as we attempt to decipher the words by saying them out loud and trying to “hear” what they meant to write, and fixing the math errors. We then write down the funny things we hear in a book to share the giggles with Rebekah when we get home.
The end amount we add to find: six million three hundred twenty eight thousand shillings.
I have a hard time at this point. I have a hard time justifying such expense when there is so much need here. I wonder if I am not normal, or if I am somehow messed up for not feeling so thrilled at the whole expenditure thing.
Entertainment, transport for all relatives, transport for the bridal party, the wedding costumes, the food (for an estimated 400), local drinks, music, rings, you get the picture.
The members of the “scheme” (yes, that is what you call the group that met today, a scheme) clap as the pledges are read aloud, as some give cash, and as others try to quietly blend as they don’t have the cash to contribute right at the moment.
It sure is different than what I am used to back in the states.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Time of Suffering
Walking up the hill from the pit latrine there is a certain night code: you don’t greet. I break the code and greet the students on the stairway, because at night, you are still you, and you are still responsible for what you do and where you are. This belief of mine is contrary to the belief that is held here, but as it turns out, lots of my beliefs differ from the local beliefs.
I approach a group of three boys taking a break from the mandatory night “prep” study time. They are discussing the recent drying up of our well. “The time of suffering has begun” one boy says, shaking his head and sighing. I pause on the steps. A heaviness settles on my chest and shoulders. We are now in the dry season, and while we expected it to happen, it was still hard to swallow when the faucets only sputtered and then stopped spouting the life giving water.
I greet the boys by name and then continue up the never ending stairs towards our house. Mollie and Bekah are inside and as we share a cup of tea before bedtime, I share what I overheard.
Our students now fetch water from another local well, further down the hill. I haven’t walked there myself yet, but I plan to. The boys told me that I would manage to reach there easily enough, but returning with a full jerry can would be “a tug of war”. They assured me that I would manage though. I smiled as they told me this, my “power” is returning. I am regaining my strength after April’s drain.
The three of us girls held a pow-wow and decided that while we technically could fetch our own water; this would be an opportunity for some of our neediest students to earn some money. We tried doing the math but gave up, a jerry can holds 20 liters of water- how much does that weigh? We decided that we would pay 1000 shillings for three full jugs- fifty cents. It sounds strange converting it to dollars, everything is shillings in my mind. The going rate is 300 shillings per jug, this rate will last until this closer well runs dry; when it does the next closest well is in another village, and the rate for fetching increases to 500 shillings.
Getting water is not impossible, so it is funny how panicked I felt when I watched the faucets sputter and then hiss. We had a good laugh as Mollie was reading a National Geographic magazine called Adventure. The topic of the issue was “How to Survive Almost Anything”, one article: The West Runs Dry. I am going to type excerpts of the tips for survival here with our comments.
1) Set up cisterns or barrels and use your roof and gutters to harvest rain: we use basins, so, CHECK
2) Knock out the kitchen sink pipe and use a five gallon bucket to collect gray water for garden irrigation: we don’t have plumbing, so, CHECK
3) Keep showers to a minimum and exchange the standard issue toilet for a composing model: again, no plumbing, just basins and washcloths and a hole in the ground, so, CHECK
We will be totally prepared to save the West when we get back stateside. No worries
Yes, the well ran dry, but I refuse the idea that the “time of suffering” has begun. Changing my perspective really helped- now is a time to be able to help some of the kids who need school fees topped up, books, or uniform. Now is a time to teach the value of hard work as they receive good pay for their efforts. Now is a time to learn how to live economically and responsibly with the resources we have been given. Now is the time to have a renewal of our NBA membership. (No Bathing Association, remember?) Now is the time for feeling extra loved each day as we use the face wipes my mom so lovingly sent (cut so they last longer) for washing our faces. A time for everything under the sun…
I approach a group of three boys taking a break from the mandatory night “prep” study time. They are discussing the recent drying up of our well. “The time of suffering has begun” one boy says, shaking his head and sighing. I pause on the steps. A heaviness settles on my chest and shoulders. We are now in the dry season, and while we expected it to happen, it was still hard to swallow when the faucets only sputtered and then stopped spouting the life giving water.
I greet the boys by name and then continue up the never ending stairs towards our house. Mollie and Bekah are inside and as we share a cup of tea before bedtime, I share what I overheard.
Our students now fetch water from another local well, further down the hill. I haven’t walked there myself yet, but I plan to. The boys told me that I would manage to reach there easily enough, but returning with a full jerry can would be “a tug of war”. They assured me that I would manage though. I smiled as they told me this, my “power” is returning. I am regaining my strength after April’s drain.
The three of us girls held a pow-wow and decided that while we technically could fetch our own water; this would be an opportunity for some of our neediest students to earn some money. We tried doing the math but gave up, a jerry can holds 20 liters of water- how much does that weigh? We decided that we would pay 1000 shillings for three full jugs- fifty cents. It sounds strange converting it to dollars, everything is shillings in my mind. The going rate is 300 shillings per jug, this rate will last until this closer well runs dry; when it does the next closest well is in another village, and the rate for fetching increases to 500 shillings.
Getting water is not impossible, so it is funny how panicked I felt when I watched the faucets sputter and then hiss. We had a good laugh as Mollie was reading a National Geographic magazine called Adventure. The topic of the issue was “How to Survive Almost Anything”, one article: The West Runs Dry. I am going to type excerpts of the tips for survival here with our comments.
1) Set up cisterns or barrels and use your roof and gutters to harvest rain: we use basins, so, CHECK
2) Knock out the kitchen sink pipe and use a five gallon bucket to collect gray water for garden irrigation: we don’t have plumbing, so, CHECK
3) Keep showers to a minimum and exchange the standard issue toilet for a composing model: again, no plumbing, just basins and washcloths and a hole in the ground, so, CHECK
We will be totally prepared to save the West when we get back stateside. No worries
Yes, the well ran dry, but I refuse the idea that the “time of suffering” has begun. Changing my perspective really helped- now is a time to be able to help some of the kids who need school fees topped up, books, or uniform. Now is a time to teach the value of hard work as they receive good pay for their efforts. Now is a time to learn how to live economically and responsibly with the resources we have been given. Now is the time to have a renewal of our NBA membership. (No Bathing Association, remember?) Now is the time for feeling extra loved each day as we use the face wipes my mom so lovingly sent (cut so they last longer) for washing our faces. A time for everything under the sun…
Facade
I realize my last few posts have been superficial- shallow, unreflective. It isn’t out of a desire to keep you in the dark, or even to be cryptic, but rather due to my own trouble processing. I have been shutting down lately, brushing off the things I hear because I think that if I truly take time to process, I may break. I realize in my head that I am not responsible for fixing the wrongs, healing the hurts, or solving the problems; but in my heart it is harder to believe.
