Katelyn, this sky is for you.

What a walk from a luncheon will do to you.

After 36 days.

Where do I start.
This week has been wonderful, incredible, beautiful.

I blame it on the package my mom sent me. And not because I am now realizing how fun it is to ration Ho-Hos, but because she sent me “Good Morning, Holy Spirit,” the book I mentioned in week one or two. The book that Rebecca read a few paragraphs of a few years ago, it changed her life and relationship with God—the Holy Spirit to be exact—and she hasn’t seen the book since.
I was already unzipping my bag as I walked into the house after school on Monday. I told her that Mom from Ohio sent her a present.
She was sitting on the couch, finishing a Sudoku puzzle (Aunt Sandi: I gave Rebecca the Sudoku book you gave me for the plane. She’s in love with Math and this book—thanks). So anyway, she was completing this puzzle, I handed her the Holy Spirit book, and two seconds later she was off the couch, prostrate on the floor (head in hands), shrieking. Shrieking. She wrapped her arms around my neck, then my waist—all the while screaming—and saying a bunch of things really fast that I couldn’t understand, even though it was English. There was a bunch of Thank You and Oh God, Oh God, but it took her ten minutes to calm down. Once she did calm down, she gave me this speech:
The day you came. I woke up that day knowing that God was going to give me something. He had a blessing for me. I looked for it all day. But nothing. I remember it was 5:52, and I only had eight minutes left (maybe 6 o clock evening marks the end of day? I was confused by this) So, I stood there, by that radio, and asked God, ‘Where is it? What do you have for me? I thought it would come.’ As soon as I stopped praying, as SOON as I stopped praying, the van pulled up. And I thought, ‘This one. Is she what you have for me, or is something going to come from her?’ So I’ve been watching you, knowing ‘This one has a secret.’ (I’m going to interrupt here to backtrack a few weeks ago. Rebecca and I were blowing time at the dining room table, trying to read each other’s faces, because Rebecca said she can read people’s faces and know, always, when they’re lying. So I tested her, had her ask me questions, I would write the real answer down on paper and then decide whether to tell her the truth or lie, and she would read my face. ANYWAY. At one point she sort of squinted at me, studying me, and said that she knew me. Knew me well enough to know what I was thinking when I said things, and so she could read my face. But, she said. But, there is still one thing I don’t know. I am looking for something, but I haven’t found it yet. I’m not gonna lie: It was the first time Rebecca sort of freaked me out. Made me feel incompetent or suspicious, because she seemed suspicious of me. Anyway. Back to her speech).
And remember the night you came? It rained SO MUCH. I told you that rain means blessing, and for me, for me rain and God are the same. That is how He communicates with me. And it rained so much the night you came. And last night! It rained much much last night! But now I see. You are a gift from God. And look what you and Mom from Ohio brought me. Now I know I can get close to Him again, I can know the Holy Spirit again! (Insert shriek) It was what? It was 2002 when I last saw this book. I went to a Benny Hinn revival in Kampala a few years ago, to look for this book, but I didn’t see it. And now God has given it to me again! This is the biggest surprise, by the way.

The night before, lying in bed, she laughed about Communion that morning (Easter Sunday), how she was last in line, so the reverend gave her three portions of the bread. We laughed and I told her how Charlie takes home the Hawaiian rolls we use for Communion, afterwards. How we find him in the church kitchen on communion days, eating the leftover rolls. Anyway, she said when the reverend gave her the three pieces of bread, she thought, “One is the Father, one’s the Son, and one’s the Holy Spirit.” When I gave her the book, she also mentioned that. That now she could be with the Holy Spirit again.

I’m not saying that Rebecca needs this Benny Hinn book in order to get close to the Holy Spirit. We don’t need Benny Hinn for those sorts of things. But I keep reminding myself that God can use anything, will use anything, and for so long this girl has been panting as the deer to get to that place with the Holy Spirit where she used to be, after she first read a few paragraphs of the book and started applying it to her life. And if He’s going to use Benny Hinn, He’s going to use Benny Hinn.
All I know is that, this week, I’ve noticed a drastic change in Rebecca. So much joy. There was only one time I noticed the sadness that usually marks her face.
The next night, Tuesday night, we were sitting at the table, I opened a mosquito bite and had to go clean it (lovely details), so I went to the room, thinking I’d be right back. Rebecca and I sat in there, her on her bed and I on the floor, for the next two hours, talking about the Holy Spirit, and the different dreams she has had where she has seen God. (She was so excited, because Hinn was quoting Revelation and some of John’s descriptions of God and the throne, and shrieking again, Rebecca told me about her dream and God looking like a crystal sort of octagon, with a different color for each side. John’s descriptions of jasper and stones got her excited; her dreams came close, very close). I thought we had only been in there maybe 10 minutes, until Aida came in, said something in Luganda, and Rebecca said Mackie was on (our Spanish soap opera’s main character). I’m going to miss these conversations, these conversations that suck the minutes like crazy.

Wednesday night we watched Narnia together, the whole family at the dining room table. (Professor Button “rents” out his movie and book library to us…not to mention hosts Smore barbecues—last night was incredible). Anyway, they were so engrossed in the movie. Susan jumped from her seat and gasped at one point (this movie isn’t in the thriller genre), and Mom was really scared of the white witch, and scared that, “The children won’t suffer, will they?” I told her no, this movie is about the Easter story, so it’s a happy movie. And so they started looking for it, for the hints and parallels to Christ throughout the movie. They noticed so many things I haven’t before.
Like when this nasty little elf-looking thing, one of the ones killing Aslan, asks Aslan (a lion), “Do you want some milk?” I’ve just taken the line, thus far, as the nasty guy calling Aslan a kitten or something. But as soon as he said this, Mom said to me, “Like Jesus. When He’s on the cross and they offer Him something to drink.”
And then. Then there is this one part, in the fighting scenes, where a bow and arrow is a shot, and the arrow—with a ball of fire on the end—turns into a bird that then turns into a ball of fire, hits the ground, and sets a barrier of fire between the two armies. No joke: the entire family, Rebecca, Mom, Aida, and Susan, burst into cheers (at the point that the bird turned to fire), Aida waved her hands in the air, screaming, Susan was clapping, Mom said something like Hallelujah, and Rebecca wrapped her arms around my waist: “It’s the Holy Spirit!” she screamed. I still can’t figure this out. Maybe because I don’t know the Holy Spirit as well as they do, enough to recognize Him when He looks like a bird catching on fire. Maybe it’s something about the Day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit initially fell on the disciples “with tongues of fire” or something. ? Either way, they all knew, at the same time, who this bird was representing, and Rebecca made me rewind. I did. And again, same reaction, same uproar.
I bet you can imagine what it was like when Aslan rose from the dead. Aida even starting singing.
They all loved the movie; Rebecca said it’s her new favorite. (The next morning at breakfast, Mom started naming more biblical parallels from the movie that she thought about before sleeping). We’re watching it again this weekend.

That movie made for a late night. I had to go outside for the latrine before going to bed. (Remember, Betsy’s family won’t even let her out of the house past 7. It’s not safe). What I remember from the walk from the house to the stalls was the lightning. The silent, beautiful lightning. It was like a silent film; I love this sort of lightning.
The next morning, sitting at the breakfast table for two hours (skipping class) because of the incessant downpour, Rebecca said she had known the night before that would rain like that. “Remember when you went for a short call last night, very late?”
“Yes.”
“I followed you. I wonder if you noticed the lightning? So I knew we would wake to rain.”“I did notice the lightning. It was beautiful. (laugh). But Rebecca. You’re sneaky. Why’d you follow me?”
“I’m not sneaky. I was looking after you. It was late, not safe. I had to see that nothing happened to you.”
I love my big sister. Fully.

Like I said, it rained like crazy yesterday. My class started at 8:30. I left the house at 10, and pointlessly, for Mom and I still had to walk in the downpour.
On the way I told her, “Mom. I just decided. I am not going to any lectures today.”
“Really? Then why are you walking to campus?”
“I don’t know. But the rain has defeated me. I refuse.”
I skipped all my classes yesterday, really, for no reason. And it was wonderful.

