Today Rebekah and I head back to the village without our Mollie. This morning we got up early to take her to the post office to catch the bus to Mbarara. Already it is quieter and we are both feeling sad. To be fair, I am happy she is homeward bound, she is ready to be home and I know it is time, but the selfish part of me wishes she could stay.
She came at a time when we needed her, a breath of fresh air, a contagious laugh, an infectious sense of humor. I am thankful.
As she heads home I find myself thinking of home. Not the actual building (which is lovely and comfortable) but the sentiment of being "at home". I know I live in a village, i know i have a 'house' here, but of late, it has been feeling decidedly more house like and less home like.
What makes a place feel like 'home'? For me, it is the people for sure, but i think it also has to do with the peace, or the safety you feel in a place. Is that true? For a place to be home, do you need to feel at peace there? I don't subscribe to all that lovey "home is where the heart is" much these days, because i know my heart is most decidedly with these children, while my thoughts turn towards the friends and family i left behind. Perhaps it is just a bout of homesickness, I just don't know.
I watch life move around me as though i am merely a spectator, no longer a participant. I wonder why i am such an outsider. I wonder if i will ever fit. Please know i am not having a pity party, at least not a full blown one. I freely admit, i am tired. I am discouraged. But i am not released from the call i feel on my heart to be with these children.
Yes, i am an outsider. The mere fact that my skin is a lighter shade than the skin of those around me automatically relegates me to being considered different. I won't apologize for my life experiences growing up in America, I will just say this: being the clear minority, no longer part of the majority, feels different. It is hard. It is lonely.
For the first time in my life i am experiencing full blown racism. Full blown, no PC, no polite dismissal, out in the open, rejection because i am white. The current mantra being chanted over and over again is "you are a white, you can never understand" and yes that is a quote i hear at least once a day.
It brings to mind thoughts of culture clashes, of servant hood, of love, of forgiveness, of shame.
Culture Clashes: this is something that has been brewing in my mind for a while now, i think i will expound on it in a later post, once i can articulate a bit more clearly what i am 'feeling'.
Servant Hood: being here isn't about me, it is about serving a people that i have been asked to love, it is about not putting myself, my needs, my wishes at front, but showing the love of my Master to His children. Being His Servant.
Love: it is hard to love a person who may greet me to my face, say "you have been lost, i miss seeing you" and knowing that it is the same person who has made things so difficult lately, the same one who began poisoning the community with talk of exclusion. But I am commanded to Love.
Forgiveness: it isn't about them, it is for me. It is for my sake that I am told to forgive. Holding on to the pain, the loneliness, the anger, limits me, it poisons me, it hurts me. Forgiving those who don't even ask for forgiveness, because they see no wrong in their actions.
Shame: feeling ashamed of the color of my skin, of my appearance, of something i have no control over, of something i never really noticed before. Actually feeling the stares, before hearing the comments, which have become more direct and challenging. Starting to question myself, question my validity, my worth, my person-hood because for the first time, i find myself being alienated because of the way God made me. I am not by any means implying i am the first person to experience such feelings, i am merely being raw, open, and truthful with you- for the first time, i am experiencing these feelings.
Keep praying for us.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Courageous 20
Some smile widely, others barely sway in motion with the group. Tremulous voices join together in song testifying of hope, life and Jesus. Large eyes looking out of emaciated faces, beautiful bone structure highlighted. Some clearly stronger than others, yet together their voices gain strength and depth. Spirits lift as their songs continue.
Sitting huddled three or four to a bench, the traditionally clothed guardians meld into a rainbow of color. Joining the gathering quietly at first, in small groups, their posture slowly relaxes as they soak in the songs.
BOOM BOOM BOOM the drums start and goose bumps rise on my arms. The women in gray, the singers, now break into traditional dance. Traditional dances which display strength, vitality, and courage. The air fills with dust as feet pound the ground- challenging the idea that life, strength, and hope are gone. Voices raise and clapping crescendos- confronting fear and pain.