One of the children I have shared with you about has some unusual scaring on his arms and legs. I never asked what the cause was, I think I was afraid. One day Rebekah and I were talking with one of the Uncles about some of the kids in the program, and this child came up. Uncle shared that before being brought into the program (by a concerned neighbor), this child had been living with a step-mother. She resented this intrusion on her new family and would tie this five year old child up to a post with ropes for days on end. The scars are from the ropes. Without knowing his story, I knew he was a hurting child, and God had been giving me opportunities to reach out to him in unique ways, but now knowing the history I wish I had done more. As I type this I am struggling with tears, my stomach waving with nausea. Who tortures children? God help me, my heart breaks for this child, I grieve for the innocence lost, the trust broken, the pain suffered.
A secondary student asks to talk with me. He is struggling to acquire school supplies. He isn’t asking me for money, but rather just needs to vent. As he shares his background with me he mentions without hesitation that the reason he pays for fees/clothes/school supplies is that as his mother was murdered by his sister-in-law and as his father has since remarried, he is on his own. He struggles with the new stepmother in his house as she is friends with the sister in law, and the same crowd responsible for his mother’s death. Has justice been served? Has the guilty party been held accountable? No. They live in a village where murder is the norm. Not violent deaths as far as I understand, just the usual poisonings. Do I pry and dig into his heart? Do I highlight the fact that until he deals with the fact that his brother’s wife murdered his mother, he may not be able to form healthy relationships in the future? What effect has this event had on his perception of justice, family relationships, trust, and God?
Technically I am responsible only for the children in the project, but I cannot and will not ignore the other students here at school. Their lives are not without pain and heartache. I view them all as children to love and reach out to. Today I asked about a child who I hadn’t seen in a while. No one has seen him for a while. I did some digging; after school ended last term he and a friend “escaped” from home to go find work. They have yet to return. They are in P5- fifth graders.
One of the boys in S2 is struggling. He has been defiant lately, unresponsive in class, showing up late. The teachers are frustrated. His mom died seven weeks ago. He hasn’t paid school fees yet, mom was the income earner; no lunch at school either as meal plan hasn’t been paid for. He isn’t the only kid not getting lunch due to fees being unpaid. There is no “lunch program” here like back in the states, no ‘low income plan’. I only have to stop him as he crosses campus, and greet him, and give his arm a squeeze and he tears up. It is easy to see the defiance, the lack of motivation; how often do we miss the core issue, the grief, the pain, the fear?
I apologize for the lack of depth in my last few posts. Really, I am struggling to know what to share, to know how much to share, to know how to share what I see and feel.
The struggle comes from a certain gag order I have been given, a reluctance to sound trite, an inability to express what happens, and unfortunately a lack of time. So much happens in a day, so much that I easily forget what day of the week it is, and what has occurred. I am working on documenting better so maybe I can process easier, and then share more insightful stories with you.
One of the children I have shared with you about has some unusual scaring on his arms and legs. I never asked what the cause was, I think I was afraid. One day Rebekah and I were talking with one of the Uncles about some of the kids in the program, and this child came up. Uncle shared that before being brought into the program (by a concerned neighbor), this child had been living with a step-mother. She resented this intrusion on her new family and would tie this five year old child up to a post with ropes for days on end. The scars are from the ropes. Without knowing his story, I knew he was a hurting child, and God had been giving me opportunities to reach out to him in unique ways, but now knowing the history I wish I had done more. As I type this I am struggling with tears, my stomach waving with nausea. Who tortures children? God help me, my heart breaks for this child, I grieve for the innocence lost, the trust broken, the pain suffered.
A secondary student asks to talk with me. He is struggling to acquire school supplies. He isn’t asking me for money, but rather just needs to vent. As he shares his background with me he mentions without hesitation that the reason he pays for fees/clothes/school supplies is that as his mother was murdered by his sister-in-law and as his father has since remarried, he is on his own. He struggles with the new stepmother in his house as she is friends with the sister in law, and the same crowd responsible for his mother’s death. Has justice been served? Has the guilty party been held accountable? No. They live in a village where murder is the norm. Not violent deaths as far as I understand, just the usual poisonings. Do I pry and dig into his heart? Do I highlight the fact that until he deals with the fact that his brother’s wife murdered his mother, he may not be able to form healthy relationships in the future? What effect has this event had on his perception of justice, family relationships, trust, and God?
Technically I am responsible only for the children in the project, but I cannot and will not ignore the other students here at school. Their lives are not without pain and heartache. I view them all as children to love and reach out to. Today I asked about a child who I hadn’t seen in a while. No one has seen him for a while. I did some digging; after school ended last term he and a friend “escaped” from home to go find work. They have yet to return. They are in P5- fifth graders.
One of the boys in S2 is struggling. He has been defiant lately, unresponsive in class, showing up late. The teachers are frustrated. His mom died seven weeks ago. He hasn’t paid school fees yet, mom was the income earner; no lunch at school either as meal plan hasn’t been paid for. He isn’t the only kid not getting lunch due to fees being unpaid. There is no “lunch program” here like back in the states, no ‘low income plan’. I only have to stop him as he crosses campus, and greet him, and give his arm a squeeze and he tears up. It is easy to see the defiance, the lack of motivation; how often do we miss the core issue, the grief, the pain, the fear?
I apologize for the lack of depth in my last few posts. Really, I am struggling to know what to share, to know how much to share, to know how to share what I see and feel.
The struggle comes from a certain gag order I have been given, a reluctance to sound trite, an inability to express what happens, and unfortunately a lack of time. So much happens in a day, so much that I easily forget what day of the week it is, and what has occurred. I am working on documenting better so maybe I can process easier, and then share more insightful stories with you.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Me, Benja, and Bekah on our last day in Mb with the kids
Boys from Jerico Road: a home for former street children. Bekah introduced me to them, and we like to try and see them before leaving Mbarara. They were camping at the river for a week- it was awesome!
