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.