Children join the song enthusiastically clapping and cheering. The guardians stand almost simultaneously, the rainbow of color blossoming like a flower, filling the room. The traditional drumming signals the end of the song and with a charged energy the guardians, their children, and the students find their seats once again.
One by one the women in gray now stand alone. Each speaks with a surety, a strength which fills the atmosphere. Something is changing in the eyes and in the posture of the colorfully clothed guardians as they listen silently; they are smiling, they are really listening. Arms uncrossed they lean forward, now joining the applause of the children.
The women in gray traveled over the mountains on this Sunday afternoon to bring a message of life and hope to the women of our village. The women in gray are HIV /AIDS positive. In a culture where “the virus” is still very much misunderstood, where sufferers are considered outcasts, where admitting you are infected is taboo, these 20 women in gray are speaking up.
They speak quickly; I catch only a little of each speech. Instead I remain observant to the atmosphere around me. The colorfully garbed guardians, local women from our village, are slowly moving their chairs forward to the front of the room. Crowding five to a bench to be nearer to the words of hope the women in gray are speaking. Over and over I hear the words grace, life, and the name of Jesus. These women in gray speak with confidence- no false bravado, no false hope, and no fatality mindset.
A time for questions is offered. I see the guardians shifting uneasily in their seats. I wish the children were ushered out, giving the women the freedom to speak. Two students stand to ask questions. One, clearly uncomfortable, makes a joke about it, he is covering for his pain; he knows what AIDS can do to a family. The other asks a question that brings uneasy laughter- one woman in gray is breastfeeding her infant; how can she feed the baby when she has AIDS? The woman in gray stands to answer the student’s question, in a strong voice she explains current medication options, the precautions she is taking, and the reality that her window for breastfeeding is slim. I silently cheer the brave girl for standing to ask a hard question, and for the woman standing to answer in honesty.
The program comes to a close with a final song and prayer. Many of the colorfully garbed guardians in their traditional clothing disperse quickly. Some stand from a distance and just look at the group of women in gray. Students leave and children begin running about. The women in gray file out of the room towards the waiting van, preparing to head back over the mountains homeward. I thank the ones I can, shaking their hands and wishing them safe journey. Two students standing with me take a deep breath and greet the women as well. AIDS has forever changed the lives of the two students I am with, but they do not speak of it.
The brave women in gray are again ostracized. Students and guardians give them wide berth as they walk, my heart twinges in sadness. I know they are strong though, and I don’t see hurt or anger in their faces, in their eyes- I see acceptance, and kindness.
I am thankful for their message. I am thankful for their hope. I am thankful for the courage of these 20 women in gray.
Sitting huddled three or four to a bench, the traditionally clothed guardians meld into a rainbow of color. Joining the gathering quietly at first, in small groups, their posture slowly relaxes as they soak in the songs.
BOOM BOOM BOOM the drums start and goose bumps rise on my arms. The women in gray, the singers, now break into traditional dance. Traditional dances which display strength, vitality, and courage. The air fills with dust as feet pound the ground- challenging the idea that life, strength, and hope are gone. Voices raise and clapping crescendos- confronting fear and pain.
Children join the song enthusiastically clapping and cheering. The guardians stand almost simultaneously, the rainbow of color blossoming like a flower, filling the room. The traditional drumming signals the end of the song and with a charged energy the guardians, their children, and the students find their seats once again.
One by one the women in gray now stand alone. Each speaks with a surety, a strength which fills the atmosphere. Something is changing in the eyes and in the posture of the colorfully clothed guardians as they listen silently; they are smiling, they are really listening. Arms uncrossed they lean forward, now joining the applause of the children.
The women in gray traveled over the mountains on this Sunday afternoon to bring a message of life and hope to the women of our village. The women in gray are HIV /AIDS positive. In a culture where “the virus” is still very much misunderstood, where sufferers are considered outcasts, where admitting you are infected is taboo, these 20 women in gray are speaking up.