The boys from hard backgrounds now know Jesus and their lives have drastically changed. They even loved on Santos! Rebekah and I brought two of our boys with us to the river for a day trip and some good one on one time.
Sorry for the great dumping of posts, we are in town for a few short hours today to escort some kids to a church service where they are performing some songs. Woke up at 4:30 am to hop in the truck and head to town. Gonna run to the market and get some food and then head back to the village with the kids!
Thank you for your continued prayers for us.
In Song
Sometimes I wish my life was a bit more like a musical. Not that I expect or long for a happy ending, but rather for love of the music that accompanies the actions of those involved. I play a game in my head most days, and since I am the only competitor, I generally win. It goes something like this: I catch snippets of conversation and sing the song that contains the phrase I caught. It is great fun for me, and brings a quiet smile to my heart. In addition to my self-competition, I often think in song phrases. Now, technically I could go into a discussion on the power of music, the importance of listening to good things, or even a self chastisement for using up valuable memory on inconsequential songs, but instead I am going to share a bit of my mind with you.
“Tonight I Wanna Cry” I know it is silly, but some days I can’t help but think that a good cry would do me some good. I realized it may be time to just “feel” when I went through three whole days with that song in my mind. I generally refuse myself the luxury of a good cry, because let’s be honest, what does it really accomplish?- but this week I succumbed. The kids now trust me more and more with their hurts; and the injustices, and the pain, and the sheer wrongness of their life experiences seems to pile up in my heart and mind. I find myself tossing and turning, my mind refusing to turn off as I search for ways to process all I have been told.
“Liar, Liar” the song that echoes in the back of my mind as I hear excuse after excuse for why things aren’t done yet. I understand life gets in the way, but I have a hard time accepting excuses when my kids suffer as a result of someone else’s incompetence.
“I’m so tired, I haven’t slept a wink. I’m so, so tired, my mind is on the brink” – some nights it is just hard to sleep from sheer exhaustion, both mental and physical. I feel tired of translating in my head. I feel tired of not “accomplishing” what I think I ought to. I feel tired from hauling water.
“Oh what a beautiful morning!” – in Curly’s voice of course, resonating in my head as I watch the sun rise and see the clouds lift off the lake. Mornings are glorious here. I have been working on getting up earlier and earlier each morning as I find it easier to prepare for the day ahead with some quiet time and a good cup of coffee.
Get the picture? I have been enjoying learning local songs too. Currently the song that is on my heart is a beautiful intersession prayer, a request: “Twakushaba omwoyo’rikwera shumaoije otwebembere.” Essentially, we are asking that you come down and lead us. Pretty much covers it as far as I am concerned.
“Tonight I Wanna Cry” I know it is silly, but some days I can’t help but think that a good cry would do me some good. I realized it may be time to just “feel” when I went through three whole days with that song in my mind. I generally refuse myself the luxury of a good cry, because let’s be honest, what does it really accomplish?- but this week I succumbed. The kids now trust me more and more with their hurts; and the injustices, and the pain, and the sheer wrongness of their life experiences seems to pile up in my heart and mind. I find myself tossing and turning, my mind refusing to turn off as I search for ways to process all I have been told.
“Liar, Liar” the song that echoes in the back of my mind as I hear excuse after excuse for why things aren’t done yet. I understand life gets in the way, but I have a hard time accepting excuses when my kids suffer as a result of someone else’s incompetence.
“I’m so tired, I haven’t slept a wink. I’m so, so tired, my mind is on the brink” – some nights it is just hard to sleep from sheer exhaustion, both mental and physical. I feel tired of translating in my head. I feel tired of not “accomplishing” what I think I ought to. I feel tired from hauling water.
“Oh what a beautiful morning!” – in Curly’s voice of course, resonating in my head as I watch the sun rise and see the clouds lift off the lake. Mornings are glorious here. I have been working on getting up earlier and earlier each morning as I find it easier to prepare for the day ahead with some quiet time and a good cup of coffee.
Get the picture? I have been enjoying learning local songs too. Currently the song that is on my heart is a beautiful intersession prayer, a request: “Twakushaba omwoyo’rikwera shumaoije otwebembere.” Essentially, we are asking that you come down and lead us. Pretty much covers it as far as I am concerned.
Katogo Again!
The Ugandan Dwight:
If you are familiar with the TV show “The Office” you will be familiar with a character by the name of Dwight. He is a beet farmer from good German stock, who works at the paper company as a salesman and serves as “Assistant to the Regional Manager”. Uber paranoid about everything, conspiracy theorist (not to the extent of Creed, one of the other characters), quite a character.
There is a teacher here at the school who has struck me as familiar. You know- something familiar about them that you just can’t put your finger on? It finally hit me one afternoon when Rebekah and I were looking at something he had written…. He is the Ugandan version of Dwight. We got a good laugh about that…
People are people. Cultures may be different, geography may be different, climate, time zones, language, these things all may differ, but when you get down to it, people are people. It is funny how an American tv show and a Ugandan teacher reminded me of this.
Living in Ug it is easy to fall into a pattern of seeing all the differences from home. I think focusing on the differences isn’t the best thing to do; it can lead to division and discontent.
Division in that I find myself torn between being focused on the people here and missing the people at home, and discontent as I remember how much I love ice cream and cheese and good meat….
So recognizing my very own ‘Dwight’ was a good reminder, as different as my life is now from what it once was, people are people. Some things are similar after all.
Sweet!:
Down in the kitchen one evening (helping cook for a visiting conference team) I saw the kids lining up for dinner. The S1 boys were first in line, ready and eager for dinner. Quietly the S1 girls filtered in, stepping in front of the boys who were fighting for their excellent position with the older and bigger boys. I asked the girls if it was a rule that they ate first, they all said no… then I asked my S1 boys if they thought it was a rule for the girls to get food first. They also said no. Still valiantly holding their front line position one boy informed me “It is not a rule they eat first, we just let them”. SWEET!!!! I was thrilled. It is sinking in slowly; these boys may become gentlemen yet!
