A Tale of Two Countries

Webale Okusima. (Thank you for appreciating).

2008-04-17T00:52:00.000-07:00

Last night was neck-craning night. Jenny, you know my favorite time of day, when I’m not changing my mind by the hour. But do you know my favorite type of night sky? No, because I didn’t either until last night. But good guess.
When.the.clouds.are.so.freaking.white.and.bright.because.they.are.overlapping.the.moon.and.it.is.freaking.beautiful.

I noticed this because we were all outside “sending off” an unexpected visitor/dinner guest we had last night. Sam. Have I mentioned that the entire family goes outside to see someone off when they leave the house? It’s a beautiful, communal sort of thing.

Walking home last night was funny, because I break the fashion rules on a regular basis lately. Just get me on a plane already so I can wear what I want and not be laughed at.
But when you are breaking the fashion rules, you shouldn’t coincidentally pass the high school at the same moment hundreds of kids are pouring out the doors to walk home. Yikes.
See, you already know it is rainy season. Which means, walk to school in gum boots. The boots the Ugandans wear when they are gardening. Which also means, no matter what the roads or weather are like on the way home, you are still in gum boots. So it’s bright and sunny (sunny enough that people are carrying umbrellas to block the sun) and you are in rainboots. Oh. Well. They’re. Awesome.
The kids walking behind me kept laughing and saying, “Mzungu, you are smart,” smart in the “classily dressed” sense.
I told them “Osaga,” –“you are joking”—to show that I’m very well aware that what I’m wearing isn’t normal so leave me alone already. It’s bad enough being stared at all the way home, and asked for your contact because they’ve always wanted a pen pal. But when they laugh at you…oh well.

I kept walking. About 47 seconds after I yelled, “Osaga!” after them, 3 or 4 really young kids noticed me from their house and started running to the road.
“Oli mulunji,” one said.
And for the next block or so they all kept yelling, “Mzungu, oli mulunji!” over and over. I felt like God was wasting no time—only 47 seconds—to counteract the insults with compliments.
An older boy caught up with me:
“The children are commenting that you’re beautiful. Are you?”
(Hah: how do you answer that?) “I heard them.”
“You heard them. But did you understand?”
“Yes. Oli mulunji. I told them ‘Webale.’ (thank you) But they might just be making fun of these boots.”
“No. They are not making fun.”

I went home early last night to pack. To pack. A crazy infinitive: yikes.
It was the first time, I think, I’ve ever packed without music.
As I was packing, Suzan walked in the room and gave me a gift. She put a few fake flowers in an empty body lotion container. She said, “A remembrance. I want this to show you that I have loved you so much.”
When I got home, I had given Suzan a picture of us two. She screamed, leaped, and threw it in the air (it got bent this way). She ran to her room and put it in her photo album. First page.

Anyway, as I was packing I decided to leave a lot of stuff here. Lotions and sprays and books and things I don’t need anyway. When Nanteza got home, I gave them to her. As she hugged me, I was facing the dresser, and I noticed the poem I had put there hours before.
“Oh. I forgot. I wrote you a poem.”
She read it, laughing and crying. She thanked me a million times.
She was kneeling on the floor in front of me and I was sitting on the edge of my bed. Grabbing my hands, she started: “I love you so much. Thank you for…” Rebecca stopped and stared at the ceiling. “Every day I would come home…” She hung her head back to keep her tears in place—like when you are trying to catch your nosebleed. “How do I…Okay. You know how you feel on the days when Mackie is on?” (our favorite Spanish soap opera).

(I knew where she was going). “Yeah, I’m excited. All day.”
“Yeah.” (Wipes eyes, laughs nervously). “That is how I feel every day. Coming home and knowing that you are here. That you sleep in that bed, a few feet away from me.”