They speak quickly; I catch only a little of each speech. Instead I remain observant to the atmosphere around me. The colorfully garbed guardians, local women from our village, are slowly moving their chairs forward to the front of the room. Crowding five to a bench to be nearer to the words of hope the women in gray are speaking. Over and over I hear the words grace, life, and the name of Jesus. These women in gray speak with confidence- no false bravado, no false hope, and no fatality mindset.
A time for questions is offered. I see the guardians shifting uneasily in their seats. I wish the children were ushered out, giving the women the freedom to speak. Two students stand to ask questions. One, clearly uncomfortable, makes a joke about it, he is covering for his pain; he knows what AIDS can do to a family. The other asks a question that brings uneasy laughter- one woman in gray is breastfeeding her infant; how can she feed the baby when she has AIDS? The woman in gray stands to answer the student’s question, in a strong voice she explains current medication options, the precautions she is taking, and the reality that her window for breastfeeding is slim. I silently cheer the brave girl for standing to ask a hard question, and for the woman standing to answer in honesty.
The program comes to a close with a final song and prayer. Many of the colorfully garbed guardians in their traditional clothing disperse quickly. Some stand from a distance and just look at the group of women in gray. Students leave and children begin running about. The women in gray file out of the room towards the waiting van, preparing to head back over the mountains homeward. I thank the ones I can, shaking their hands and wishing them safe journey. Two students standing with me take a deep breath and greet the women as well. AIDS has forever changed the lives of the two students I am with, but they do not speak of it.
The brave women in gray are again ostracized. Students and guardians give them wide berth as they walk, my heart twinges in sadness. I know they are strong though, and I don’t see hurt or anger in their faces, in their eyes- I see acceptance, and kindness.
I am thankful for their message. I am thankful for their hope. I am thankful for the courage of these 20 women in gray.
Unicorns
Sorry to be so nerdy, but as Mollie dusts off books in the almost completed library, I am thrilled to rediscover some beloved childhood stories, and to discover new favorites. I remember the story of a sea monster, whose name I have forgotten, but it was in a series called Serendipity. I actually laughed when Mollie pulled out a few more stories of the unique animals. I have read the story of the giraffe who was too tall to play with the elephants, who was the only giraffe in the whole plain, I read the story of the seal who wasn’t like the other sea creatures. I know the story of the three unicorns.
Labek, Mori, and Ria- three unicorns in a forest of zebra. What do you do with unicorns? Are they valuable? Are they freaks of nature? Do you show them off or hide them away? Do you capture them and limit their movement or let them remain free in the forest? They don’t look like zebra, so they must not be a real. They don’t sound like zebra, so they must not be communicating properly. How do you protect your heard of zebra with three unknowns out there? How do you keep homeostasis when there is not homogeny? The unicorns do things differently than the zebras do. That is scary.
Well written child hood stories often contain valuable life lessons. Cleverly portrayed with beautiful imagery, details such as the delicate eyelashes on a baby giraffe capture the attention of children. Perhaps not every child recognizes the meaning in the story being told, but I am an example of a child who remembers the stories and recognizes the lessons later in life.
I take solace in that knowledge; even if I fail to comprehend the lesson in the story while it is unfolding, one day, one time, the lesson will be understood.
Labek, Mori, and Ria- three unicorns in a forest of zebra. What do you do with unicorns? Are they valuable? Are they freaks of nature? Do you show them off or hide them away? Do you capture them and limit their movement or let them remain free in the forest? They don’t look like zebra, so they must not be a real. They don’t sound like zebra, so they must not be communicating properly. How do you protect your heard of zebra with three unknowns out there? How do you keep homeostasis when there is not homogeny? The unicorns do things differently than the zebras do. That is scary.
Well written child hood stories often contain valuable life lessons. Cleverly portrayed with beautiful imagery, details such as the delicate eyelashes on a baby giraffe capture the attention of children. Perhaps not every child recognizes the meaning in the story being told, but I am an example of a child who remembers the stories and recognizes the lessons later in life.