Games
I brought this two person game called Master Mind with me to Uganda. Mom sent my Mancala game, and I found this new game here called Gobble. The boys are now familiar with Master Mind, and they are starting to give me a run for my money, so I was thrilled to introduce the other two games to them. As I had not played Mancala in years, and had never played Gobble before, we worked together to learn the rules. I started with two of the S4 boys and in a short time there was a group of about 15 gathered. Both games are only two person games, but in this culture, such a thing is impossible. Everyone was giving advice, cheering, explaining the rules, arguing about points. It seems like an almost inconsequential thing, but in reality it was a neat time of “class – less – ness” S1s were competing against S5s, and there was no distinction about who was allowed to play. Getting the boys together in this kind of situation goes a long way towards diffusing hazing and the oft mentioned “welcoming parties” that are commonplace in boarding school situations. I hope the girls will start to join us someday, but for now, I am happy to play Gobble, Mancala, or Master Mind with those who are willing.
Oh Boy:
Conferences are a big thing here. I can’t understand it really, they are terrible in my opinion. They are so popular and are expected here, and everyone is thrilled when a conference is scheduled for our school. Everyone but me, and Rebekah that is. The Chapel Master here at school seem to think that we must be involved with the planning, labor, hosting, etc, because obviously we love them as much as he does. Most times I can flat out refuse, but now that we have shifted to school, wiggling out of the obligation proved to be difficult. Long story short, I am in charge of cooking for 100 people tomorrow. Let me brag for a second- in high school my class and I cooked for about 100-160 people each Friday, no worries… tonight however I am worried. I have never cooked posho in my life. Same can be said for “sauce” – no experience at all. And yet somehow, I am the one for cooking. Oh boy. The Chapel Master told me to pick my crew, three girls and two boys and organize it as I saw fit. Let me outline this for you. We have two fire pits = fire wood needed. We have to cook for 100 people: 20 kilograms of posho, 15 kilograms of beans, 10 heads of cabbages, 2 kilos of tomatoes, onions, 2 kilos of g-nuts, 5 kilos of rice. We are expected to serve tea in the morning, and then have lunch prepared.
The Chapel Master was skeptical that I would be able to get the help I would need (and a logical person would then ask, “why did he assign you the task then??” but let’s ignore that for a bit). I will let you know how it turns out. On a big positive note though- I got all the firewood chopped today. The S4 boys had a free period so I asked them to help me out. It was actually fun and we all laughed a lot. I told them we had enough (cause in my years of experience cooking over a fire pit surrounded by three large rocks I easily knew how many trees we needed) and they continued chopping “to be sure”. After we finished I was crossing campus and the Chapel Master told me that I should probably think about asking at least four boys to chop the wood today. I loved the shocked expression on his face when I told him it was done, stacked in a hidden location, and ready to go. “How did you get boys to help you?” he questioned, I smiled and told him, “l just asked”.
If you are familiar with the TV show “The Office” you will be familiar with a character by the name of Dwight. He is a beet farmer from good German stock, who works at the paper company as a salesman and serves as “Assistant to the Regional Manager”. Uber paranoid about everything, conspiracy theorist (not to the extent of Creed, one of the other characters), quite a character.
There is a teacher here at the school who has struck me as familiar. You know- something familiar about them that you just can’t put your finger on? It finally hit me one afternoon when Rebekah and I were looking at something he had written…. He is the Ugandan version of Dwight. We got a good laugh about that…
People are people. Cultures may be different, geography may be different, climate, time zones, language, these things all may differ, but when you get down to it, people are people. It is funny how an American tv show and a Ugandan teacher reminded me of this.
Living in Ug it is easy to fall into a pattern of seeing all the differences from home. I think focusing on the differences isn’t the best thing to do; it can lead to division and discontent.
Division in that I find myself torn between being focused on the people here and missing the people at home, and discontent as I remember how much I love ice cream and cheese and good meat….
So recognizing my very own ‘Dwight’ was a good reminder, as different as my life is now from what it once was, people are people. Some things are similar after all.
Sweet!:
Down in the kitchen one evening (helping cook for a visiting conference team) I saw the kids lining up for dinner. The S1 boys were first in line, ready and eager for dinner. Quietly the S1 girls filtered in, stepping in front of the boys who were fighting for their excellent position with the older and bigger boys. I asked the girls if it was a rule that they ate first, they all said no… then I asked my S1 boys if they thought it was a rule for the girls to get food first. They also said no. Still valiantly holding their front line position one boy informed me “It is not a rule they eat first, we just let them”. SWEET!!!! I was thrilled. It is sinking in slowly; these boys may become gentlemen yet!
Games
I brought this two person game called Master Mind with me to Uganda. Mom sent my Mancala game, and I found this new game here called Gobble. The boys are now familiar with Master Mind, and they are starting to give me a run for my money, so I was thrilled to introduce the other two games to them. As I had not played Mancala in years, and had never played Gobble before, we worked together to learn the rules. I started with two of the S4 boys and in a short time there was a group of about 15 gathered. Both games are only two person games, but in this culture, such a thing is impossible. Everyone was giving advice, cheering, explaining the rules, arguing about points. It seems like an almost inconsequential thing, but in reality it was a neat time of “class – less – ness” S1s were competing against S5s, and there was no distinction about who was allowed to play. Getting the boys together in this kind of situation goes a long way towards diffusing hazing and the oft mentioned “welcoming parties” that are commonplace in boarding school situations. I hope the girls will start to join us someday, but for now, I am happy to play Gobble, Mancala, or Master Mind with those who are willing.
Oh Boy:
Conferences are a big thing here. I can’t understand it really, they are terrible in my opinion. They are so popular and are expected here, and everyone is thrilled when a conference is scheduled for our school. Everyone but me, and Rebekah that is. The Chapel Master here at school seem to think that we must be involved with the planning, labor, hosting, etc, because obviously we love them as much as he does. Most times I can flat out refuse, but now that we have shifted to school, wiggling out of the obligation proved to be difficult. Long story short, I am in charge of cooking for 100 people tomorrow. Let me brag for a second- in high school my class and I cooked for about 100-160 people each Friday, no worries… tonight however I am worried. I have never cooked posho in my life. Same can be said for “sauce” – no experience at all. And yet somehow, I am the one for cooking. Oh boy. The Chapel Master told me to pick my crew, three girls and two boys and organize it as I saw fit. Let me outline this for you. We have two fire pits = fire wood needed. We have to cook for 100 people: 20 kilograms of posho, 15 kilograms of beans, 10 heads of cabbages, 2 kilos of tomatoes, onions, 2 kilos of g-nuts, 5 kilos of rice. We are expected to serve tea in the morning, and then have lunch prepared.
