Todd shaved his beard.

Before I forget: a few weeks ago, Erin realized first-hand that these kids want to show us they know English, want to relate to us however they can.
Erin was in her front yard, giving party blowers/noise makers to some kids, when a little girl came up to her, tugged on her shirt and said, “Christmas tree.”
I can relate. When I’m bored, I walk around Mukono saying “Mbuzi” to people (“goat”). And “Omussayi” (blood). Not really, though. Not really at all.

It’s been a while since I’ve helped cook. But the other night, I went to the outdoor kitchen, said, “Nkuyambe?” (Can I help?) to Susan, and it was a real good time. I learned a lot about Susan in that hour. The most important thing I learned about Susan:
Susan is a twin. Her twin brother’s name is Charles.
Dang, I freaked out. “Banange! Those are my parents’ names!”
“Ehhhh?”
“Ehhhh! Those names are just meant to be together!”
Susan and I have been telling everyone.

Last week I forgot to mention one of my and Nanteeza’s breakfast-table conversations. AIDS and taxis. In light of our HIV-emphasis week, I was telling her how crazy and surreal it is for me, to see AIDS in its hometown, where it’s thriving, where it is the norm and so rampant, like our flu. I told her about one of the older girls at the AIDS Orphanage/help-house that we visited in Luwero—how the girl contracted AIDS from caring for her mom while she had it. Possibly from cleaning the wounds. Anyway, I told Rebecca/Nanteeza how freaking scary this was—how I thought sex and injections were really the only ways to get it. She said no, it gets worse. She said all you have to do is ride a taxi. Ride a taxi and be seated next to someone with the disease, and then get in a bloody accident, contact on contact, and vualah. You’re HIV +.

This wouldn’t bother me so much if riding taxis wasn’t a daily event, and if taxi accidents weren’t as common as stopping to buy bread. But they are. I already mentioned Uganda being the 2^nd most dangerous place in the world, travel-wise. Couple that with packed taxis and AIDS, and yikes. I cried at the breakfast table. Knowing that I had another thing to fear, other than rape. Knowing that AIDS really is next door.
And it takes no prisoners.

Speaking of death and things, on the news tonight, a casket-making place was featured. On the roadside, I’ve already seen more casket-makers’ signs than I’ve ever seen in my life. But man, even on the news: they not only come in all sizes now, but shapes too. You can be buried in a yellow airplane, or a maroon semi-truck-shaped casket, or even a green, round one with big eyeballs, in the shape of a monster. Banange. Maybe it’s a Uganda thing. Either way, it's a crazy thing.

What I learned this weekend:

*I learned that, so far, nothing makes me feel more at home than hearing Kenny Rogers on the radio. I love it when Nanteeza plays the radio in the sitting room. And I love it when Kenny Rogers comes on. I close my eyes and can’t wait to go home (32 days).
*I learned that Enya and Rascal Flatts are also on that list. Though Enya is in high demand, I haven’t heard Rascal Flatts once. But I ask my friend Jenna to sing their songs for me, she does, and all is well again.

*I learned that Kampala is frickin’ sweet. I can’t believe I’ve stayed far from it for the majority of these four months (though a fear of taxis was the reason). I went three times this week. Tuesday was great: sandwich and salad included. And Saturday? Dang. I had the best frappacino of my life (not to mention tuna). In Africa, of all places. Saturday was a day of studying in a coffee shop with Sharon, Caroline, and Nanteeza. It was so awesome that she joined us. She ordered a chicken sort of sandwich, pointed to the word “chicken breast” and laughed, asking us what it was. Try explaining it; it’s a good time.
*I learned that the people I like most/am closest to, don’t like coffee. I’m adding Nanteeza to the list. She went for a vanilla milkshake instead.