This girl. I love her so much, I’m going to miss her so much. I walk in our room hours later and she is still reading the poem, again and again. I am still numb. She sits in front of me and cries and I am numb because I am mixed. I want to hug my mom and hope she doesn’t let go for at least four minutes. I want to kiss my brother’s cheek, whose probably 3 times taller than he was when I left. And this is what I think about while I’m packing. I keep pushing Friday away, and I wonder if it is going to hit me.
But when I think that there is no Mom or Charlie for them to look forward to…that they have no mixed feelings, that in two days they will have nothing but an empty bed, an empty chair at the dinner table, that’s when things get blurry from full, wet eyes. They won’t get another student for four more months—and what then? How it must tax them…people regularly coming in and out of their lives. Gosh.

I wrote them all letters yesterday while in class. Brooke was talking about fair trade and missions, and I was telling Mom via letter that I don’t feel full Steadman anymore. And how crazy that is…that these are not just some people I met and lived with and loved for four months. A major part of me is Serukenya now. I have two families, two moms, two sisters. Which is my claim to Rebecca when she says I won’t come back to her. Just as I need to return to my family in Ohio, once I am there, given enough time, I will have to return to Mom and Nanteza and Aida and Irene and Suzan and Hannington. It’s something I didn’t expect, something I still can’t fully grasp. But something I praise, and stand in awe of, God for. He is so beautiful, and His heart is so full.

Switching subjects.

Two days ago. Two days ago I think most of us watching the news wished we were in a country that still thinks it’s morbid to show corpses. Or “not so” corpses anymore. Ashes, ashes, and twenty heaps that looked like charred rib cages. Baby rib cages.

A bit outside of Kampala is a primary and secondary boarding school for excelling students. (My cousin Daniel—remember his send-off party—goes to the secondary school). Well, in the primary school, one of the girl’s dormitories burnt down in the night. “Was burnt down” places the blame on no one, but someone had to be to blame. The girls were locked in, the guards were mysteriously missing, and the single guard at the main gate refused to let anyone in. How. In. the. World. Can you stand at a locked gate with a burning building FULL OF CHILDREN behind you, and refuse to let anyone in, unless you were paid off? And where the hell is the fire brigade or the police? Such systems, or lack thereof, kill me. Kill kids, rather. Twenty “bodies”, twenty mourning families, and even moms of twins now without two daughters, gosh. It makes me so sick.

What also makes me sick is that if I were at home, in the US, the ocean would be big enough. I would think, “Gosh, that sucks,” and I would maybe think of it three times that day, in minute, depressed spurts. Depressed in the loosest sense.
But when tragedy is only kilometers away, when my cousin is at the neighboring school, when this is the elementary school my mom went to, it’s all so real. But just as real as it would have been had I been at home.
Circumstances stay open and unchanged. It’s our minds, our eyes, that don’t.

It's things like this that have me crane my neck toward the bright night clouds and thank God like crazy that I'm still breathing, that my family's still breathing, that my friends are still breathing. Until it's our turn.

Again switching subjects out of necessity/for the sake of sanity:

The sleepover went well. Very well. We had a ball, and Rebecca finally taught me Sudoku.
Becca—American Becca—had to use the latrine, so I escorted her there. I waited for her outside, and we talked. That’s when Mom came walking through the compound: “Are you having an overnight in the toilet?”
She asked why we were talking.
“Mom, why? Is it inappropriate?” (We’ve been wondering this, as, on campus, we carry on conversations stalls next to each other. Culturally okay or not?)
“Yes, it’s inappropriate. So so much.” Her voice got high and she was laughing at us.
I told her how we’ve wondered this on campus.
“But no. With toilets it is okay. But in the pit latrine? Do not open your mouth. You might catch a fly.”
(By the way, I’ll never again have a problem with portapotties. This I know. They are luxurious by comparison).

Another of Mom’s great lines that night:

We were watching a new soap opera, and this one Spanish man was pretty dang ticked at his daughter and the boy who got her pregnant. When I say dang ticked I mean his face was making movements I’ve never really seen before. Maybe because the shows are dubbed over…but his mouth was going crazy.
Mom: “Oh my! He’s going to eat them!”
Hah.

She had also told Becca that they have been trying to feed us so much so that we'll look like Bwindi. Bwindi mountain gorillas.

I forgot to mention, awhile back when I preached, that Mom came home talking about it. “Margaret told me you preached and preached so well.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I told her, ‘That’s my girl.’”
One of my favorite conversations with her.