I skipped class this morning too. But by default. I had just finished my bread and tea, and it was 8 o’clock, time to leave, in order to make it to my 8:30 class. But at 8:01 Rebecca said to me, “I read more of ‘Good Morning, Holy Spirit’ last night.” I didn’t leave the house until 9. I won’t sugar coat it: I was frustrated. I see that my Type A personality, the devil that it is, doesn’t dissolve just because it’s in a Type B culture. It was hard to listen genuinely, without picturing me walking in late to class. Especially hard to listen when we got into some theological stuff that I really disagree with Benny about. But Rebecca was taking his word as truth, while Revelation is a crazy book to interpret and place stock in your own interpretation. We argued some, I showed my frustration, and also looked at the clock my share of times. But then we reached this point in the conversation where I relaxed in my seat and realized, wet eyes and all, that I needed what was coming at the end of the conversation. The mire, the sludge, of the Revelation portion of the conversation was necessary, and worthwhile, in order to get to this.
It’s too overwhelming/consuming to sit here and write out the entire conversation. I will just boil it down to what I learned this morning:
I have long been ignoring the third person of the Trinity. Maybe because we call Him the third, and maybe because…I have no good excuse, really. For some reason I’ve been under the impression that the Father is God and Jesus, the Son, is God, and then there’s the Holy Spirit—the invisible version of the two. Sure, they are all connected. But not so much that they fully dissolve into each other—each is His own person. I give attention to the Father, and attention to the Son, but the Holy Spirit I either take for granted or ignore, never really calling Him by name, never really giving Him any credit for anything. Because I’ve just assumed that He is essentially the other two, just in the on-earth version. But how can that make sense, when the Father and the Son are separate enough? The distinctions between the Father and Son should be enough to tell me that the Holy Spirit is just as separate, just as unique.
Standing at the table, sliding my bag over my shoulder, I realized: When the Father was our “point of reference” or whatever, our present go-to God—in the days of Adam and Abraham, and all those jazzers—there were those who ignored Him. Then we had Jesus—He was/is the One we go to in order to be connected to God. And again, there were those who ignored Him. Those who had their eyes on the Father, and thought they were serving Yahweh, but failed to recognize Jesus, refusing to believe that He was/is the Father’s Son. And now we have the Holy Spirit. He is our present and direct contact. Yet there are those of us, myself included, who are so focused on the Son and the Father that we can’t recognize, and we ignore, the one who is here among us. So what makes me different from the Judaizers, the Pharisees, the ones who ignored the one among them and continued serving their own one-sided version of God? There is no difference. I am serving a two-sided God, while knowing He is three-sided. I have been forgetting the third person. Forgetting the Holy Spirit.
In so many ways, this scares me to death. To see this massive route ahead of me, this grand, painful effort to learn what I have to learn. A whole new side of God that I need to once again pursue, and let Him pursue me back (maybe that’s in the wrong order? I don’t know). A whole new person, personality to meet and learn His ins and outs. It’s huge, and I’m scared, overwhelmed, etc.
But at the same exact time, there is this incredible adventure ahead, just waiting. I don’t have to, I get to, meet and pursue and learn the personality of this third part of God. My life, my relationship with God—the three-in-one—has thus far been incredible. The most joyful, worthwhile adventure around. So, finding out that it’s only the beginning, that I’ve only tasted the half of it (okay, or 2/3), is the best news I’ve heard today. Because, really, how can it get better? I didn’t think it could. Today I see it can; as hard as it is to believe, I see I’ve been missing out—by ignoring this third person of God, this part that is no less significant than the other two.
I want God in abundance. That means all three parts. And if this is what I take from Africa, if this is what I take from Rebecca, these four months are golden.

(Post Script. For Mom. I did go to class today. The class I had to skip was one that is offered twice. I promise I went to the second session). :)

After 36 days.

Where do I start.
This week has been wonderful, incredible, beautiful.

I blame it on the package my mom sent me. And not because I am now realizing how fun it is to ration Ho-Hos, but because she spirit,” the book I mentioned in week one or two. The book that Rebecca read a few paragraphs of a few years ago, it changed her life and relationship with God—the Holy Spirit to be exact—and she hasn’t seen the book since.
I was already unzipping my bag as I walked into the house after school on Monday. I told her that Mom from Ohio sent her a present.
She was sitting on the couch, finishing a Sudoku puzzle (Aunt Sandi: I gave Rebecca the Sudoku book you gave me for the plane. She’s in love with Math and this book—thanks). So anyway, she was completing this puzzle, I handed her the Holy Spirit book, and two seconds later she was off the couch, prostrate on the floor (head in hands), shrieking. Shrieking. She wrapped her arms around my neck, then my waist—all the while screaming—and saying a bunch of things really fast that I couldn’t understand, even though it was English. There was a bunch of Thank You and Oh God, Oh God, but it took her ten minutes to calm down. Once she did calm down, she gave me this speech:
The day you came. I woke up that day knowing that God was going to give me something. He had a blessing for me. I looked for it all day. But nothing. I remember it was 5:52, and I only had eight minutes left (maybe 6 o clock evening marks the end of day? I was confused by this) So, I stood there, by that radio, and asked God, ‘Where is it? What do you have for me? I thought it would come.’ As soon as I stopped praying, as SOON as I stopped praying, the van pulled up. And I thought, ‘This one. Is she what you have for me, or is something going to come from her?’ So I’ve been watching you, knowing ‘This one has a secret.’ (I’m going to interrupt here to backtrack a few weeks ago. Rebecca and I were blowing time at the dining room table, trying to read each other’s faces, because Rebecca said she can read people’s faces and know, always, when they’re lying. So I tested her, had her ask me questions, I would write the real answer down on paper and then decide whether to tell her the truth or lie, and she would read my face. ANYWAY. At one point she sort of squinted at me, studying me, and said that she knew me. Knew me well enough to know what I was thinking when I said things, and so she could read my face. But, she said. But, there is still one thing I don’t know. I am looking for something, but I haven’t found it yet. I’m not gonna lie: It was the first time Rebecca sort of freaked me out. Made me feel incompetent or suspicious, because she seemed suspicious of me. Anyway. Back to her speech).
And remember the night you came? It rained SO MUCH. I told you that rain means blessing, and for me, for me rain and God are the same. That is how He communicates with me. And it rained so much the night you came. And last night! It rained much much last night! But now I see. You are a gift from God. And look what you and Mom from Ohio brought me. Now I know I can get close to Him again, I can know the Holy Spirit again! (Insert shriek) It was what? It was 2002 when I last saw this book. I went to a Benny Hinn revival in Kampala a few years ago, to look for this book, but I didn’t see it. And now God has given it to me again! This is the biggest surprise, by the way.

The night before, lying in bed, she laughed about Communion that morning (Easter Sunday), how she was last in line, so the reverend gave her three portions of the bread. We laughed and I told her how Charlie takes home the Hawaiian rolls we use for Communion, afterwards. How we find him in the church kitchen on communion days, eating the leftover rolls. Anyway, she said when the reverend gave her the three pieces of bread, she thought, “One is the Father, one’s the Son, and one’s the Holy Spirit.” When I gave her the book, she also mentioned that. That now she could be with the Holy Spirit again.

I’m not saying that Rebecca needs this Benny Hinn book in order to get close to the Holy Spirit. We don’t need Benny Hinn for those sorts of things. But I keep reminding myself that God can use anything, will use anything, and for so long this girl has been panting as the deer to get to that place with the Holy Spirit where she used to be, after she first read a few paragraphs of the book and started applying it to her life. And if He’s going to use Benny Hinn, He’s going to use Benny Hinn.
All I know is that, this week, I’ve noticed a drastic change in Rebecca. So much joy. There was only one time I noticed the sadness that usually marks her face.
The next night, Tuesday night, we were sitting at the table, I opened a mosquito bite and had to go clean it (lovely details), so I went to the room, thinking I’d be right back. Rebecca and I sat in there, her on her bed and I on the floor, for the next two hours, talking about the Holy Spirit, and the different dreams she has had where she has seen God. (She was so excited, because Hinn was quoting Revelation and some of John’s descriptions of God and the throne, and shrieking again, Rebecca told me about her dream and God looking like a crystal sort of octagon, with a different color for each side. John’s descriptions of jasper and stones got her excited; her dreams came close, very close). I thought we had only been in there maybe 10 minutes, until Aida came in, said something in Luganda, and Rebecca said Mackie was on (our Spanish soap opera’s main character). I’m going to miss these conversations, these conversations that suck the minutes like crazy.