I take solace in that knowledge; even if I fail to comprehend the lesson in the story while it is unfolding, one day, one time, the lesson will be understood.
Rodger Podger
One of the most memorable childhood books my mom ever read to me was called something like “Rodger Podger’s Upside down Day”. I call it memorable not because the proper title stuck with me, (which it hasn’t) but because the drawings and the story line still lurk in the recesses of my mind. Rodger Podger was a bit confused when he woke up one morning to find everything he knew was suddenly upside down. Now, I have to admit, our leading guy handled it much better than I do, if I were to wake and find myself in an upside down world.
He has to figure out how to put his shirt on without upsetting anything, has to figure out how to walk without disturbing anything, and how to go about his day while navigating a completely upside down world. Granted his world, if I remember correctly, was limited to his house, but still, must have been rough on the guy. How do you go about explaining such an experience to, say, your family and friends who aren’t living with you? How do you convince others about the reality of what you experience, without sounding like a crazy person or without getting locked up, kicked out, or disciplined?
Thankfully for Rodger Podger, it was just one day. I imagine that if he lived upside down for weeks on end, it might start to wear on him; he might have become tired, discouraged, or less cheerful than he was on day one. At the end of the story Rodger Podger manages to get himself back into bed, without falling out (as the bed was also upside down) and goes to sleep, happy for the experience of an upside down day. Put yourself in RP’s shoes, can you imagine an upside down world?
It is funny how childhood books stick in your memory. I have no idea how old I was when I last heard of Rodger Podger’s day of adventure, but I still remember what he looked like. Books and stories were such an integral part of my childhood. I am so thankful to Mollie who has taken it upon herself to catalogue the books here and create an accessible library for the students. Lap reading, story time, and all those other important experiences have been missed by these children, but thanks to the donation of some neat books, and thanks to Mollie’s tireless efforts, I think we may make up for lost time. Rebekah has made it a possible for Mollie to come and do an intro to library speech in each of her classes, and the students are excited.
We three girls giggle at the lack of gender-differentiation/segregation in book choice; four high school boys are currently reading the “No Way Ballet” series together.Took us a few minutes to figure out why the boys were asking us about “No way ballot” , complaining that the title didn’t even make sense…
I guess the “No way Ballot” interpretation of the series title reflects life in a weird sort of way. Sometimes even stories, which have a guaranteed black and white ending, don’t make sense; most times life interactions, which are not black and white, fail to make sense.
He has to figure out how to put his shirt on without upsetting anything, has to figure out how to walk without disturbing anything, and how to go about his day while navigating a completely upside down world. Granted his world, if I remember correctly, was limited to his house, but still, must have been rough on the guy. How do you go about explaining such an experience to, say, your family and friends who aren’t living with you? How do you convince others about the reality of what you experience, without sounding like a crazy person or without getting locked up, kicked out, or disciplined?
Thankfully for Rodger Podger, it was just one day. I imagine that if he lived upside down for weeks on end, it might start to wear on him; he might have become tired, discouraged, or less cheerful than he was on day one. At the end of the story Rodger Podger manages to get himself back into bed, without falling out (as the bed was also upside down) and goes to sleep, happy for the experience of an upside down day. Put yourself in RP’s shoes, can you imagine an upside down world?
It is funny how childhood books stick in your memory. I have no idea how old I was when I last heard of Rodger Podger’s day of adventure, but I still remember what he looked like. Books and stories were such an integral part of my childhood. I am so thankful to Mollie who has taken it upon herself to catalogue the books here and create an accessible library for the students. Lap reading, story time, and all those other important experiences have been missed by these children, but thanks to the donation of some neat books, and thanks to Mollie’s tireless efforts, I think we may make up for lost time. Rebekah has made it a possible for Mollie to come and do an intro to library speech in each of her classes, and the students are excited.