Suzan—campus Suzan—met Rebecca this week. It was so wonderful to have the two of them meet. When they did, Rebecca hugged Suzan upon first meeting her and said, “Hello colormate.” Hah.
American Becca said, “Colormate. Like the pens?” Hah again.

Rebecca had met me at school so she could use my internet. We then went for smoothies. The walk home was the best part: Suzan, Erin, Becca, Rebecca, and I. We wanted to know their Luganda and English words for the different sorts of “gassing.” Which makes for interesting conversation, let me tell you. It lasted the majority of the twenty minutes and brought about the sort of laughter where you stop in the middle of the red dirt hoad, hold your knees, and are basically screaming, trying to catch breath. I don’t even remember what was so funny…Wait! I just asked Erin and she remembers:

Suzan, with her mouth, was imitating the different types of gassing (I feel like a 7 year old, totally embarrassed, typing this all out). She said, “This one is the escort,” and she made a machine gun, a subtle machine gun, noise. “And this the silencer, and this the atom bomb.”
But the part that made us scream: Rebecca was explaining to us that there’s really nothing you can do. It is natural and you can’t hold it in.
Suzan protested. “Unless you use super glue.”

(By the by, Friday night we are staying on campus, to leave early the next morning for Rwanda. I was placed in the same dorm as Vicky, Suzan, and Franka. Our last night together. God. is. good).

The plan for the next few days: Today I have lunch with my Sunday School supervisor; she sent me a text message saying she loves me, and I am invited to her home. So sweet.
Tonight is the farewell dinner. All 36 of us, each with a family (the non-missions students lived with families for 2 weeks early in the semester), and families of 10 or more. Crazy amounts of people. Tonight I will also give them all the gifts I brought for them.
(Last night Mom gave me a beautiful velvet black scroll with a blessing on it. So sweet, again).
Friday V-Money picks me up from my house at 4. I will have a final afternoon and lunch with my family.
And Saturday is Rwanda for 10 or so days.

I want to end the semester’s recordings by saying “Sign here.” (Rebecca’s way of saying “Told ya,” or "Way to go," accompanied by a high five). Because 5 or so of our group got in a matatu accident the other night. No one’s hurt, except for a bruise or something. But there was broken glass.

This will be my last blog. (Saturday we leave for Rwanda, and after that is home sweet home). Thanks so much for reading and for caring about these people almost as much as I have. I feel like I’ve been able to share the feelings, and it’s a good, solid feeling. So, thanks. (If you think of it, we're openly welcoming prayers for safety home. Thanks). :)
I imagine much of my May will be pretty bored, and so I will be posting as many pictures as time allows—to make up for the sour internet and picture-loading abilities here. So, look out for that if you want, but if not: thanks again, and God’s speed.

Webale okusima.

Sign here.

Finally. These two took an hour. Don't expect more. :)

2008-04-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

V.Money.

Erin and Becca at Bwindi.
Mountain gorillas would live in such mountains.

I. Miss. Corn. Dogs.

2008-04-15T01:25:00.004-07:00

My arms on my pillow, Saturday night I texted Becca with, “BYOB: Bring Your Own Barbie!” because, heck yes, we’re having a slumber party Tuesday night. I feel like a kid again, having a sleepover. In Africa.
It’s not like the last sleepover I’ve had was in my childhood years. I guess it just seems so new, so “invigorating” because it is my first time asking this new mom “if Becca can please spend the night?” Hah. Mama Joyce’s response: Why not?

Betsy and Becca showed up for Marianne’s kasiki on Saturday. Becca stayed for a long while, and we—Rebecca, Becca, and I—had a blast in our room, drinking our sodas, eating our matoke. Every chance she got, Becca mouthed to me “I love your family,” and “Can I stay?” and next thing you know, Becca is telling my mom that she wants to run down the dirt road in a night gown, carrying a teddy bear, saying sleepover sleepover sleepover. Yeah. We’re immature.