The Chapel Master was skeptical that I would be able to get the help I would need (and a logical person would then ask, “why did he assign you the task then??” but let’s ignore that for a bit). I will let you know how it turns out. On a big positive note though- I got all the firewood chopped today. The S4 boys had a free period so I asked them to help me out. It was actually fun and we all laughed a lot. I told them we had enough (cause in my years of experience cooking over a fire pit surrounded by three large rocks I easily knew how many trees we needed) and they continued chopping “to be sure”. After we finished I was crossing campus and the Chapel Master told me that I should probably think about asking at least four boys to chop the wood today. I loved the shocked expression on his face when I told him it was done, stacked in a hidden location, and ready to go. “How did you get boys to help you?” he questioned, I smiled and told him, “l just asked”.
The Life that Once Was
I don’t know if it is proper English or not, or if someone has used this phrase before, but right now the phrase that is on my mind is “the life that once was”. It is funny how some days life here in a rural east African village seems so normal to me, so common place, every day, nothing special; yet other days I am struck by the oddity of life here. Tonight after bathing I dug around in my bag for a pair of socks, and found a warm gray pair. Immediately my mind was crowded with memories of my life before Ug, the life that once was.
My mom and dad bought me the neatest socks for Christmas, just before I left- it was a three pair set, one purple polka dots, one purple, white and gray striped, and one warm gray pair. I wore my socks many times before leaving, and then packed them in my bags to bring to Ug. Holding the long, warm socks in my hands tonight I remembered watching meteorites on the roof with a few friends, my going away party in Tucson, and British movie nights with the girls. I remembered how much I loved wearing my favorite pair of jeans, these socks, and ballet flats everywhere I went. I remembered painted toenails.
All these memories flashing through my mind made me a touch homesick, but in a good way. Good memories of the life that once was. I wonder if in the future, some innocuous object will flood my being as I remember my first year here in Ug, what then will be “the life that once was”.
My mom and dad bought me the neatest socks for Christmas, just before I left- it was a three pair set, one purple polka dots, one purple, white and gray striped, and one warm gray pair. I wore my socks many times before leaving, and then packed them in my bags to bring to Ug. Holding the long, warm socks in my hands tonight I remembered watching meteorites on the roof with a few friends, my going away party in Tucson, and British movie nights with the girls. I remembered how much I loved wearing my favorite pair of jeans, these socks, and ballet flats everywhere I went. I remembered painted toenails.
All these memories flashing through my mind made me a touch homesick, but in a good way. Good memories of the life that once was. I wonder if in the future, some innocuous object will flood my being as I remember my first year here in Ug, what then will be “the life that once was”.
Fear Culture
How do you know what the right thing to do is? How do you decide between what is right and wrong? How do you fight the pull to do the wrong thing? Is it wrong if the outcome is good, but the method is bad? If the majority decides something is right, does that make it right, good, or godly?
Someone once said “Truth is not determined by majority vote”, and that statement seems right to me. Inside of me, that idea resonates, I want it to be accurate. In the world I live in however, ‘truth’ is determined by majority vote; at least it seems that way.
I have been advised to stop asking questions about why things are done the way they are done. I have been advised to stop fighting for things that don’t concern me. I have been warned that if I continue interfering, things won’t go well for me. I have been warned that if I keep talking to students, my reputation will be ruined and those in authority won’t be able to protect me. I have been blamed for things I wasn’t even aware of, I have been chastised for things I haven’t done.
Now I find myself questioning the possible ramifications of everything I do. I catch myself wanting to do the right thing in an underhanded way, to not get caught rocking the boat. Is that right? If doing the right thing means rocking the boat, is it still the right thing?
I realize I am just a kid. I realize I don’t have all the answers. I realize I don’t see everything, I may not be privileged to know the hearts of everyone I work with and for, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am indeed human, and fallible. But does being aware of my own personal shortcomings relieve me of the responsibility I feel when I see an injustice? Does recognizing my own faults negate the validity of the work I do?
Please pray for me as I wrestle with the concept of right and wrong; pray for wisdom as I search for ways to be effective in a culture I don’t understand; pray that I may speak truth in love, and not seek to prove myself, or defend myself. Please pray for unity among the workers here, for clear purpose and clear direction, for the truth to be known.
I don’t want fear to control my actions. I don’t want fear to color my perspective. I don’t want fear to hinder what I am called to do. I don’t want fear controlling the thoughts and actions of those I work with. May this culture of fear be eradicated and these people freed from this bondage.
Someone once said “Truth is not determined by majority vote”, and that statement seems right to me. Inside of me, that idea resonates, I want it to be accurate. In the world I live in however, ‘truth’ is determined by majority vote; at least it seems that way.
I have been advised to stop asking questions about why things are done the way they are done. I have been advised to stop fighting for things that don’t concern me. I have been warned that if I continue interfering, things won’t go well for me. I have been warned that if I keep talking to students, my reputation will be ruined and those in authority won’t be able to protect me. I have been blamed for things I wasn’t even aware of, I have been chastised for things I haven’t done.
Now I find myself questioning the possible ramifications of everything I do. I catch myself wanting to do the right thing in an underhanded way, to not get caught rocking the boat. Is that right? If doing the right thing means rocking the boat, is it still the right thing?
I realize I am just a kid. I realize I don’t have all the answers. I realize I don’t see everything, I may not be privileged to know the hearts of everyone I work with and for, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am indeed human, and fallible. But does being aware of my own personal shortcomings relieve me of the responsibility I feel when I see an injustice? Does recognizing my own faults negate the validity of the work I do?
Please pray for me as I wrestle with the concept of right and wrong; pray for wisdom as I search for ways to be effective in a culture I don’t understand; pray that I may speak truth in love, and not seek to prove myself, or defend myself. Please pray for unity among the workers here, for clear purpose and clear direction, for the truth to be known.