Wednesday night we watched Narnia together, the whole family at the dining room table. (Professor Button “rents” out his movie and book library to us…not to mention hosts Smore barbecues—last night was incredible). Anyway, they were so engrossed in the movie. Susan jumped from her seat and gasped at one point (this movie isn’t in the thriller genre), and Mom was really scared of the white witch, and scared that, “The children won’t suffer, will they?” I told her no, this movie is about the Easter story, so it’s a happy movie. And so they started looking for it, for the hints and parallels to Christ throughout the movie. They noticed so many things I haven’t before.
Like when this nasty little elf-looking thing, one of the ones killing Aslan, asks Aslan (a lion), “Do you want some milk?” I’ve just taken the line, thus far, as the nasty guy calling Aslan a kitten or something. But as soon as he said this, Mom said to me, “Like Jesus. When He’s on the cross and they offer Him something to drink.”
And then. Then there is this one part, in the fighting scenes, where a bow and arrow is a shot, and the arrow—with a ball of fire on the end—turns into a bird that then turns into a ball of fire, hits the ground, and sets a barrier of fire between the two armies. No joke: the entire family, Rebecca, Mom, Aida, and Susan, burst into cheers (at the point that the bird turned to fire), Aida waved her hands in the air, screaming, Susan was clapping, Mom said something like Hallelujah, and Rebecca wrapped her arms around my waist: “It’s the Holy Spirit!” she screamed. I still can’t figure this out. Maybe because I don’t know the Holy Spirit as well as they do, enough to recognize Him when He looks like a bird catching on fire. Maybe it’s something about the Day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit initially fell on the disciples “with tongues of fire” or something. ? Either way, they all knew, at the same time, who this bird was representing, and Rebecca made me rewind. I did. And again, same reaction, same uproar.
I bet you can imagine what it was like when Aslan rose from the dead. Aida even starting singing.
They all loved the movie; Rebecca said it’s her new favorite. (The next morning at breakfast, Mom started naming more biblical parallels from the movie that she thought about before sleeping). We’re watching it again this weekend.

That movie made for a late night. I had to go outside for the latrine before going to bed. (Remember, Betsy’s family won’t even let her out of the house past 7. It’s not safe). What I remember from the walk from the house to the stalls was the lightning. The silent, beautiful lightning. It was like a silent film; I love this sort of lightning.
The next morning, sitting at the breakfast table for two hours (skipping class) because of the incessant downpour, Rebecca said she had known the night before that would rain like that. “Remember when you went for a short call last night, very late?”
“Yes.”
“I followed you. I wonder if you noticed the lightning? So I knew we would wake to rain.”
“I did notice the lightning. It was beautiful. (laugh). But Rebecca. You’re sneaky. Why’d you follow me?”
“I’m not sneaky. I was looking after you. It was late, not safe. I had to see that nothing happened to you.”
I love my big sister. Fully.

Like I said, it rained like crazy yesterday. My class started at 8:30. I left the house at 10, and pointlessly, for Mom and I still had to walk in the downpour.
On the way I told her, “Mom. I just decided. I am not going to any lectures today.”
“Really? Then why are you walking to campus?”
“I don’t know. But the rain has defeated me. I refuse.”
I skipped all my classes yesterday, really, for no reason. And it was wonderful.

I skipped class this morning too. But by default. I had just finished my bread and tea, and it was 8 o’clock, time to leave, in order to make it to my 8:30 class. But at 8:01 Rebecca said to me, “I read more of ‘Good Morning, Holy Spirit’ last night.” I didn’t leave the house until 9. I won’t sugar coat it: I was frustrated. I see that my Type A personality, the devil that it is, doesn’t dissolve just because it’s in a Type B culture. It was hard to listen genuinely, without picturing me walking in late to class. Especially hard to listen when we got into some theological stuff that I really disagree with Benny about. But Rebecca was taking his word as truth, while Revelation is a crazy book to interpret and place stock in your own interpretation. We argued some, I showed my frustration, and also looked at the clock my share of times. But then we reached this point in the conversation where I relaxed in my seat and realized, wet eyes and all, that I needed what was coming at the end of the conversation. The mire, the sludge, of the Revelation portion of the conversation was necessary, and worthwhile, in order to get to this.
It’s too overwhelming/consuming to sit here and write out the entire conversation. I will just boil it down to what I learned this morning:
I have long been ignoring the third person of the Trinity. Maybe because we call Him the third, and maybe because…I have no good excuse, really. For some reason I’ve been under the impression that the Father is God and Jesus, the Son, is God, and then there’s the Holy Spirit—the invisible version of the two. Sure, they are all connected. But not so much that they fully dissolve into each other—each is His own person. I give attention to the Father, and attention to the Son, but the Holy Spirit I either take for granted or ignore, never really calling Him by name, never really giving Him any credit for anything. Because I’ve just assumed that He is essentially the other two, just in the on-earth version. But how can that make sense, when the Father and the Son are separate enough? The distinctions between the Father and Son should be enough to tell me that the Holy Spirit is just as separate, just as unique.
Standing at the table, sliding my bag over my shoulder, I realized: When the Father was our “point of reference” or whatever, our present go-to God—in the days of Adam and Abraham, and all those jazzers—there were those who ignored Him. Then we had Jesus—He was/is the One we go to in order to be connected to God. And again, there were those who ignored Him. Those who had their eyes on the Father, and thought they were serving Yahweh, but failed to recognize Jesus, refusing to believe that He was/is the Father’s Son. And now we have the Holy Spirit. He is our present and direct contact. Yet there are those of us, myself included, who are so focused on the Son and the Father that we can’t recognize, and we ignore, the one who is here among us. So what makes me different from the Judaizers, the Pharisees, the ones who ignored the one among them and continued serving their own one-sided version of God? There is no difference. I am serving a two-sided God, while knowing He is three-sided. I have been forgetting the third person. Forgetting the Holy Spirit.
In so many ways, this scares me to death. To see this massive route ahead of me, this grand, painful effort to learn what I have to learn. A whole new side of God that I need to once again pursue, and let Him pursue me back (maybe that’s in the wrong order? I don’t know). A whole new person, personality to meet and learn His ins and outs. It’s huge, and I’m scared, overwhelmed, etc.
But at the same exact time, there is this incredible adventure ahead, just waiting. I don’t have to, I get to, meet and pursue and learn the personality of this third part of God. My life, my relationship with God—the three-in-one—has thus far been incredible. The most joyful, worthwhile adventure around. So, finding out that it’s only the beginning, that I’ve only tasted the half of it (okay, or 2/3), is the best news I’ve heard today. Because, really, how can it get better? I didn’t think it could. Today I see it can; as hard as it is to believe, I see I’ve been missing out—by ignoring this third person of God, this part that is no less significant than the other two.
I want God in abundance. That means all three parts. And if this is what I take from Africa, if this is what I take from Rebecca, these four months are golden.

(Post Script. For Mom. I did go to class today. The class I had to skip was one that is offered twice. I promise I went to the second session). :)

Sepia: Because this is better than writing a paper.

Rainy. season.
Good. Friday.









Because eggs go bad and eventually you have to draw faces on them.
Meet Jacque, complete with Starburst beret.













Surely you know what this is.

Where Gambling is Illegal.

Vicky, Susan, Franca.
Left, Center, Right.
















Me and Becca. The famous Becca.









Me and Susan. Susan-Sunday-School-Susan.














My mom said people want to know what we are doing in Rwanda, from April 18 on.
The truth is, none of us know. We aren't told much, not ever really. Except that, we're going to be learning a lot about the genocide. I think that is the focus of the trip.
No staying with families (as far as I know), just simply living as a group, I think.

What's funny: when America bridges with Africa.
Kyle and I had a little disagreement about Meatloaf's "Anything for Love" lyrics. He bet me that Meatloaf never says what he won't do when he says "But I won't do that." I bet him that he does, yes he does say what he won't do. We bet 5 American dollars.
Don't ever make bets with an American who loves Meatloaf. I just won 5 dollars.

It Don't Beat the Way it used to.

I am making a collective decision to blog today. Collective meaning all of me is making this decision, stupidity included.
I have a semi-massive/important paper due tomorrow, and I couldn’t even really tell you what the topic is. Yet, here I am. With much to say.

I’ll try to keep it in order. I think Tuesday was the last time I blogged. So I think it was Tuesday evening that I came home to a little boy, whose wrists were tied with a rope to our cattle stall. Mom and I were coming home from prayers (Holy Week=daily church), and she said, “What’s this? A thief!” He was surrounded by all of our neighbors, and it was the first time I’ve heard Francis raise his voice. Francis is the man, by the way. (He calls me Danielle-ey, or Danielly, however you pronounce the name that only my cousin Jenny has called me). Apparently the boy has been stealing from our matoke garden for quite some time, and has been stealing—and then selling—saucepans from all our neighbors. Tuesday he was caught, and chased down, as he reached his arm through Irene’s window to steal her purse. Crazy.

The neighbors, all gathered in our backyard, told him they’d forgive him if he returned all the saucepans. He said he sold them to a market woman. So, they went and fetched the market woman, brought her to the house, and she said he was lying. Quite the fiasco. (Fiasco would make a great name for…a cat). Anyway, I went in the house after a while. I couldn’t understand what everyone was shouting anyway, and I feared they might start hitting him. They didn’t, as far as I know. But as I ironed inside, I could hear Aida returning from Kampala, going all-out on this kid. She’s both intense and amazing. Rebecca ran out of the house, laughing, and saying Aida’s name over and over. Mom said the boy spent the night in the cells. I asked her, when she came in, “So, Aida’s home?”

Laughing, she said, “Oh yes. Aida’s home.”