We three girls giggle at the lack of gender-differentiation/segregation in book choice; four high school boys are currently reading the “No Way Ballet” series together.Took us a few minutes to figure out why the boys were asking us about “No way ballot” , complaining that the title didn’t even make sense…
I guess the “No way Ballot” interpretation of the series title reflects life in a weird sort of way. Sometimes even stories, which have a guaranteed black and white ending, don’t make sense; most times life interactions, which are not black and white, fail to make sense.
Monday, July 12, 2010
thoughts
sorry for the poor grammar which i am sure is about to follow...
sitting in the most rastafari internet cafe ever, first successful internet connection in kabale for the past month.
for those of you following world news, i am in kabale, not kampala where the bombs were last night. we are all safe. sorry for the lack of caps, there is no shift key on this keyboard.... and the letters are in funny places...
i will work on updating more regularly, but internet has been tricky here, and the generator at school hasnt been working, so no computer for typing blogs.
it has been a rough month, i am emotionally drained, spiritually exhausted, and physically tired. i ask that you keep praying for us.
talking with my parents and caylin on the phone has helped, but i still am unable to process everything that has happened here. the culture is so different, the way of doing things so different from what i am used to, from what i am good at.
good things that have happened... went to mbarara this weekend for the abide graduation, it was a phenomenal celebration and commission for the boys. loved seeing them all again. had a good time laughing with the interns, seb and trav, who i told you about in previous updates, and introduced mollie to mbarara.
in mbarara we three girls went out for birthday lunch, thanks to aunt nancy! we ate yummy yummy food, when internet is better i will upload our photos. yes, we took photos of our food.
oh, there would be an exclamation point after that oh, if i could find one, we made cheese, another exclamation point.
mom sent us cheese cloth and a recipe, and we finally tried it out, we were a bit nervous, but it was amazing. we found a local man who has a cow that had a calf, and now we get fresh cows milk every day. it is great. we used our milk to make cheese, and then ate it with lunch, and we are psyched to try it again.
i am being stretched and forced to grow as i surrender my need for control, my need for order, and my need for defending myself.
case in point, to reach kabale this morning we agreed to leave the childrens home by 630, we left by 655. we agreed not to take a mutatu, but to travel by bus. missed the buses cause we were late, took a mutatu. mollie bekah and i laughed till we cried at the sheer ridiculousness of all the mini adventures we have while taking public transport.
sad news, our delightful mollie, who i call malls balls, is leaving us in 20 days. she is the eternal optimist who says things like
it is times like these that i am thankful....
could be worse...
etc... she is hilarious and keeps us laughing. i think if she had not been here for the past month's trials, i would have been a lot worse off.
shout out to darling jules who sent me a treasure box, wear the orange bandana tons, thanks friend
and to dearest connie, yes, i already ate an entire chocolate bar, and loved the note from mimi. thanks lovelies.
i thank all of you for your prayers, well wishes, and support as i am here. hard to believe it has been six months already, half way through my contract...
sitting in the most rastafari internet cafe ever, first successful internet connection in kabale for the past month.
for those of you following world news, i am in kabale, not kampala where the bombs were last night. we are all safe. sorry for the lack of caps, there is no shift key on this keyboard.... and the letters are in funny places...
i will work on updating more regularly, but internet has been tricky here, and the generator at school hasnt been working, so no computer for typing blogs.
it has been a rough month, i am emotionally drained, spiritually exhausted, and physically tired. i ask that you keep praying for us.
talking with my parents and caylin on the phone has helped, but i still am unable to process everything that has happened here. the culture is so different, the way of doing things so different from what i am used to, from what i am good at.
good things that have happened... went to mbarara this weekend for the abide graduation, it was a phenomenal celebration and commission for the boys. loved seeing them all again. had a good time laughing with the interns, seb and trav, who i told you about in previous updates, and introduced mollie to mbarara.
in mbarara we three girls went out for birthday lunch, thanks to aunt nancy! we ate yummy yummy food, when internet is better i will upload our photos. yes, we took photos of our food.