Friday night Sharon, Caroline, and I had a scheduled dinner with some missionaries in Kampala. They were lovely; a man from Oregon and his South African wife. Sure enough, throughout most of the conversation, he dropped the “Holy Spirit bomb” as frequently as a Cleveland gangster might drop the f-bomb. Sharon and I kept smiling to each other, over their heads. It was incredible, being reminded again that God never drops a subject.
Also incredible: the spaghetti and garlic bread he made us, and the peaches and cream she made us.
Along with our drives there and back. I really do enjoy every minute spent with V-Money, Vincent, our driver. He really is on my list of favorite Ugandans. And this weekend we get to meet his mom. Rock on.

Both last night’s and today’s tea have tasted like the cereal, Trix. So sweet, so wonderful. Cousin Jenny, this has me thinking of you. It being one of your favorites and all.

Yesterday, after church, Susan and I traveled to Seeta, the next “town” over, I think, to go to Teacher Miriam’s house, for our Sunday School teacher luncheon/meeting. It was wonderful. A. It was the most beautiful house—and what great paint—I’ve seen thus far. And B. the sky was so incredible last night…crazy pinks and oranges…I must’ve stopped every four ½ steps to take a picture.
Also, on our walk back, I talked with a guy named Jonathan. One of the Sunday school teachers, apparently, though I’ve never seen him. Jonathan and I talked about school, about church, about Luganda and Uganda, etc. etc., and then he asked me if I’ve ever heard of Compassion International. I told him about Suhail, my and Jenny’s Compassion child from India, and he kept saying, “I cannot believe it. No, I cannot believe it. I am talking with a sponsor. You won’t believe it. You will not believe it. You are looking at a product of Compassion.”

He went on and on about Barry Spencer, his sponsor from the U.S. He told me how badly he has tried to find Barry’s contact information, post-sponsorship, so he can contact and thank him. He told me, “I don’t know what I could do for him, but I must do something.” He also said, “I may not be able to find Barry and thank him. But I can thank you, and encourage you to keep sponsoring. My life is changed and successful because of it. And I will also sponsor a child.”
As we walked, he pointed to the teachers walking ahead of us: Sarah, Faith, and Monica. And even Miriam, whose house we had just left. They all work at the main Compassion office in Kampala and/or different Compassion Projects around the area. I talked to Faith about it later. She was asking me if I’ve heard of Compassion (as if a college-aged Christian can go a week without hearing about it). She said, “All this time. And I didn’t know I was talking to a sponsor.”

Jenny, listening to Jonathan talk about Barry for a good number of minutes, saying things like, “But I don’t know how he afforded it all along. He was just a student. Yet he gave for me,” it made Suhail so real for me. Imagining that Suhail might be telling someone about Jenny Shimrock and Danielle Steadman from the U.S. Calling us by name, and being proud of his sponsors. Dang. It was incredible.

I am currently typing this at night—1 am (6 pm your time), to save time for tomorrow, instead of blogging my afternoon away. What I am realizing: my feet itch like crazy. What I’m getting at: mosquito nets (for the more dangerous, night-crawling/flying mosquitos) do little good when they’re hung above your bed, and you’re in the sitting room.

We American students hosted chapel/community worship today. It was wonderful. We not only had an amazing step-dance team, complete with awesome beats and claps, etc. etc., but five of the girls have been learning for weeks the cultural Kiganda dance. Which is made complete by yellow and red dresses that have goat’s fur attached to the backside, so the fur shakes when you shake. Hah. If you could’ve heard, seen, the reaction of the Ugandans: it was amazing. Uproar, basically—and I have it all on tape. (They really did a fantastic job).

I got to preach for this. Which was also an amazing time. Sitting there on the stage (the 4 seats on stage for the intercessors, Scripture reader, and speaker looked much like the 4 thrones in Narnia. Hilarious), singing along with familiar songs for once, I’ve never been more at peace. I tangibly felt that those 40 minutes of waiting to talk were 40 minutes of inching closer to God. I felt that He was ready to speak, and He was willing to speak through me. I kept looking at all the faces, and instead of freaking out at the 200 plus heads, I was so expectant and so overjoyed that in a matter of minutes they would get to hear Mark 4 and 5, a passage that has meant so much to me, and could possibly mean so much to them.
I kept waiting for when I would feel nervous. Like when Todd was reading the passage—which was longer than a full chapter—and people started to walk out. I would normally think this would make me nervous, as in, Crap, people are leaving and I haven’t even started yet. But I kept thinking/hearing, “Let those who have ears to hear, hear. Those who want to leave early…leave early. Whoever needs to hear this message will hear this message.”