Preparing for the kasiki was great. Nanteza (dang, I’ve been spelling her name wrong) was in her element. We sat together, for hours, squeezing juice. Nanteza takes her juice seriously. We were just about to start, had the blender all set up, but when she found out we didn’t have mangoes…she told me, “If there aren’t mangoes, I feel like it’s not my best. And I won’t have people drinking my juice when it’s not my best.” (Why I think the two Beccas hit it off so well, other than the name thing: I asked Mzungu Becca to guess which fruits Rebecca and I had blended. She guessed watermelon, mango, oranges, and passion fruit. The exact four, and not one mistake. Impressive).

As a sidenote, I really love (I’ve said this 13 times) how much a part of the family we really are. This week I noticed again how Mom refers to me, straight face, as her daughter. And we were talking about Scott, another student, the other night, and Mom referred to his hostmom as, simply, Scott’s mom. Minor details that I adore.
At the kasiki, the reverend talked in Luganda, of course. Then he stared at me for a while, as did everyone, and continued speaking in Luganda. As if I understood him.
Nanteza said he was telling me that, as the last born, I am the only daughter left of the Serukenyas who still has to have her kasiki. He said he hoped I would soon return to introduce my husband and hold the occasion at the house, inviting them all back. Nobody laughed; I think he was really counting on my kasiki.
(And Becca’s dad, as he took us from classroom to classroom at the high school to greet the kids, he too introduced us as his daughters and said, “Look: I can even produce these kinds!”)

It must have been the angle I was sitting in the compound, but on Saturday—for the first time—I noticed the climbability of our mango tree.
“Hey Mom, is it okay if I climb that?”
“Why not?”

So Sunday, after “napping”/talking for awhile with Nanteza in our room, I asked her if I could go climb the mango tree. She said no. It was slippery, from the rain—too dangerous. As she said no, I still slipped into my jean shorts anyhow, assuring her I wouldn’t die.
“But my young sister.” She rummaged through her closet, pulling out her own shorts. “I’m coming with you.”
Then she told me to put my skirt on over my shorts, so I would look smart. (Look, it’s been four months. Hand me a box of matches and I’m ready to…)
“No. I’m not wearing a skirt in that tree.”
She had pulled her skirt over her shorts, but she then said she didn’t want me to look zolo—crazy—all alone, so she too removed the skirt and wore the shorts.
All that to say: climbing the tree was awesome, and the view was sweet. Worth every moss stain.

Also on Sunday: I joined Nanteza to the saloon. It was classic, watching her sit there in her hair-heater-orb-thing. I sat next to her at some point, as she brought Friday (departure day) up again, and I spent minutes trying to convince her that I will come back and visit, I must come back and visit, and at this point, I have no other choice.
“Nanteza. Do you think I could have little dimpled, dark-haired kids running around in this world, and have them not meet their auntie Rebecca?” (She is always touching or commenting on my dimples and dark hair. Yesterday especially).
But she isn’t convinced, pinky-promise and all. She said, “You are beating my heart,” and pretended to be fist-fighting something. “Oh God, give me a tissue.”
“Beating your heart? But I’m telling you I will come back. I promise.”
She pointed to her tears: “You think these are coming only from my eyes?” She pointed at her heart.
Goodness. Friday is getting closer; and I don’t want to think about it.

And again on Sunday. Sunday night dinner. There was just something about the thick, purple g-nut sauce that I couldn’t handle. I only filled half a plate of the matoke and such, and still ate only half of that. But it was miserably depressing. I honestly sat there, some minutes with closed eyes, trying to pretend that instead of purple squashed bananas it tasted like one of the center square pieces of a pepperoni sheet pizza. Because A. sheet pizza tastes better than any sort of pizza, B. the center pieces of sheet pizza taste better than any sort of pizza, and C. 19 days and I can finally eat something that tastes better than everything here, really. Vainly, I don’t think I could stand another month.
(Becca has had a saying going since we’ve been here. For every meal: “If you think hard enough, this tastes like…” Again, you only walk away depressed).

