"So I took her to the swamp." --Professor Daniel Button

There's a cheesy quote in Extreme Days, a ridiculous nearly pointless movie, that says something like, "There are those times that make you stop and say, "Yeah."' Now that I've typed it, I realize that isn't even worthy to quote. But regardless: I am loving the random moments that make me stop, that catch my breath. A lot of them involve the sky; the plus of going to the bathroom outdoors.

Last night's moon was macaroni-and-cheese yellow, with yellow rays coming off of it (the moon can have rays? apparently), and it was being half-swallowed by the clouds. That was almost as beautiful as this morning, walking to the bathroom, and seeing orange and pink and yellow but in a fashion that Ohio can't even mimic. This, of course, is going on above monstrous green, misty hills. The best part was the walk back from the bathroom, because the colors were already faded and most the beauty was gone. I was thankful for the timing of it all, those 3 minutes of sunrise that couldn't be repeated. Here one second, gone the next. I imagine I'll feel this way in May, boarding the plane.

Another "Yeah" moment was in class this morning. I am constantly, foolishly, putting myself in situations that make me awfully uncomfortable, but ones I know I'll be thankful for in the end. Surprisingly, this program has us in classes with all American students. Talk about disappointing. We had the option, though, of taking one class with Ugandans, outside of the Program. I chose New Testament, which I've already taken and so won't get credit for, but I knew I'd regret it in May if I went to Uganda to have class with people from Arkansas and Minnesota. Anyway, I've been dreading the "small group" section of this class all week, simply because the education system in Uganda is different, very laidback, and I didn't even know where the class was held--it was all up in the air. I've mentioned the stress of this to God in passing, but tried to ignore the class was coming today.
I somehow found my way to the class, even though 7 Ugandans ignored me completely when I asked if I was in the right place. Awkward. But it was amazing; God is so good. The first thing the tutor of the tutorial said was, "People, I too was a backrow person, but unless you have Ebola or something highly contagious, please move forward." Classic: an Ebola joke in the first 30 seconds.
Then he asked a girl to pray out loud, she sort of protested, but he insisted, and we sat there in silence, waiting with our eyes closed. Then she said she was Muslim. Interesting.
To shorten the story, I am going to love this class. So far it's been scaring me to death, a regret in the making, but now I am thankful.

Walking home from school last night, I was passing a little girl. We Mazungu (plural form of Mzungu) in general, walk fast. But yesterday I knew I was walking in the h'ordeuvre of a monstrous thunderstorm; the sky was black and it was starting. So I power-walked. Passing the girl who looked to be holding a folded-up pillowcase, she greeted me, so I slowed to walk with her. She looked about 8. We greeted, she didn't know much English, so we walked in silence before I told her goodbye, to have a good day. A few seconds later, me in front of her, she said, "Mzungu, where are you going?" I love that they ask this so openly. Strangers in America don't ask you this; you'd get raised eyebrows and no response, or a "None of your business." So we walked together again. Then she asked me, "Have you seen my baby?" So that's what was in what I thought was a pillowcase. She told me it was her brother Alfred. I guess I was just shocked and touched that this 8-year-old was walking the streets of Mukono holding an infant. (This isn't to imply they skip childhood, and on to responsibility here. There is a range of different lifestyles. My nephew Daniel brought PlayStation to our house the other day--this the same one with the cellphone). She also taught me a new word, gyendi: it means, "I am alright," or rather "just there." As in, still breathing. I think I prefer bulungi, the response that means "I am fine, doing well."
The girl's name is Gloria, and I saw her again this morning. She was in her yard and yelled and ran after me. I was disappointed at first to have no children in my family; but I'm digging the neighborhood kids.

My missions class is interesting. As is every other topic of missions we discuss here. I feel in the minority, with some unconventional idea of what it means to be a missionary. I get nauseous when I hear missionaries number off how many people they have converted, though I want nothing more than people to come to know Christ. But I feel like being a missionary isn't about converting people. And it's not always about bringing the Gospel to people who don't know Christ. If we love and serve people for a specific reason--so they come to know God--this feels fake to me. Ingenuine, manipulated love. If people come to know God through our love and relationship, awesome--but shouldn't relationship be the priority? It was Jesus' priority.
I don't know. Sometimes missions contexts frustrate me, because no one really agrees. I'm called a humanitarian.

There really isn't much more to say.
Except:
1). I'm loving my family more and more each day. It will be hard to leave. It is easy to understand why, in only the week I've been here, two of their past American host-students have already called them, called "home" to talk with the family. I really hope I can come back; I'm still trying to hear and listen to see if this is the place God wants me, future-wise.
2). This weekend the missions students are going to Jinja, where Lake Victoria is (a man just got eaten by a crocodile there a few days ago. Yikes). We will be talking with missionaries here; I'm pretty stoked.
3). I am learning Luganda a lot quicker and more efficiently than I expected. My family is so encouraging and helpful.
4). I realize that writing here daily is cumbersome. And unnecessary, especially as I have little updates. More than anything, it is my form of journaling. So please don't feel obligated to read, or feel badly if you don't.

Charlie, I'll drink from the Nile if you give me ten bucks.