Tuesday night prayers, prior to the thievery, Becca and Betsy came along. Which was great. I sat next to Mom, Becca sat next to me, and Betsy sat next to Becca. We played telephone, in ways of translation. I wonder how watered-down the message was for Betsy. But judging from the telephone game we played on the safari, when halfway down the bus my “I don’t care that your uncle’s in the mafia; my uncle is a robot” turned into “I don’t care that you’re in the mafia; I am in the mafia,” maybe Betsy got the most of the service.

Fish. It took me many years to appreciate fish in the states. I douse it with tartar, unless it’s tilapia and made by my mom. And I remember laughing at Melissa Turk (Eich) at Steak N Shake when she ordered fish as a meal. Who does that.

Anyway, the fish here is incredible. Mom bought it at the market the other night, fried I think?, instead of being boiled over the fire. It was crispy and salty, and I don’t care that the eyes were still there. I was sucking on the fin, and asked my mom if I could eat the bones. (I told you it’s incredible). She said some people do, but she wouldn’t recommend it. I nodded, and yeah, I ate the bones.

Another aspect of Tuesday night prayers: Mom forgot some jerry cans in the pews. So I had to run some ways to fetch them. Before I started running, I asked her if it was culturally appropriate. She laughed, and said I could run. But the looks I got…I think she just may have wanted her jerry cans fast. I passed Auntie Victo and she said, “What’s the matter with you?” I ran with my arms folded over my shirt, because, as bitter as I have been growing about being stared and shouted at, I’ve been made more bitter: my sister Jackie reminded me the other night that it isn’t so surprising that the motorcyclists scream their love and devotion, etc. etc. etc. Because what is America telling them about us? Jackie says everyone thinks we’re loose, that every white girl is ready and willing to climb into your bed and they don’t have to work for it. She said she too believed this, before they started hosting students. I guess I understand. It’s the only view of us they’re fed. And it works likewise too—what is the view of Africa that we are given? Jackie laughed about this and asked me, “Would you ever see a video of people in Africa partying, having fun? No. They tell you we beg, that we are impoverished. And you believe it.”

But what is funny: on Wednesday, yes I’ll get to Wednesday, while we were in the van and parked, a man on the road told me “Oli Mulunji,” (you’re beautiful), and instead of telling him “Tuswaala,” I felt nice for once, and thanked him. Then Todd put his arm on my shoulder, leaned to the window and said, “I think so too. She’s my wife. In fact, they’re all my wives,” pointing to the van full of girls. Hah. I guess we shouldn’t joke about polygamy here, but regardless, the man gave Todd a thumbs up.

On Wednesday we went to one of only two HIV hospitals worldwide. In Kampala or Entebbe, I think—I forget where we were. The other is in the U.K.

It is called MildMay, and was pretty…I don’t know what it was. But, as we were being given a tour of it, we stopped outside this tent, where about 25 people were getting tested, to know their status. It’s so prevalent here; it is still sinking in.

On the drive home from MildMay, Becca, Erin, Allene and I had V-Money drop us off at the Invisible Children bracelet campaign. A place where a man works from his house, basically, and where some people from the Acholi tribe stay to make bracelets during the day, every day. These bracelets are sold all over, even in the U.S., to raise money for the education of some of the ex-child soldiers. It funds for other things too.
Similar to meeting Esther, in charge of Compassion, in Kapchorwa, it was surreal and wonderful to see that what we do/give toward in America actually does something. I asked the man if it was all making a difference, the Invisible Children campaign, and if the bracelet sales/support were increasing with time or decreasing. Increasing, steadily. He gave a resounding yes. It’s all making some sort of difference.
When I got to my computer after this little visit, I had an email from my school regarding a showing of Invisible Children. I don’t know what else to say about that, other than: it was sweet.

Wednesday night, even us missions (homestay) kids stayed on campus. To get a lecture on AIDS. You know those times when you are in a place out of the context you are used to? You think you know a place. You think you know a cafeteria, and then you stay on campus for dinner, and get to see the cafeteria (which is outdoors) at night time, with the dim yellow lights that you remember only seeing on Tioga Trail on the nights you played baseball in your friend's street. Yeah. Campus is beautiful at night.

Thursday we went to Luwero, we missions kids. It was my first time blowing out a candle before I go to sleep. It’s quite the experience. The blue of the flame stays for awhile, giving you time to get back into your mosquito net and adjust your pillow. Life is good.

Friday was a Good Friday indeed. Indeed indeed. We went to a Catholic church, from where we started a two hour hike around town, as we followed the drama of Christ’s crucifixion. The Stations of the Cross—my first one, and a Luganda one. There had to be at least 200 people following it around town. And it was sweet: we started at the Catholic church, and ended at the Anglican. The religions/denominations merge for this day. A great example of the Ephesians 4 sort of unity.

I had to keep reminding myself that it was the Stations of the Cross, and that it was Good Friday. Because I was more immersed in the people I walked with. Naiga at my left hand, Ronald on my right. I was so excited when Naiga told me her name was Naiga; I pointed to Sharon and told the girl that that was Sharon’s name too, that she also was in the Kob clan. It wasn’t until after I said it, and saw the look on the girl’s face, that I remembered Sharon was white and the girl had good reason to be confused/think I was a lunatic. Anyway, Naiga pulled off a part off of her dress, handed it to me, and told me to remember her. “May God bless you.” This was before we started the hike. Once we started the hike, she found my side through a swarm of people, and I was thankful; though I’m sure we’re not hard to spot. We glow, actually.

Soon after came Ronald. Ronald couldn’t believe my Luganda usage. And because he laughed profusely each time I used it, I used it as much as I could. He made me use it for his friend Mary. She put her hands to her lips and said, “What a sur-prise.” And I think that’s how I want to say surprise from now on.

Ronald is by far the most intelligent 12 year old I have ever met. The first time I realized how wise this kid is: He asked me if my parents were still in America. I said yes, and I said I missed them very much. His response:

“But you don’t need to worry. All you need is confidence. Minus confidence, you cannot settle. But if you have confidence that the months will move, because they do, then you will be fine. Your first three months have gone, and you are fine, so the next two will not be difficult.” Dang. Not to mention, after that, he asked me about Obama and started telling me about Finland and Norway’s presidents. I think he said they were either black or were women, I forget which, and I don’t know if he is right. But he sounded smart when he said it. Furthermore, when I told him I wanted to be a writer, he asked if I would write history or form my own stories; he told me he too wants to be an author, but if not, he is “interested in accounting, and I would like to be an auditor.” To top that, his American accent was perfect. I really do think this was a trick. He was even wearing blue jeans. I’m betting he is from Florida, and his family stuck him in the middle of the parade just so he could walk next to me and confuse me. Except—I don’t even think Florida produces such smart kids.

Ronald told me about his friends from Finland, who had come to do missions work at his school, and how he writes them, and they him. He wanted my address, and while I know this by heart, there was no paper or pen anywhere. I was rather really bummed about this. Bummed that, if this kid grows up to be a sweet auditor and comes to the states, I’ll never know it. So bummed, in fact, that I deliberately watched him walk away after the service, to remember it, and that night—as we went to the Anglican bishop’s house for tea and wonderful company—I signed the bishop’s guest book and thought, “At least my address is somewhere in Luwero. And God does work miracles.”

The miracle came faster than I thought. Saturday morning we went to a home for HIV positive children and/or AIDS orphans. I got off the bus, realized I didn’t want my water bottle, so I took it back to the bus. And as I walked away from the bus, I hear a hello, and Ronald is running towards me. Our bus passed his home, he said, and he ran after it. In tears, I asked Melody for some paper and pen. God is so good.

But what I wanted to say about Friday:

I think I learned the most this Good Friday than I have any other. And it didn’t happen during the “parade”, but after, when we all talked about it. I will share our perceptions, collectively, because this is what hit me.

Todd, the one who looks like Jesus, and who all the Ugandans call Yesu, realized the implications of this during the parade. A man came up to him, said “Yesu,” obviously very confused, and pointed to the black man who was carrying the cross instead, the man who was acting as Jesus. Todd told us the man pointed as if to say, “But aren’t you the one who is supposed…?” I can’t get that picture out of my head. Jesus carrying the cross for us, being nailed for us, while others ask, “Wait. Aren’t you the one who should be where He is? Isn’t this your punishment?” Yes. Yes, it is. Thank God He paid it for us.