Working backwards from this weekend, Erin, Kyle, and I went to Kampala on Friday. What ended up being the purpose, the glory, of Kampala: Uchumi, a grocery store, sells plums. My favorite fruit. My favorite fruit that I’ve been thinking about as much as Oreos and Colby jack. It cost me more than a dollar; and I wish I could say that biting into it was bliss…but it wasn’t a very good one.
But I also bought a fresh red pepper, on impulse. Walking through the streets of this city, with orange hands, eating a red pepper: things you don’t think you’ll end up doing in Africa.

When we were ready to travel back to Mukono, some of the ladies at the market wished us luck; the matatu drivers were on strike. That’s when we started to understand why loads and loads of riot police, fully armed, kept passing us on the road.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to be walking in the same direction as the tear gas containers?” Kyle said.
Yes. Yes, of course it's a good idea.

And they were most definitely on strike. I crossed the street with closed eyes, and kneeled in the middle of the road—thrilled that I could make street angels and fear nothing. No traffic, no nothing. Just crowds and crowds of stranded people wishing they had transportation.

So we hired a private hire. He drove us to a Christian martyr’s shrine we wanted to visit, he agreed to stay with us for the hour we wanted to tour, and then he drove us to Mukono; twas nice. Twas nice until he told Kyle, “There are two of them. You have one, I have one.”
Thankfully, Kyle ruined any sort of Christian witness he had and said, “They are both mine.” Taking one for the team.

Thursday night was a very beautiful thing. Because the head-leader-man-guy of USP, Mark, and his wife had us mission students over for dinner. Which, translated, means: we’re going to feed you the best lasagna and salad and cake that you’ve ever freaking had, and you’re going to like it.
The best part, though. The very best part: V-Money joined us. As we were leaving, he stood (or kept jumping really) by the van with Scott and Betsy and me, and this is what basically went down for the next ten minutes:

V-Money: “How special am I? I just ate lasagna!”
Us: “Was it your first time?”
V-Money: “Yes! I am so special. I was the only black one in those walls. No one here knows lasagna. I tell you, I am special.”
We couldn’t argue with that. Later, when he was repeating this excitement to others, he didn’t refer to himself as “the only black one in those walls.” Instead he called himself the “charcoal-looking one.” Hah.

Because I want to soak up as much of Vincent as I can, I sat up front with him. Surely the best seat in the van—when he’s the driver.
We were driving out of the campus gates and the security guard waved at us, saying, “Hi Bazungu.” (white people, plural. Mzungu plural).
“Those are not their names,” Vincent said.
Finally.
There was something amazing, as simple as it was, about V-Money identifying with us whites. By defending our names, I felt as if he were admitting our friendship. Telling that man, I know these ones, and they are not merely Bazungu.
In fact, I accused him of loving us. And he didn’t protest.

Up front with V-Money, I then asked him how long he has been driving for UCU. He said four years, since our USP program started. Someone, then, asked if he remembered Dana as she returned this year as an intern (after being among the first guinea-pig USP students).
V-Money said of course he remembered her. “Anyway, there were only 7 of them then. The program was very new.”

My heart lifted and then sank in a matter of seconds. I was thrilled Vincent didn’t forget Dana, and I hoped he wouldn’t forget us. But then he said there were only 7 then. While now there are 36. Slim chance.
“Oh…Vincent, so you won’t remember us. There are so many.”
“Oh no. I always remember the IMME students. There are 12 of you. And we are always together.”
“So you will remember us?”
“You mean like Daniela? But I could not forget.”
And then, to prove it, he started listing all of the IMME kids’ names from last semester. He remembered indeed.

Another funny thing V-Money was caught saying in the van that night: (upon talking up a storm that he was the only black man eating lasagna) “You know, I joke. Some hate me because I joke. Besides, if you hate Vincent you are just tiring your brain.”
Amen.

And another: while up front, I tried convincing him that, if he ever had the chance, he needs to visit us in the U.S. “You would have 12 different places to stay.”
“Heck, if Vincent came to the U.S.,” someone said from the back, “He would go to Arizona with Brooke and we would all come to him.”
V-Money’s response: “Anyway, I need to see this Taco Bell.”
Hah. The rest of his response was hilarious, and the look on his face priceless. But I sat next to him, jotting in my notebook (in the dark) things like “If you hate Vincent, you are just…” so I wouldn’t forget, and he said, “Don’t write that one down. Don’t put what I said down there,” regarding his prediction of what it would be like to see the U.S.
And so I won’t share. But I feel like John when the angel tells him, “Don’t you write down what the seven thunders just said,” and he didn’t.
(V-Money = seven thunders. Always).

