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.