oh, there would be an exclamation point after that oh, if i could find one, we made cheese, another exclamation point.
mom sent us cheese cloth and a recipe, and we finally tried it out, we were a bit nervous, but it was amazing. we found a local man who has a cow that had a calf, and now we get fresh cows milk every day. it is great. we used our milk to make cheese, and then ate it with lunch, and we are psyched to try it again.
i am being stretched and forced to grow as i surrender my need for control, my need for order, and my need for defending myself.
case in point, to reach kabale this morning we agreed to leave the childrens home by 630, we left by 655. we agreed not to take a mutatu, but to travel by bus. missed the buses cause we were late, took a mutatu. mollie bekah and i laughed till we cried at the sheer ridiculousness of all the mini adventures we have while taking public transport.
sad news, our delightful mollie, who i call malls balls, is leaving us in 20 days. she is the eternal optimist who says things like
it is times like these that i am thankful....
could be worse...
etc... she is hilarious and keeps us laughing. i think if she had not been here for the past month's trials, i would have been a lot worse off.
shout out to darling jules who sent me a treasure box, wear the orange bandana tons, thanks friend
and to dearest connie, yes, i already ate an entire chocolate bar, and loved the note from mimi. thanks lovelies.
i thank all of you for your prayers, well wishes, and support as i am here. hard to believe it has been six months already, half way through my contract...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
In the End
In the end, what affects your life most deeply are the things too simple to talk about. - Nell Blaine
Came across this quote and thought I would share it with you. I feel like it addresses the dilemma I face when sitting down to write a blog. Each day a million little things happen, things which impact my life and my heart in a multitude of ways. But how do I share the little things, without making them seem like mundane trifles?
I look at my hands slowly changing before my eyes. They are darker now, a tan color that seems not to belong to my body. Random scars crisscross my knuckles where before there were rings and painted nails. Fingernails look dirty always, and although for the first time in my life I have no trouble growing strong nails, I cut them regularly so as not to associate with the “hooligans” who have long nails and to prevent general dirtiness. My finger tips are roughened, but still not comparable to the calloused hands of the children I work with. It seems that no matter how many items of clothing I hand wash, my palms will always be soft and bleed. Tonight a burn on my thumb throbs each time I press the space bar, a reminder to be more awake when lighting the lantern in the morning.
My arms bear the trail marks of various bugs who love to bite. Bruises from riding in the truck, or bumping into the corners as I haul jerry cans of water around the house change from red to blue and purple and then green and yellow before fading away.
My chest will be as that of an older person soon; it seems that no matter how faithful I am in applying sun block, the only place apart from my hands that is slowly and deeply changing is a small patch just below my throat. I am self conscious about it now, although I am sure I am the only one who notices.
My legs are stronger now, the mountain trails and squatting seems to tone better than any exercise regime. I don’t get to slim down though, just tone and bulk. The grandmothers of the village comment as I walk past; I must be getting fat because of the coldness. Sigh.
The voice inside my head no longer matches the voice I hear coming from my mouth. My voice has deepened so as to be better understood and my vocabulary has decreased tremendously. Terms and words that used to come easily are now hard to recall. Only in moments of sheer exhaustion or fear does the voice I know return- higher pitched and much faster than the voice I hear now.
I am startled when visiting mission teams are surprised and question the things I now consider “normal”. I wonder about the adaptability of human beings. We seem so set in our moulds, so sure about what we will and won’t do; yet when the time comes, and the need arises, the mould no longer fits and we adapt to the situation.
In the end, it is the little things each day that encompass my “Uganda experience”.
My mould has been broken, the list of things I will and won’t do is buried somewhere under the lists of things that need to be accomplished. It is only in the rare quiet moment that I realize I am changing. I wonder who I am. I wonder what I am becoming. I wonder how the little things will add up, how they will affect not only my life, but the lives of those I love. Change is not to be feared as much as it once was; I am learning it is inevitable- uncomfortable- but inevitable. In the end, I hope I learn from the millions of little things, I hope I become a better person.