I don’t want fear to control my actions. I don’t want fear to color my perspective. I don’t want fear to hinder what I am called to do. I don’t want fear controlling the thoughts and actions of those I work with. May this culture of fear be eradicated and these people freed from this bondage.
Shifting
Here in Ug, the term they use for moving is “shifting”. For the second time since moving here I have shifted. Just before leaving for the holiday, Uncle told us to pack our things, that he was moving us: destination unknown. I struggle with the unknown. I struggle with change. By now I am sure you realize that I struggle with lots of things, in fact, life seems to be a struggle- can you relate?? I think we all missed the “easy road” life, but it is only on days when I am not tired, emotional, or afraid, I appreciate the opportunities the “road less traveled” provides.
Anyway, we did not expect to reach the village early Sunday morning, our original plan was to arrive Friday mid day, shift our things to the new place and be settled in time for school Monday morning. Thanks to changing plans, uncontrollable road conditions and “The Hike”, we reached our packed room and tiredly dug out a blanket each to roll ourselves in.
Waking a few hours later we mentally prepared ourselves for the task which lay ahead: one day to move all our worldly possessions up the hill to the school (to a recently vacated teacher’s house) without the help of a truck. Mollie generously offered to lend us a hand, so the three of us girls piled as much as we could carry on our backs and in our arms, and on sheer will power made our way up the hill. Our tired bodies were beaten into submission by the need to accomplish our task.
Reaching our new home (which we had never entered before) we held a pow-wow and determined that we needed help. Rebekah held down the fort, sweeping out cobwebs and killing spiders while Mollie and I rounded up some boys. The same ones we made “The Hike” with were again asked to help their Teacher and Aunt. We made one more trip up the hill with the basics, and decided to wait till the truck came for the remainder.
The day was spent cleaning, trying to find clean clothes for the week ahead, trying to get the ‘kitchen’ set up so we could make food, etc. (No fast food here, no microwaves, not even cold cereal, it really is a different world. )
Just before the sun went down the truck came and so I headed back down the hill with a new group of students to help carry the remainder of our house down the stairs. Moving is different here, we don’t have a lot of furniture or really a lot of typical house items, we have a 25kg sack of beans, two burlap sacs of books, etc. The truck rumbled down the hill with a rambunctious group of boys ready to show off their muscles and move our bookshelves, tables, chairs, etc. With all the help it was accomplished quickly and efficiently.
So now we are living up at school. We have been here for only three days, but already I am loving it. I love being near the kids and being able to run home quickly for a book or a band aid. It is great being back with them too, the holiday was nice, working with the younger kids was a good change of pace for a few weeks, but being back with this group is great. The change in these kids from last term is noticeable, I look forward to seeing what this term brings.
Anyway, we did not expect to reach the village early Sunday morning, our original plan was to arrive Friday mid day, shift our things to the new place and be settled in time for school Monday morning. Thanks to changing plans, uncontrollable road conditions and “The Hike”, we reached our packed room and tiredly dug out a blanket each to roll ourselves in.
Waking a few hours later we mentally prepared ourselves for the task which lay ahead: one day to move all our worldly possessions up the hill to the school (to a recently vacated teacher’s house) without the help of a truck. Mollie generously offered to lend us a hand, so the three of us girls piled as much as we could carry on our backs and in our arms, and on sheer will power made our way up the hill. Our tired bodies were beaten into submission by the need to accomplish our task.
Reaching our new home (which we had never entered before) we held a pow-wow and determined that we needed help. Rebekah held down the fort, sweeping out cobwebs and killing spiders while Mollie and I rounded up some boys. The same ones we made “The Hike” with were again asked to help their Teacher and Aunt. We made one more trip up the hill with the basics, and decided to wait till the truck came for the remainder.
The day was spent cleaning, trying to find clean clothes for the week ahead, trying to get the ‘kitchen’ set up so we could make food, etc. (No fast food here, no microwaves, not even cold cereal, it really is a different world. )
Just before the sun went down the truck came and so I headed back down the hill with a new group of students to help carry the remainder of our house down the stairs. Moving is different here, we don’t have a lot of furniture or really a lot of typical house items, we have a 25kg sack of beans, two burlap sacs of books, etc. The truck rumbled down the hill with a rambunctious group of boys ready to show off their muscles and move our bookshelves, tables, chairs, etc. With all the help it was accomplished quickly and efficiently.
So now we are living up at school. We have been here for only three days, but already I am loving it. I love being near the kids and being able to run home quickly for a book or a band aid. It is great being back with them too, the holiday was nice, working with the younger kids was a good change of pace for a few weeks, but being back with this group is great. The change in these kids from last term is noticeable, I look forward to seeing what this term brings.
The Hike
WE left Mbarara on Saturday, mid morning. By three we reached Kabale town and began preparing for our journey home. Stopping at all our stomping grounds we kept hearing of “mollie” the third long termer to join the work in the village. Neither of us had met her yet, but talk around town was good. Grabbed a small bite for lunch and headed back to the hardware to check on the estimated time of departure for the truck (ETD as my dad would say). Barhum at Edrisa saw us from the doorway, beckoned us over, and offered to introduce us to the girl we had heard so much about.
It was nice meeting Mollie and thus far we seem to have really clicked. She is here till August, helping out in the village, so now we are three.
The truck finally came and we all piled in, then we headed to a wedding across town to pick up more homeward bound passengers. Full to the brim we began the long journey home. It was fun talking with the teachers we haven’t seen all holiday, hanging out with our students and the anticipation of reaching our village was growing. Just before ten pm we reached a point on the mountain road where two trucks were stuck, a third had just barely managed to get through, but the road was definitely blocked. The decision was made to head back to Muko, a neighboring town and unload the truck, everyone who wished to spend the night at the gas station could, and others could walk home from there. Somehow in all the chaos of 50+ people unloading, the three of us girls got separated. Next thing I know, I am headed to Muko with a handful of students and villagers, and Bekah and Mollie are nowhere to be found. Reaching the gas station I quickly unloaded our things (thanks to the help of my most excellent students) repacked our computers into one back pack, and climbed back into the truck with my backpack. I left our things with our neighbor who was staying for the night, and prayed they would all arrive in one piece once the truck was able to come.
Reaching the stopping point I hopped down and found my girls waiting anxiously. It was around 11 when we began hiking home. At first there was quite a group of us, but then the large group became smaller as more and more fell behind. Bekah set the pace for our group, and I have to admit, she is intense.