And Betsy. As she walked with a little girl, age 12, the girl asked her, “Do you know what is happening?” Betsy, thinking “What? Can’t she see?” said, “Yeah. They’re crucifying Jesus.” The little girl, upset, adamantly said, “No. We’re crucifying Jesus.” They make twelve-year-olds smart here, apparently. Doubly smart.
And for others, it was the fact that Jesus was black that really hit him. That this isn’t just some fictional story, written down so we can retell and retell it. It’s real. Real life, real suffering, in all colors.
And for me, it was when we were walking into the last church, after the parade, that I remembered what Christ’s sacrifice means for me. It was so tangible. I was walking through the doors, with Naiga and Ronald (and another Ronald), but as we headed to some pews, a woman put her arms out, to keep the children back. They had to stand along the staircase and up in the balcony. The pews were for the adults, and the Mazungu. When she stopped them, I turned around and looked at them, trying to figure out what to do—I wasn’t ready to leave them. The woman and I just looked at each other for a few seconds, she said something in Luganda to the kids, they nodded, she pulled her arms up, and smiling, they took my hands again and we sat down.

That’s what Christ’s blood does for us. Without Him, I’m nothing. Nothing I could ever do can get me past my sinful nature, and into everlasting life, both now and after death. When I stand before the Father, I’m sure I’ll disgust Him. Until Jesus says, “Wait. She’s with me.” The Father will look at His Son, remember the price He paid, and then look at me with bright eyes. Yes, I do know you after all.
And what is so beautiful: All I have to do is grab His hands. That’s all. The kids had nothing to claim, no way of their own to convince that woman they should get special privileges. Until they grabbed the white girl’s hands. Everlasting life: it’s all about Who you know.

When I got home from Luwero, our van was greeted by a tiny girl. A little girl I’ve never seen. Hannington’s daughter, Vanessa. She’s adorable; and it’s nice having a child in the house. And it’s nice watching Hannington interact with her, and vice versa. Even though I’m again seeing the culture head-on, knowing she’ll return to the villages to live with her mom in a few days. But I guess our culture is like that too, sadly.

Susan, the one I teach Sunday School with, is living with us now too. For a month. Her school is on holiday; she says she lives with us on the holidays.

About 20 minutes after I got home, Susan asked me to help her oil her hair. It was an experience. A very intimate thing, if you ask me. I don’t really run my hands through anyone’s hair, and to pick at it, and then rub oil into the scalp…with a girl you only see on Sundays…I just wonder what it was like for Jesus to wash His disciples’ feet.

Easter was wonderful yesterday. It didn’t feel like Easter, but who says it has to. It was relaxing. Mama Joyce said it was like we were in Ohio, trapped by snow, because it rained non-stop all day. After church, we sat awhile, wondering how we’d get home, and then Mama called Martin, who came to pick us up. From then, we were in the house all day as it poured. Watching movies, reading, sleeping, eating the most amazing meal. Meanwhile, our water tank overflowed into buckets that also overflowed. We’re set for awhile, and now Betsy can bathe. :)
But as we waited in the church before we got picked up, Mama asked me what I thought of the thunder the night before. “I know how much you love thunder,” she said. I told her I didn’t hear any of it.
“What!? My God, you sleep like a log.” She told me she woke up and prayed for awhile, it was so loud. “I should’ve woken you up.” I told her she should have.

But I find I am loving the rain far more than I ever have. I used to love it by association, because my best friend is obsessed with it, and jumping and running through it is only fun when you have a partner. And I just might love it here because I’m a mess anyway, it’s not like we have to worry about hair or anything. But either way, yesterday was beautiful, as wet as it was, and Friday in Luwero (it was scorching hot all day, until 3 o’clock, when the sky grew dark, just as the Bible says, and it stormed like crazy). Erin and I changed into clothes we didn’t care about, and ran through the field. Again, rain is beautiful.

I’m hoping this is something I go back home with. Like hospitality and a relationship-minded mindset. At home, if I’m swamped with homework and someone visits me/wants to have a good long talk, I am worthless as a friend. Sure, I comply, but the entire time my type A personality mind is saying, “Seriously, you have work to do. Seriously, you have work to do. Seriously…” and on it goes. But here, people are never an interruption. People are the priority. If you are running out of your house to catch a flight, and someone stops by for tea, you walk back in your house—without grumbling—and put the kettle on. You miss your flight, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t just the romanticized view…I’m telling you, this is the view. And I’m jealous of it. I want to take this back and keep it.

I met a man in church yesterday, who wanted to comment on my Luganda. He asked me where I was from, and he said he knew Ohio, that he went to school in Indianapolis. Butler University, where my friend Carli goes. Crazy. He also told me his son is now a citizen of the U.S. and serves in our Air Force. As he left, he said, “May God bless you, and may you have a wonderful future.” Susan, sitting next to me, squealed. Literally, and said “Wow.” And Mama said, “That’s a blessing!”, very surprised-like.
I like that they take what you say seriously here. Which is maybe why they won’t say “God bless you” every time you sneeze.

I forgot to mention more about Saturday at the orphanage-like place. It is hard, surreal, seeing the spots on children's faces that you've seen in books. Spots that say HIV positive, and I'm not even six. Yet they are like every other kid, playing the parachute games you played with a parachute in elementary school, and playing badmitton, and, I guess none of this is surprising. But what is surprising is when I mentioned to Ronald that we were going to an HIV clinic on Saturday (we weren't at a clinic, I just don't know our schedule), he said, "Oh. To check your status." I asked him to repeat himself. He said, "Your life status. You want to know your life status." It is the norm to find out whether you have HIV or not. And that's what I can't get used to.

The second computer of our US group just crashed. The future doesn’t look so bright, and I’m fearing for my life.

And lastly, if anyone knows when the Olympics are this year, I would welcome such information.

Sorry I just stole an hour of your life.

That one time we drove over the equator.

What I learned this weekend:

Germans are crazy-cool.

Water buffaloes like their privacy.

My hand and Sharon’s seem to have been shaped for each other.

Germans are cool, crazy-cool, because while we showed up at Queen Elizabeth National Park in a coaster bus, this couple showed up on a tandem bike. They biked from Germany. From Germany.

While a certain water buffalo was “watering the grass”, we stopped the bus and watched. Some people took pictures—only because it was all very impressive. That’s when he started chasing the bus.

My hand and Sharon’s. Saturday night, we were walking back to our tents, and we saw some massive black spots in the grass. They were waterbucks. Which are the size of bucks in Ohio, only 13 times bigger, and sharp horns replace the antlers. We had to pass them to get to our tents. Six of us got halfway, the waterbuck stood up from his sleeping position, and we all ran. On take two, there was about 16 of us. So we held hands, walked swiftly, and our lives were spared. Hah.
The only reason we would be afraid of things that look like deer: we had passed these same waterbucks (via bus) on our way to dinner. And two of them were fighting over a girl. Those horns are fierce.

What else are fierce: elephants. They’re fierce if you think about it. If you remember that their birth/gestation process is 22 months, rather than 9, so of all the animals, they are the most protective of their young. And they have tusks and truck-legs to prove it, if they have to.

After 11 hours of driving on Friday (7 hours my eye), we had some trouble getting into the park because it was after dark. And because some elephants were blocking our path.

Two grown, and their kids, were “crossing” the road. Except that just means they were standing there. Driver Charles, the only male on a bus of 24 people, assumed I was the group leader because my seat was right behind him and because I introduced myself at the start of the trip. But I only introduced myself because I was sitting behind him, not because I know whether or not he should take that short-cut in Kampala; but I played along any way. Because this meant he kept me updated. “Let me stop for gas.” Okay.
But then there were the elephants. Charles stopped the bus and asked, “Are we safe?”
He asked if we should keep going. I told the rest of the bus that Charles wanted to know if we should keep going. Betsy and I told Charles that he was the driver, it was his decision. Meanwhile someone yelled, “the whole back of the bus wants to keep driving!” They weren’t listening to Adrienne, a future zoologist if she wanted to, who said the male elephant was agitated. Charles finally pointed out that the elephants had their young with them, so we should turn around. Yet people kept saying, “Keep going,” and “I think elephants are peaceful.” But Charles stuck with his intuition (common sense, maybe?) and reversed.
He drove back to the last evidence of human life we saw—which was thankfully a police car (this was my first time seeing a police car here in Uganda). He asked the men for another route, and explained our situation. The man laughed, and said through the bus window, “They had their young with them. They would’ve killed you. Would’ve killed you all.”
Hah.

What’s funny about all of this, Betsy and I think, is God’s providence. As soon as the police man said this, Betsy gave me a look and said, “What if the people in the back of the bus were sitting behind Charles?” Because Charles really did, all weekend, what we asked him. (For instance: Sunday. Becca was waiting all 11 hours for zebras, because she missed their sighting on the ride there. So when Erin screamed zebra! Becca—who was sleeping on my lap—jumped up and yelled ‘Stop the bus!’, and sure enough, Charles immediately pulled over). Anyway, the seating arrangement and God’s provision: Friday, as we were waiting for the bus to pick us up, we stood with our bags for a half hour before Betsy pointed out that we were standing for a half hour with our bags. So she and I found a place to sit, far from our spot in line. About two minutes later, the bus showed up, and we were the last ones to load. What luck. As we sat in the only seats left, the poor ones behind the driver, I told Betsy, “This sucks too much to be purposeless. There’s a reason we’re sitting here.” But I was only kidding. Anyway, funny stuff.