Came across this quote and thought I would share it with you. I feel like it addresses the dilemma I face when sitting down to write a blog. Each day a million little things happen, things which impact my life and my heart in a multitude of ways. But how do I share the little things, without making them seem like mundane trifles?
I look at my hands slowly changing before my eyes. They are darker now, a tan color that seems not to belong to my body. Random scars crisscross my knuckles where before there were rings and painted nails. Fingernails look dirty always, and although for the first time in my life I have no trouble growing strong nails, I cut them regularly so as not to associate with the “hooligans” who have long nails and to prevent general dirtiness. My finger tips are roughened, but still not comparable to the calloused hands of the children I work with. It seems that no matter how many items of clothing I hand wash, my palms will always be soft and bleed. Tonight a burn on my thumb throbs each time I press the space bar, a reminder to be more awake when lighting the lantern in the morning.
My arms bear the trail marks of various bugs who love to bite. Bruises from riding in the truck, or bumping into the corners as I haul jerry cans of water around the house change from red to blue and purple and then green and yellow before fading away.
My chest will be as that of an older person soon; it seems that no matter how faithful I am in applying sun block, the only place apart from my hands that is slowly and deeply changing is a small patch just below my throat. I am self conscious about it now, although I am sure I am the only one who notices.
My legs are stronger now, the mountain trails and squatting seems to tone better than any exercise regime. I don’t get to slim down though, just tone and bulk. The grandmothers of the village comment as I walk past; I must be getting fat because of the coldness. Sigh.
The voice inside my head no longer matches the voice I hear coming from my mouth. My voice has deepened so as to be better understood and my vocabulary has decreased tremendously. Terms and words that used to come easily are now hard to recall. Only in moments of sheer exhaustion or fear does the voice I know return- higher pitched and much faster than the voice I hear now.
I am startled when visiting mission teams are surprised and question the things I now consider “normal”. I wonder about the adaptability of human beings. We seem so set in our moulds, so sure about what we will and won’t do; yet when the time comes, and the need arises, the mould no longer fits and we adapt to the situation.
In the end, it is the little things each day that encompass my “Uganda experience”.
My mould has been broken, the list of things I will and won’t do is buried somewhere under the lists of things that need to be accomplished. It is only in the rare quiet moment that I realize I am changing. I wonder who I am. I wonder what I am becoming. I wonder how the little things will add up, how they will affect not only my life, but the lives of those I love. Change is not to be feared as much as it once was; I am learning it is inevitable- uncomfortable- but inevitable. In the end, I hope I learn from the millions of little things, I hope I become a better person.
Yes, Alive
A lot has happened since I last sat down to write a blog. I find myself unsure as to how to begin or where to begin.
I last uploaded blogs the day before Rebekah’s birthday; Mollie and I went to town to do some bd shopping for presents and special food for the bd girl. A package was waiting for me at the post office, from mom and dad containing books, some great grad pics of my bro, and…. A fabulous envelope of amazing artsy cards. I couldn’t contain myself; on the truck ride home I opened a few of them. A lady next to me commented “your friends must really love you and miss you” – I definitely felt loved. Thank you so much friends!!
That week one of the uncles came to the village to prepare for the various teams which will be coming to the village this summer. He was bothered that a current database on the kids is not available and gave me the task of creating one. I am both excited at the prospect of doing the work, and dreading the “working relationship” implications this task holds. Technically there are people in the org who are responsible for this, only it hasn’t been done… so I have to tread carefully and not step on any toes, yet manage to get the work done.