Now, for those of you who know me well, I am not much one for physical exercise. Somehow life in Africa just doesn’t fit that preference. Ordinarily I would not have chosen to walk from Muko home, but having accomplished it and having shared that experience with these kids was so worth it. There is a debate about how far we really walked, according to the map it is 18 km, according to the kids it is only 11. Regardless, we reached home by 2:30 am.
Each person in our group carried personal items with them. Some bags were definitely heavier than others. The boys were really concerned that my bag would be too heavy for me to manage, so I told them that once we reached the half way point I would let one of them help me out. About an hour into the hike two of my boys excitedly told me we had reached half way, being completely ignorant about the distance I gladly handed over my bag in exchange for a lighter one…. About an hour later I again heard we reached the half way point… yeah, they totally tricked me into letting them help me out. It was sweet, but at the same time really hard for me to handle.
Good things about the hike:
-Teamwork: every 45 minutes or so we would rotate bags, each person taking a different one. Redistributing the weight made the hike so much easier.
-Packrat Leah: being the person that I am, Bekah and I just so happened to have 12 buns, 5 mandaz, and two bottles of water with us. Most of us missed dinner, so having those snacks squirreled away in our bags was great.
-Lessons Learned: I was really challenged and humbled on this walk. The boys warned me that the bag was too heavy for me (and really it was heavy), but I knew it was unwise to leave our computers, electronics, Bekah’s hard drive, etc at the gas station, to be loaded in the morning by some unknown person. I decided to bring them knowing it would be difficult, and telling the boys I did not expect their help. When they first offered, I refused. My stubbornness to bring heavy items on the hike should not mean they must suffer. After figuring out they tricked me about the half way point I was honestly irritated. One of the boys quietly took my hand and said something that I am still humbled by. “Aunt Le, didn’t I tell you it would be heavy? I told you you couldn’t manage, didn’t I?” I nodded yes, of course he was right. “Aunt, why do you refuse help? We knew you could not manage, we want to help you. You help us, let us help you, take our help Aunt.” Wow. It is hard for me to accept help. Even my kids have figured this out about me; when he challenged me I realized the double standard I was setting. I can’t expect them to let me help where I can, if I don’t let them help where they can.
-Memories Made: two of the boys said they would write this hike down in their “history books” to remember always. All of the boys were blown away at the pace Rebekah was setting. (I was just cranky that she was such a drill sergeant!!) Many of them separately told her, “you are a soldier!”
-Reaching home: I should (*) the “home” part (to be continued), but reaching our village was a great feeling!
All in all, it was quite an experience. A memory for my history book.
It was nice meeting Mollie and thus far we seem to have really clicked. She is here till August, helping out in the village, so now we are three.
The truck finally came and we all piled in, then we headed to a wedding across town to pick up more homeward bound passengers. Full to the brim we began the long journey home. It was fun talking with the teachers we haven’t seen all holiday, hanging out with our students and the anticipation of reaching our village was growing. Just before ten pm we reached a point on the mountain road where two trucks were stuck, a third had just barely managed to get through, but the road was definitely blocked. The decision was made to head back to Muko, a neighboring town and unload the truck, everyone who wished to spend the night at the gas station could, and others could walk home from there. Somehow in all the chaos of 50+ people unloading, the three of us girls got separated. Next thing I know, I am headed to Muko with a handful of students and villagers, and Bekah and Mollie are nowhere to be found. Reaching the gas station I quickly unloaded our things (thanks to the help of my most excellent students) repacked our computers into one back pack, and climbed back into the truck with my backpack. I left our things with our neighbor who was staying for the night, and prayed they would all arrive in one piece once the truck was able to come.
Reaching the stopping point I hopped down and found my girls waiting anxiously. It was around 11 when we began hiking home. At first there was quite a group of us, but then the large group became smaller as more and more fell behind. Bekah set the pace for our group, and I have to admit, she is intense.
Now, for those of you who know me well, I am not much one for physical exercise. Somehow life in Africa just doesn’t fit that preference. Ordinarily I would not have chosen to walk from Muko home, but having accomplished it and having shared that experience with these kids was so worth it. There is a debate about how far we really walked, according to the map it is 18 km, according to the kids it is only 11. Regardless, we reached home by 2:30 am.
Each person in our group carried personal items with them. Some bags were definitely heavier than others. The boys were really concerned that my bag would be too heavy for me to manage, so I told them that once we reached the half way point I would let one of them help me out. About an hour into the hike two of my boys excitedly told me we had reached half way, being completely ignorant about the distance I gladly handed over my bag in exchange for a lighter one…. About an hour later I again heard we reached the half way point… yeah, they totally tricked me into letting them help me out. It was sweet, but at the same time really hard for me to handle.
Good things about the hike:
-Teamwork: every 45 minutes or so we would rotate bags, each person taking a different one. Redistributing the weight made the hike so much easier.
-Packrat Leah: being the person that I am, Bekah and I just so happened to have 12 buns, 5 mandaz, and two bottles of water with us. Most of us missed dinner, so having those snacks squirreled away in our bags was great.
-Lessons Learned: I was really challenged and humbled on this walk. The boys warned me that the bag was too heavy for me (and really it was heavy), but I knew it was unwise to leave our computers, electronics, Bekah’s hard drive, etc at the gas station, to be loaded in the morning by some unknown person. I decided to bring them knowing it would be difficult, and telling the boys I did not expect their help. When they first offered, I refused. My stubbornness to bring heavy items on the hike should not mean they must suffer. After figuring out they tricked me about the half way point I was honestly irritated. One of the boys quietly took my hand and said something that I am still humbled by. “Aunt Le, didn’t I tell you it would be heavy? I told you you couldn’t manage, didn’t I?” I nodded yes, of course he was right. “Aunt, why do you refuse help? We knew you could not manage, we want to help you. You help us, let us help you, take our help Aunt.” Wow. It is hard for me to accept help. Even my kids have figured this out about me; when he challenged me I realized the double standard I was setting. I can’t expect them to let me help where I can, if I don’t let them help where they can.