Sometime during this unscheduled, night-time safari called “travel,” we passed these things that looked a lot like they were from the antelope family. Some sort of impala or gazelle or something. Sharon, though. Sharon stood up in her seat, pumped her fist and said, “That’s a kob! That’s my clan!”
Clan pride was all over her.

We saw a whole lot of Pumba this weekend. The warthogs walked around the park like stray dogs. Sharon is convinced that it was Pumba who was snorting against our tent Friday night; she may be right. That was before our tents caught fire. (Kidding).

Most of Friday night, instead of sleeping, I looked at the stars through the tent screen and wondered what it is that my family normally sleeps on when we camp. Because surely it’s not rocks. Sunday morning I remembered, and woke up saying, “Air mattresses. That’s what’s missing.”

We had a boat safari and two land ones. The boat ones were for the sake of hippos, of course. I used to think hippos were colorful, friendly guys who eat colored beads when you press their tails. But that’s only a game. “Ghost stories” in the tent, when you’re in Africa, consist of scenes your brother saw on the Discovery Channel. Lauren had to tell us about the hippo who pulled a man out of a safari truck, bit him once, watched him writhe, bit him again, watched him writhe, then ate him. Needless to say, I’ve been underestimating hippos. And now I think I hate them. Especially because Holly saw them 10 feet from our tents.

Betsy and I didn’t go on the third safari Sunday morning. The only justification for maybe going would be to see a lion—which we didn’t see in the first one—but in the grand scheme of things, they look the same at the zoo. So we stayed behind, and it was wonderful. It was the first time I’ve really felt on my own since I’ve been here. No schedule, no leader, no massive group of Americans. Just us and the massive lake and our single lonely tent.

I was walking back from the showers when I saw the most humorous thing of the weekend. It was straight from Wild America, the scene with the moose.

Because Betsy was standing at the tent, brushing her hair, as this massive waterbuck slowly walked behind her. What was hilarious, on my end, was the fact that Betsy had no idea it was behind her. It was ridiculously hilarious.

We stayed behind so we could have a Palm Sunday service. This consisted of sitting on two logs, reading the Triumphal Entry passages in the Gospels, and singing with our horrible voices. The crazy-cool Germans’ tent was only feet from us, which made me feel Muslim: only because, very often in Uganda, if you’re not woken up by the roosters, it’s the Muslims’ early morning prayers/singing that wakes you up. Suddenly the tables were turned and I wondered if the Germans thought we were crazy and/or Arab.
But it was a Palm Sunday I won’t forget. Especially because there was an omelette involved.

Speaking of the Muslim prayers. We pass this massive mosque every time we drive through Kampala. And there is always someone on a microphone singing/chanting/praying. I don’t know what to say about this, other than it is one of the most beautiful things in the world to hear. Like bagpipes, only creepier. Because I can’t decide if it’s really scary, or really soothing, to listen to them pray. But it is beautiful; that much I know.

What I realized most this weekend, I think—other than how much I miss Arby’s and the movie theatre and my sister—is how wild God is. That Derek guy from last week mentioned in passing how Adam was created in the wilderness, and Eve was created in the garden, and how sweet that is—and that has nothing to do with anything I’m about to say, other than the closeness of the words “wild” and “wilderness.”

But, really, God is so dangerous, awesome (aweful), and untamed; I really do love this about Him. It’s just that, in America, I can see a polar bear walk around its allotted area and man-made cave and green pool, but it means nothing to me, other than, “God, I’m glad you made that thing white. It’s pretty sweet.” But having to hold Sharon’s hand for the life of me as we shuffle past horned things, that are taller than us, in the dark, and hearing the man say “It would’ve killed you all,” and knowing massive hippo jaws are within walking distance from where you sleep, dang. God’s wildness gets under your skin fast, and His “Creator-ness” suddenly means a whole lot of different things than it meant three months ago.

P.S. It’s been forever since I’ve done laundry. Because it takes hours, and much pre-planning, there hasn’t been enough time. Which has made for an uncomfortable cycle of the same three outfits, for weeks. My plan was to spend all of Tuesday at home, avoid campus, and get all the laundry done. But last night as I returned home, the massive heap was clean and dried and folded nicely on my bed. Rebecca. I was so thankful, but so upset that she had to do that, that she did do that. My nasty, beyond-Febreeze clothes (red dust makes your clothes unwearable fast). I hugged her and thanked her and apologized, and she brushed it off. “But it was so easy. I did it for love, so it was not hard.”
I so love this family.

Nsaga. I'm back.

Turns out I have more time than I know to do with. So I will include yesterday's/this morning's news:

I came home from school last night, to be met by Rebecca half-way through the yard. She looked legitimately sad, and hurried to hug me. "My good friend is dead." Dang. We hugged for a bit, I apologized for awhile, and she said, "We found it strangled in the field."
I admit I was a bit put off that she referred to a good friend as "it." I took it as language barrier, considering I am a he and Hannington is a she all the time; pronouns matter little here. But I asked, nonetheless, "It?"
"Yes."
"A girl or a boy?"
"No.....the goat. My goat friend is dead."
Gosh, I laughed. And then had to explain myself for laughing; because surely her lips didn't budge to a smile. Laughter isn't always contagious.

Everyone was sad about the goat. Kid Martin barely looked at me, let alone wanted to chase each other through the grass again. Mom said, "We are all sad. It was terrifying, really. But after we prayed, we got over it."
So I don't yet understand why they think I'm weird for being attached to my dog. It's just a goat. Though I admit it was awkward watching Francis and Aida tear meat into separate buckets and bags to give to the neighbors, when just that morning I saw it standing, black and white, on a rock, eating grass. Poor mbuzi.

And Sara was there! At the scene of mourning. I haven't seen her since the second week. Shortly after her confirmation, she went to the village, because her mother was sick. It was so wonderful to see her again. (She didn't come to pay respects, by the way. Just coincidence, I think).

Lastly. Dear Aunt Sharon: thank Jenny for me.
On Thanksgiving, she filmed countless ridiculous videos. Videos where she had half of the inanimate objects in Grandma's living room come to life, attaching with them her own narration. Not to mention her fuzzy slippers that she videotaped nonstop, composing a song about their importance in her life. Last night, after watching "1o things I hate about you" with the family, I realized I had these videos on my computer.
So this morning at breakfast, Rebecca and I watched them. It was incredible. Crazy, yes, but incredible. Rebecca loved it. But now I miss my cousins even more than I did yesterday.

Betsy just said something I need to repeat. A recent encounter with her oldest brother:
Matte said, "You're going to judge me for this. Most men don't like hotmail. But I assure you, I am a man. Even though my address is hotmail."
Classic jazz.

I think the drive to the safari is seven hours. Right now I am trying to remember why I signed up in the first place. The elephants don't even talk.

Wooden Giraffes.

The other night, Rebecca gave me a tattoo. I didn't even realize what was happening, until I realized she had written "Nkw" nice and large on my arm, with fancy letters. She wrote "Nkwagala" (I love you), and I won't lie. It looked sweet. Mom was bathing while this scandal was going on. I went to the bathroom door, and yelled to her that Rebecca gave me a tattoo.
"Oh?!" she said, very high-pitched like.
"Yeah. She wrote Josh down my back."
Real good times.

Speaking of real good times. We're going safari-ing this weekend; leaving tomorrow, hence, writing today. And briefly.

Yesterday a man named Derek spoke in our Missions class. He is a part of an organization whose purpose is to encourage/support/uphold missionaries abroad. I've never heard such an abrupt, honest, intense, account of what a missionary's life really looks like. In many ways, it's a starved life. Needing to be fed spiritually, yet being constantly asked to feed. Home leaves are more horrible than they are amazing--for you finally want to be preached to, in your own context, yet you have to be the guest speaker at the churches you visit. And your children? The only place they feel at home is on the airplane. (I'm sure there are exceptions).
Anyway, it was an eye-opener, but it also made complete sense.
After two hours of this guy talking to us, I finally felt fed. Maybe the second time since I've been here. Worship is so hard; I know worship isn't about the songs alone, but during praise and worship time: when you have a bunch of unfamiliar songs, constantly, and songs in a different language, it's more of a chore than it is time to praise God. It's hard to concentrate.
And sermon-wise? Wednesday night prayer services: in Luganda. Sunday morning service: in Luganda. Yeah, my mom graciously translates, but it's still hard to follow. Especially for A.D.D. kids. You'd rather daydream, and merely nod to your mom, not really hearing what she's translating.
So, when Derek talked to us, wow. It wasn't even what he said that got to me: he was talking about things I couldn't relate to, mostly marital struggles, and marital struggles when you're missionaries in the Hindu context. But the fact that this American man was sitting in a hut with us, with one of the calmest voices I've heard in a while, and talking to us--not teaching us, but talking to us: it was golden.
With that being my first class yesterday, the entire day was incredible. I felt fed, full, "No more matoke, please. I am satisfied. Really," and I couldn't stop thanking God. The prayer service with Mom last night? I've never paid more attention to a Luganda service.
Yesterday was an answer to prayer.