But it made for one confusing day. Because too many people, Ugandans and Americans alike, used words like “calling” and “gift” and “goosebumps” and “Have you considered a vocation?” and “Can I get a copy of that sermon?” and “You should get a job here.” Not to mention Olivia, a stranger who came on the stage afterward and told me she was so convinced that I am to be a teacher of the Word of God, and she knew she just had to tell me, in case I was trying to figure out a calling or something.
And I just thought of my mom’s boss, who has been telling me since I’ve been here, and then my mom, and even Hannington’s comment, “A writer? I thought you would be a preacher.”
But I don’t want to be a preacher, and didn’t preach today because I am trying to figure such things out, but rather because I simply heard our theme was going to be trust, and knew of a perfect passage that would get the job done, and merely volunteered.
God is funny. But ruthless in ways.
I’m not saying I’m going to be a preacher. Goodness, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying I am trying like crazy—especially after being here and seeing that Africa probably isn’t the place for me after all—to hear God’s voice, to feel His guiding arm and see some sort of footprints to follow, to see where the heck He’s taking me.

On that note, the family roasted marshmallows tonight. And it was lovely. Thanks, Mom, for sending them. There sat the matoke pot, roasting over the charcoal, and we just stuck our mallows right next to it. They loved them, and looked hilarious eating them.
(But they kept asking the ingredients. Does anyone even know this?)
Nkya tufumba macaroni and cheese (tomorrow we’re making mac & cheese). Dang, I’m excited.

I already line-dropped the phrase “32 days.” Yes, I have a countdown. Before I would just get the news from Todd, who—since day one has had the number of days written on his hand—or friends and family from home. But I finally gave in and made my own scratch-off calendar in my Luganda notebook. Because it is close enough to get really really excited for soggy oreos in milk and running with my dog. Among the more important things.
But. I fear that I’ll get on that plane (and puke in Sudan. Again.) while thinking of when I first got on the plane, and whether or not I’ve accomplished what I thought I’d accomplish. That’s not to say I thought I’d accomplish something. But I’ve just spent nearly four months in Africa, so I have a feeling I’ll be asking myself, “Are you the same person you were in January? Because you shouldn’t be.” And I don’t want to feel like I’ve left anything undone—this has been the opportunity, the experience, of a lifetime, that not many people get a chance to be a part of. Sure, I can come back to Africa again, to visit, but can I really wake up over 100 days in the same bed in the same house in the same Africa, and call a woman who isn’t my mom, Mom, and have her answer Yes, dear? Or Wanji?
Living with a family here has been…ridiculously amazing. And I surely didn’t expect to get such dear friends out of it. Dear friends I’ll think of all the time once I leave. Anyway, I keep asking myself, Are you making the most of this? And maybe I’m not, counting down, crossing days, like I am.

We are reading a sweet book called Compassion for class (by Nouwen, McNeill, and Morrison). I read this paragraph, sitting in the coffee shop, on Saturday:

“As long as we are the slaves of the clock and the calendar, our time remains empty and nothing really happens. Thus, we miss the moment of grace and salvation. But when patience prevents us from running from the painful moment in the false hope of finding our treasure elsewhere, we can slowly begin to see that the fullness of time is already here and that salvation is already taking place.”
That’s good stuff. Good stuff I will probably forget by tomorrow, when I am crossing off “32.”
But here’s hoping I’ll remember.

Friday I won’t be here to write.
Bwindi? Buuindi? I don’t know how to spell it. But it’s a 12 hour drive, and as much as I love/trust God and our beloved V-Money (Vincent), this is still Uganda. 24 hours, there and back, is a whole lot of room to work with, if death/injury is growing hungry. (Anyway, prayers would be most welcome. Gracias).