-Memories Made: two of the boys said they would write this hike down in their “history books” to remember always. All of the boys were blown away at the pace Rebekah was setting. (I was just cranky that she was such a drill sergeant!!) Many of them separately told her, “you are a soldier!”
-Reaching home: I should (*) the “home” part (to be continued), but reaching our village was a great feeling!
All in all, it was quite an experience. A memory for my history book.
The Power of Words
Are you familiar with the childhood chant “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words may never hurt me” ? We can tell ourselves that words don’t hurt, but the reality is, they do. The reality is that there is life and death in the words that we speak to one another, but often we forget the gravity of words.
Words can both empower and belittle. They can encourage and tear down. They can bring laughter, they can bring tears. My mind is tired now, so I feel the inherent danger of rambling, I ask that you bear with me as I sort this out.
Are words the powerful force, or is it the emotion behind them? Is it the intent when they are spoken that determines the effect they have? Words can be both liberating as ideas are expressed, and limiting as they may fail to capture the spectrum of emotions that we as humans experience.
I walk down the streets of Mbarara and I hear the word “Mzungu” more times than I can count. Somehow here, it sounds more like an insult than it does in the village. In the village the tone is generally different; the words following it are generally less insulting. Here it sounds like a challenge.
“Mzungu, you take this” or “Mzungu, sit here” or “Mzungu my size!! Come with me!” the bodas shout out. Rebekah and I have agreed that in general, we won’t take a boda if the driver shouts “mzungu” and we don’t respond to questions addressed to “mzungu” (if they ask, it happens to be the only word in Rukiga/ Runyankole that we don’t know). But to be honest, it wears on me.
It is hard being identified as different on a daily, even minute by minute basis. It is something that I don’t think I will ever get used to. I miss being normal. I miss blending. I miss not being noticed.
I find myself taking this all so seriously. (in case you didn’t know, I take life way to seriously. It is a problem) on some days it is easier to recognize that it isn’t the end of the world that people are calling me names all day long (technically just calling me a name that isn’t mine, but you get the idea right?), other days it is harder. Whenever I go somewhere with one of the kids I joke with them about it- “don’t mind the silly boda drivers, they don’t know you are from around here” or something along those lines. “Don’t be disturbed that the shop keeper is charging you double because of the color of your skin, it isn’t personal” so on and so forth.
Now, if such a simple and meaningless thing as the word “westerner” disturbs me, can you imagine the pain my kids must feel when they are called a “nobody”? Not having a family really puts you at a disadvantage in this culture. Not having a home to go back to means you have nothing. My heart hurt when two of my kids shared with me how they were (recently) told they were not to speak in the presence of a certain individual as they were nothing more than trash, worthless orphans. The person went on to tell them how much better off she was than they were. Apart from being hurt with them, I was also blown away; this person has only one parent herself!
Words have power. If you are consistently told you are nothing, a nobody, with no future, it begins to wear on you. If such words were your only concern, perhaps you could flippantly reply “I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you”. The reality here however is that words are not the only thing wearing these children out. Growing up without parents is hard. Growing up with only one parent is hard. Growing up is hard. Life in general is harder here.
My prayer is that the words I speak to these children are words of life, not words of death. My prayer is that they hear the truth that despite what the world may tell them, they are unique. Each one is special, each one is a treasure. Each child has a future, each child has value. My prayer is that I am able to see specific ways to reach each of these children, in a way that is unique to them, in a way that reaches their hurts; that through me, God shows them how He sees them, not as a “nobody” but as His child.
Words have power.
Words can both empower and belittle. They can encourage and tear down. They can bring laughter, they can bring tears. My mind is tired now, so I feel the inherent danger of rambling, I ask that you bear with me as I sort this out.
Are words the powerful force, or is it the emotion behind them? Is it the intent when they are spoken that determines the effect they have? Words can be both liberating as ideas are expressed, and limiting as they may fail to capture the spectrum of emotions that we as humans experience.
I walk down the streets of Mbarara and I hear the word “Mzungu” more times than I can count. Somehow here, it sounds more like an insult than it does in the village. In the village the tone is generally different; the words following it are generally less insulting. Here it sounds like a challenge.
“Mzungu, you take this” or “Mzungu, sit here” or “Mzungu my size!! Come with me!” the bodas shout out. Rebekah and I have agreed that in general, we won’t take a boda if the driver shouts “mzungu” and we don’t respond to questions addressed to “mzungu” (if they ask, it happens to be the only word in Rukiga/ Runyankole that we don’t know). But to be honest, it wears on me.
It is hard being identified as different on a daily, even minute by minute basis. It is something that I don’t think I will ever get used to. I miss being normal. I miss blending. I miss not being noticed.
I find myself taking this all so seriously. (in case you didn’t know, I take life way to seriously. It is a problem) on some days it is easier to recognize that it isn’t the end of the world that people are calling me names all day long (technically just calling me a name that isn’t mine, but you get the idea right?), other days it is harder. Whenever I go somewhere with one of the kids I joke with them about it- “don’t mind the silly boda drivers, they don’t know you are from around here” or something along those lines. “Don’t be disturbed that the shop keeper is charging you double because of the color of your skin, it isn’t personal” so on and so forth.
Now, if such a simple and meaningless thing as the word “westerner” disturbs me, can you imagine the pain my kids must feel when they are called a “nobody”? Not having a family really puts you at a disadvantage in this culture. Not having a home to go back to means you have nothing. My heart hurt when two of my kids shared with me how they were (recently) told they were not to speak in the presence of a certain individual as they were nothing more than trash, worthless orphans. The person went on to tell them how much better off she was than they were. Apart from being hurt with them, I was also blown away; this person has only one parent herself!
Words have power. If you are consistently told you are nothing, a nobody, with no future, it begins to wear on you. If such words were your only concern, perhaps you could flippantly reply “I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you”. The reality here however is that words are not the only thing wearing these children out. Growing up without parents is hard. Growing up with only one parent is hard. Growing up is hard. Life in general is harder here.
My prayer is that the words I speak to these children are words of life, not words of death. My prayer is that they hear the truth that despite what the world may tell them, they are unique. Each one is special, each one is a treasure. Each child has a future, each child has value. My prayer is that I am able to see specific ways to reach each of these children, in a way that is unique to them, in a way that reaches their hurts; that through me, God shows them how He sees them, not as a “nobody” but as His child.
Words have power.
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