On Sunday, I found out from the provost that my mom is the hospitality coordinator of the church. And it makes a whole lot of sense.
Hospitality, normally an abstract term for me--one I thought I couldn't exercise until I had my own home and family--has grown hands and feet this semester. Being a person who naturally refuses anything offered her, even if she's parched/hungry, I appreciate not having the option, but being handed a glass of passion juice, or a bowl of pineapple. They don't give me the opportunity of "no." (It was a different story in Kapchorwa; that's just too much. For Betsy, they made her drink 4 cups of tea, eat 4 chipotes, 4 eggs, 4 bananas, and 4 pieces of bread for breakfast. That's Kapchorwa for you).
But I'm excited to go home, to go back to school. And to give people tea when they walk in the door. And to always have a full stock of fruit, just in case.

Because they ask me if I've ever seen a donkey before.

My African mom and I crash weddings. I’ve always wanted to—and I still want to, because this instance wasn’t as exhilarating as anticipated. Even though my mom kept leaning over to me and saying, “We’re going to be in the videos, and they have no idea who we are.” And then we’d laugh.

What happened was: this is Africa. So things don’t start on time. If you go to the church on Saturday morning to give thanks for a recent graduation, they will say it starts at 10. And you’ll get there at 10. But no one will even start trickling in until 10:45. Which doesn’t work when there is a wedding scheduled at 11. My mom said, “Oh, well, we’ll just have to stay for the wedding then.” Hah.

The wedding was between a Mzungu from England and some Ugandan man. A very interesting wedding. I wanted to take on a British accent and give a speech, pretending to be a sister of the woman—but I knew I couldn’t fool the bride, and as much as Mom laughed about it, she didn’t think it was a good idea. So I didn’t.

But: what is hilariously awkward is how long the priest waited for someone to object to the wedding. Usually that part is glossed over, passed quickly. But he asked if anyone had a reason they shouldn’t marry, he waited, he waited some more, he translated it in Luganda (the only time he used Luganda in the service), and finally moved on. Oh man. Too much.

And if I couldn’t help stifling giggles for that, it was the bride’s tattoo that showed through the back of her dress. Because her spinal cord said “Josh” though her groom’s name was Jesse. Yikes. Yikes times seven. I started to point it out to my mom, stopped half way, and said Nevermind, because I knew I would lose it, right in the middle of the vows. Neither is her laughter quiet; we must be careful.

I really don’t mean to make fun of this wedding, but another thing: it was a we-got-special-permission wedding, because it is now rainy season, and normally no one gets married during rainy season. But the bishop said yes.

I think they made the program rather quickly, because they didn’t have the man’s last name printed in the program, with an obvious white space where it should have been. So it kept reading “Mrs. Jesse.” Hah. And at one point, it read:

Rose says:

“I Kayleigh take you Jesse…” Oh, Rose. Always interfering. Which reminds me of the last Ugandan wedding I went to, the one we were invited to. The priest called the girl by the wrong name for awhile, until someone corrected him.

The moral: Don’t get married in Uganda.

I was given a name by one of the priests/provosts/vicars/I have no idea on Sunday. And apparently he chose a name from the correct tribe—Mom said it was perfect, because it was from the monkey clan, and her daughters are from the monkey clan. So I’m Namuli now, which means Flower. Which reminds me of skunks and Bambi, but I won’t say anything.

Rebecca still calls me “Ohio” and “Steadman”, so I’m not upset.

We watched Notting Hill on Sunday. What a beautiful movie. And what a fun movie to watch with Africans. I don’t even know why. But it was better than the time we watched Pride and Prejudice.

Sunday night was a good time at dinner. They get such a kick out of our pet habits in America. So I humored them, told them about Blade and Spanky and Molly and Hans. The most ridiculous stories I could think of, like the full day last summer I spent with my dog, even making a list of the things we’d do together. Like share ice cream. My mom kept saying, “But really. That is weird” in the most amazing accent you can imagine.

Rebecca just stared at me with a sarcastic, straight face, repeating what I said, very matter-of-factly. “You sang to your dog.” “You let your pig climb into your sleeve.” So funny.

Last night was pretty hilarious too; I don’t even know why. But Mom, Jackie, Rebecca, and I spent twenty minutes in our separate rooms and beds, yelling to each other and laughing. It’s mainly the Luganda usage, and when and how I use it. My favorites have been “BaNAnge,” which is an exasperated sort of “Oh my gosh,” but it means “My friends,” and then there’s “Tuswala,” which means “You are shaming us.” It’s fun to say, repeatedly, during our favorite Spanish soap opera.

I talked with Hannington last night for a good while about careers and talents and risky whites, all the usual jazz. He was telling me how I will be some famous writer some day, making it rich, while he finds my books in libraries. I told him no, that probably won’t be the case, and went on to explain why it is someone would want to major in something that will probably leave them poor their entire lives.

He told me, “Here, we choose the subjects that will pay. But you whites. I have noticed, you take risks, so you can do what you love. If you fail, you fail, if you succeed, you succeed.” I told him it wasn’t just a white thing—anyone can take risks. But he went on to explain that in the Olympics, he watches the brave whites ski, and that’s really risky. I told him the example was unfair; there is no snow in Africa.

I think I mentioned that Rebecca’s lecturers are on strike; so she hasn’t been to school in awhile. The students started rioting, and so they’ve closed down the school. For awhile, I guess. What sucks: they still have to pay tuition. That calls for some sort of overthrowing, I think; I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.

Anyway, my school is having less-drastic issues, but issues nonetheless. We recently had an election for the student guild—which, here, is one hundred times more important/professional/influential than the student governments in the U.S. And it was announced in chapel yesterday that, for the 3^rd in a row, it was a shady election, with illegal procedures. The white man making the announcement was pretty intense about it, saying something about scandal being a part of the culture. Which, well, I won’t say anything about that; I think I’m still bitter and think “Shady” every time someone cuts me in line, in the bathroom or the cafeteria. Because it’s normal and accepted to not even make eye contact with anyone in line, but to walk in front of all of them and just stand there like you’re next. Dang.

But anyway, our program leader later explained to us that this is a big deal, this student guild election scandal and the fact that the white man stopped the election process until it is all sorted out and justice is served. They warned us about possible riots, and suggested we don’t join—even if we think it’s a good cultural experience chock-full of community involvement hours. Hah.

At breakfast this morning, Rebecca and I exchanged dreams. I told her I woke up to a rooster, apparently, who I thought was Jackie. I couldn’t understand why, every few minutes, Jackie was screaming/laughing in the house. (On my walk to school, Mom explained to me that this is one confused rooster. A rooster everyone thought was female until only recently, when it started growing that red thing on its head and started trying to crow. It doesn’t know how to crow yet—so it sounds like a laughing woman). Anyway, Rebecca told me she dreamt that I went on a weekend trip and didn’t come back. That they took us back to America and we didn’t get to say goodbye, and next thing she knew, all my stuff was gone, and she had a new student in the house, a Chinese girl who didn’t know English and who brought a TV with her.

After she told me the dream, she asked what we were doing this weekend; I reminded her of the safari. She told me I better come back; and that’s when she started crying, and then laughing to cover up the crying. Rough stuff. Rough stuff that, even though I can’t wait to come home, makes me dread my last night here. I really can’t imagine walking away from them.

Rebecca went on to explain to me how empty the bedroom was in December when the last girl left.

I told her I hoped the next girl is Chinese. For humor and irony’s sake.

Yesterday in class, our program leader handed to us our applications for the program, that we filled out last year. There aren’t many things more disappointing than reading who you were in May 2007, reading your explanation on what Jesus means to you. A sick sort of time capsule. Because I’m definitely not where I need to be—not locationally, but spiritually. And I don’t just mean because of circumstances like ignoring poor children at grocery stores. Just the daily relationship with God, a relationship that was so core, so central, so consuming, only months ago, and seems so stagnant now. Yesterday I was also flipping through my assignment notebook, which I also had last semester, and I had jotted a quick prayer down in it randomly, sometime in December. I had written that, by the looks of things, I was trying to go to Africa without God. Trying to do it on my own.

And that was a perfect prediction—for I feel like that is what has happened/what is happening. To make a long story short, I’d love some prayer right about now, if you think of it. It’s rough and confusing being so in love with a God you want to please, but forgetting what a pleasing life looks like, feeling like you can’t hop back on the train and pick up where you left off. Because you left off. Like a jackass, you freaking left off.