Friday we had to prepare for Career’s Day; a day organized by one of the teachers here to help the kids who are getting ready to graduate and also to provide info for all the students about career options. If I didn’t like the teacher so much, I would have refused to be involved because (can you guess?) I was asked to be on kitchen duty. But because she is such a neat woman, who is working so hard to help our kids, I could not refuse. I organized the S5 boys to haul water for cooking on Saturday, and the S6 boys for chopping the firewood. I have to admit, the S6 boys, while neat, weren’t as fun to hang out with as the S4 boys from the last firewood experience, but let’s keep that between us ok?
The boys were chopping the wood, but the stacking was left to me. I called at the current chopper to stop for a minute so I could gather the wood at his feet and he was confused as to why he needed to stop swinging the axe. “I am trying to protect my skin- don’t want you to chop me” I told him. “But of course madam, I must stop. If we damaged your skin, your value would decrease and as we see it, you are quite valuable.” I laughed out loud, then thanked them as they spoke up- the general consensus among the S6 boys is that I am worth a lot of cows. They boys then proceeded to tell me about things that could potentially decrease my value- including scars from an axe accident. Highlight of the wood chopping though: African pick up lines. Here is the winner: “I will love you until Lake Bunyoni runs dry.”
Saturday went off without a hitch thanks to Rebekah holding down the fort doing the wash at home and Mollie helping me in the kitchen. Again, not the easiest thing to cook in an African kitchen, but I am pleased to report that no one complained about the food.
I know I have commented before on this, but there seems to be a strange time continuum here in our village. Time moves so slowly each day, and yet I find myself completing weeks in what seems like mere days. Please forgive the lack of daily anecdotes, of late each day seems to blur into the next.
I last uploaded blogs the day before Rebekah’s birthday; Mollie and I went to town to do some bd shopping for presents and special food for the bd girl. A package was waiting for me at the post office, from mom and dad containing books, some great grad pics of my bro, and…. A fabulous envelope of amazing artsy cards. I couldn’t contain myself; on the truck ride home I opened a few of them. A lady next to me commented “your friends must really love you and miss you” – I definitely felt loved. Thank you so much friends!!
That week one of the uncles came to the village to prepare for the various teams which will be coming to the village this summer. He was bothered that a current database on the kids is not available and gave me the task of creating one. I am both excited at the prospect of doing the work, and dreading the “working relationship” implications this task holds. Technically there are people in the org who are responsible for this, only it hasn’t been done… so I have to tread carefully and not step on any toes, yet manage to get the work done.
Friday we had to prepare for Career’s Day; a day organized by one of the teachers here to help the kids who are getting ready to graduate and also to provide info for all the students about career options. If I didn’t like the teacher so much, I would have refused to be involved because (can you guess?) I was asked to be on kitchen duty. But because she is such a neat woman, who is working so hard to help our kids, I could not refuse. I organized the S5 boys to haul water for cooking on Saturday, and the S6 boys for chopping the firewood. I have to admit, the S6 boys, while neat, weren’t as fun to hang out with as the S4 boys from the last firewood experience, but let’s keep that between us ok?
The boys were chopping the wood, but the stacking was left to me. I called at the current chopper to stop for a minute so I could gather the wood at his feet and he was confused as to why he needed to stop swinging the axe. “I am trying to protect my skin- don’t want you to chop me” I told him. “But of course madam, I must stop. If we damaged your skin, your value would decrease and as we see it, you are quite valuable.” I laughed out loud, then thanked them as they spoke up- the general consensus among the S6 boys is that I am worth a lot of cows. They boys then proceeded to tell me about things that could potentially decrease my value- including scars from an axe accident. Highlight of the wood chopping though: African pick up lines. Here is the winner: “I will love you until Lake Bunyoni runs dry.”
Saturday went off without a hitch thanks to Rebekah holding down the fort doing the wash at home and Mollie helping me in the kitchen. Again, not the easiest thing to cook in an African kitchen, but I am pleased to report that no one complained about the food.
I know I have commented before on this, but there seems to be a strange time continuum here in our village. Time moves so slowly each day, and yet I find myself completing weeks in what seems like mere days. Please forgive the lack of daily anecdotes, of late each day seems to blur into the next.
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