Abu? His pet monkey.

Dad and the boys. (Why is this underlined?)













Dad and banana trees.














Mama and a foamy cup of milk.



















That's a recently-slaughtered chicken.

And Jasmine was his girlfriend.

Baby Favor on my back. And there's Mama.
















Israel and Chelimo. I think one of them is wearing pants.








Are words really necessary.

One of Kapchorwa's cliffs; I told you it was beautiful.

Mr. Darcy and Groceries

I have a few things to say, quick and bullet-like, before I get to what I really need to say.

The other night, I fell asleep at the dinner table. On the dinner table. I only like this because I am realizing that I feel like a member of this family. I feel like I can fall asleep, head in arms on tablecloth, and not even feel rude or guest-like.

The lecturers/professors at Rebecca’s college are on strike, and have been for a week; they want more money from the government. Classes haven’t been happening, and what I notice here is how much people want to go to school, how badly they want their hard-earned money to be put to use. Last night on the news, the students were rioting. One of the boys was carrying a tree, like—a whole tree—through campus, yelling for the government to pay up and end this strike. Maybe he thought that by tangibly using branches, he could influence a branch of government. Cute.

Also on the news: last week. An eleven-month-old had been beheaded in her home, and I don’t remember the reason (as if there could be one). But what I thought was even crazier: when the mother called the police/ambulance, they wouldn’t come unless she paid for their fuel. Apparently this is common. The newscaster mentioned a similar instance where a man’s body was left to decompose in his house for months, because the police demanded payment to do something about it.

Last night was probably my favorite night with my family thus far. A few weeks ago I had stumped Rebecca with the only card trick I know, so last night I taught it to her. We also played card games for a long while. That’s when my mom walked in with the Luganda Bible I had given her money to buy for me. “I almost forgot. Here is your treasure!” she said. I can’t really describe, justifiably, how excited I was. I can’t even read the thing. But I wanted it so badly. I tried to find Romans, and, stumbling, read them my favorite verse. I thanked her, smiling and giggling like an idiot who loves language too much, and she said, “No. Thank you, for loving my mother tongue.
This morning when we walked to school together, she told me how much I love Africa. I was glad she could tell, and agreed with her: yes, you’re right. I do love Africa. Then I quoted Mr. Darcy (we watched Pride and Prejudice together before I left for Kapchorwa): “You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” Except I said Africa instead of you. And it seemed completely appropriate.

But back to last night. The other good things: we got onto the subject of Swahili once Hannington started putting away the dishes and Mom said, “Asante sana,” and I yelled, “Rafiki!” because Rafiki sings that in the Lion King. She said it means, “Thank you very much.” But anyway, they gave me an incredible history lesson about Swahili and tribes, etc. About Luganda and tribal pride; it was amazing. And after that, Rebecca and Mom spent 15 minutes making fun of Idi Amin, because he couldn’t properly speak English. Rebecca marched around the dining room saying, in a deep voice,

“Ladies and gentlemen, now I am going to undress the queen” and

“I thank you from the bottom of my wife.”

Great times in Mukono.

Transition time.

I like to listen to a song called “Twenty-four” by Switchfoot when I am disappointed in myself. Maybe because the words “failure” and “drop-outs” are in there, but maybe more so because of the words: “I’m not who I thought I was 24 hours ago.”
Yes, I am listening to this song right now. Because Tuesday showed me just that: I am not who I thought I was.

I also like to read Proverbs 31 on a sporadic-almost-regular basis, to sort of check myself. To make sure I am mostly a girl who fears the Lord, mostly a girl of noble character. I usually walk away from this passage thinking, “Dang. I don’t make linen garments,” but then I get over it. Because linen garments, I think, don’t scream anything about character—just knitting skills. Skills I’m not too concerned about acquiring, at least not yet. But I thought I had most of the other things, the important things, covered. At least most of the time. And at least this one: "She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy" (verse 20).
I guess you have to go to Africa or something to realize you still have a lot to work on. To realize you are so wrong about yourself.

Judging from my past, my recent efforts, Monday I would’ve considered myself a generous person. Even a really generous person. I have tried to look out for the poor, the hungry. But I’m starting to think that was all just circumstantial. My assumption has been “I have done generous things, so I am generous.” Tuesday told me that doing generous things isn’t always an outpouring of a generous heart. That, maybe I’ve reached the shell, but my core isn’t refined yet.

Because, a year ago, if you were to approach me and say:
“Pretend you’re in Africa. There is a hungry child, and you have food. Yes, you have food with you at the moment. Would you give it to the child?”
I would’ve laughed at the person, with an obvious yes. What a no-brainer situation. And I’d like to insert here an “easier said than done” disclaimer, but I can’t. Because giving such a child your food is easily said and easily done. Someone who doesn’t even know and love God—surely he too would give a little girl his muffin. Such generosity and love seems to be inherent in us, unavoidable. Not many people would refuse such a person.

This is the part I hate. The part I hate to see written on screen or on paper. I’m not sure I could even say it out loud. That’s how disgusted I am, with the person I thought was different from this. Because I was the one who refused such a person, the one I didn't think could exist.

Tuesday we were at the grocery store. Me and three others. Two of us were standing outside of the store, waiting for the other two, while a little girl stood next to us. She was wearing a yellow dress and a bit of blood under her nose. She had some sort of recently-bought medicine in her hand. She looked at the person I was with and said, “Give me my water.” We just sort of looked at her, asked her to repeat. She did. And we just looked at her. The store security guard, carrying a gun, came over to us, asked if we knew English. “Can you hear what she is saying? She is hungry. She wants food.” And he left. And we just looked at her. There were four of us again, standing there with our groceries, just looking at her. I had a muffin in my bag. A muffin I didn’t exactly need and still haven’t eaten yet, and a muffin that cost probably less than 30 cents. I still don’t know what I was thinking, if I was thinking. But I didn’t give it to her.

I want to say maybe it was because of how it happened. The way she said it. “Give me my water.” And why she said it. Because we are Mazungu, so we are rich. Maybe I was somewhat fed up of being demanded money, while I’m racking up debt back home that they don’t know or care about. Maybe I’m fed up of being assumed to have a Mercedes-Benz-growing Birch tree rooted in my front yard. Maybe I’m just plain fed up—plain conditioned and made numb by the poverty I pass daily.

But none of that matters. What matters is that she was probably hungry and I had a muffin. And a wallet that could buy me 2,800 muffins if only I would’ve walked back into the store. What matters is that that muffin, and that wallet, don’t even belong to me, and I know that. Everything I have is Christ’s, at His disposal the minute He asks me to give it. What matters is that Jesus told us, straight up, that every hungry person is Him. Every hungry person we pass, while holding a muffin in our hands, is Jesus, left hungry.
So why was I surprised when this girl said, “Give me my water.” If she is, deep down, Jesus, and that is how I am supposed to love her, then she has every right to say “Give me my water,” because my water is her water. She doesn’t need to say please to prod my generosity; Jesus shouldn’t have to say please to me. Ever.

And what matters is that, when I’m before His throne, and He is separating those who love Him versus those who say they love Him, and He asks me: Why didn’t you feed me?, and I answer Him, “But remember that Christmas…and the homeless…”, He won’t even blink. Because what is one act of generosity, what is two, what is seventeen, if our hearts are not genuinely generous?
If my heart was genuinely generous, I would’ve handed her my entire bag and not have thought twice. But I didn’t. And I’ve never been so surprised, so disappointed, so ashamed.

I also know that beating myself up gives nothing. Nothing but bruises anyway. I can learn from my mistakes. Such as: I am seeing how unlike Christ I really am, and hence, how much more time I need to spend with Him, so He can better rub off on me.
What I am also learning is something Jenny told me when I told her all this. How sure and constant and overflowing our God’s forgiveness really is: that He will forget this instant if I will—and if I make sure it doesn’t happen again, if I make sure I give my muffin next time. I told Jenny how fed up I am with continuing to need His forgiveness, for having to keep asking, for continuing to mess up, and Him continuing to let me off the hook. His quickness at mercy, his eagerness to forgive, is what kills me.
And Jenny reminded me of Judas. How Jesus knew, beforehand, that Judas was going to betray Him, yet He washed his feet anyway. And Hosea. He knew his prostitute wife was going to cheat on him before he even married her—but he was still in love with her, and still married her, anyway. Because our God is just like that. And there’s nothing I can do about it—except, accept it, and love it.

The end of Switchfoot’s song has promise and redemption. Effort towards not stopping at words like “failure” and “drop-outs”, but doing something about it, running toward Someone who can, and promises to, fix me. And this is where I find my comfort:

“Still I’m singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with you…
you’re raising the dead in me.”