Still moving backwards in the week, the night before this:

We were sitting at the dining table, laughing about something. And I really needed, for quite some time, to make a shortcall, but I was lazy. (By the way, shortcall—essentially needing to go #1, and longcall…you can guess…have cute meanings/translations in Nanteza’s book. She calls them local calls and international calls. And so, depending on which it is, she has told me as I leave the room, “Tell Mom I say Hi,” or, “Who are you going to call?” I love it. It reminds me of my dad’s “I hope everything comes out okay.”) ANYWAY. There we were at the table, I had a full bladder, and we were laughing. Such was our conversation:

ME: “I’m going to wet myself.”
(more laughter)
ME: (upon realizing this may be Greek to them) “Do you know what I mean when I say I’m going to wet myself?
MOM: “Well, I imagine you’re going to urinate in your cloth-ies.”
[Oh dang. I’m laughing again as I write it. It was the. Funniest. Thing.]

The neighbor kids have finally mastered my name. Four days left, and I am finally hearing, “Danielle! Danielle!” instead of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” (Jenny, they pronounce “Danielle”…Nanteza too…like our Russian study hall teacher from tenth grade. DONyell DONyell). Priceless, anyway. It’s beautiful to respond to your own name for once.

Last night (Monday night; yeah, I’m writing this in stages), I sat outside with Mom, eating sugar cane. She said she was going to miss me.
I agreed. And I mentioned that another daughter would come in September.
“Yes, but really. You always miss the particular ones. They are not all the same. You miss each one.”
I don’t think “miss” cuts it anymore. This isn’t summer camp. The van picks me up at 4 on Friday, with full suitcases that won’t be back next summer.
Minus thoughts of and longings for home, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks.

I want to mention one more cultural difference recently noticed, before I go: gentlemen, and what defines them.
See, in Bwindi, V-Money left a seat open and said a gentleman would sit there. Separately, Scott proceded to leave his own seat and open it for a girl. Scott is our extreme sort of gentleman, refusing to eat—even for minutes on end—until everyone is served, etc. etc. According to my culture, I, we, respect him for this. Greatly. It’s one of Jesus’ paradoxes; your respect, your leadership, comes not when you assume your authority, but when you make yourself lower than everyone else. When you wash your neighbor’s feet, when you make yourself last. Because that’s what He did for us. Anyway, Scott is a gentleman.
But when Vincent left a seat open “so a gentleman could sit there,” Brooke pointed to Scott’s sacrifice and told Vincent, “Gentlemen are different in our culture. A gentleman is the one who gives up his seat so ladies can sit.” Opposite.

I just walked back, in my muddy gum boots (rainy season has its perks), from the office. And I just handed Vincent my supply of Taco Bell sauce sent via mi mamasita. He wanted Taco Bell, he got Taco Bell.

No classes. Free time. Look at me go.

2008-04-10T04:19:00.000-07:00

How all good stories start:

So, a guy named Fred stopped me on the road last week, while Sharon and I were walking home. He stopped me to ask if he could have a copy of my sermon. As he was writing down his email address in my notebook, he gave me the third degree. “Are you a pastor? How long have you been a Christian? Have you grown up in a Christian household?” As we walked away, I told Sharon that I felt like I was being interviewed for marriage. Especially when he asked my name, I told him, and he said, “Oh, but that is my favorite name.” Of course it is.

I saw Fred again two days ago. He chased me down while I was walking on campus, for I haven’t emailed the sermon yet. This time, he wanted my email address, “So I can recognize the address when it is sent.” Okay, Fred. While I was writing it down, he asked, “Do you have children?” No. “Are you married?” He pointed to one of my rings. What I have learned in Uganda: You want to say yes to this question, but you don’t want to lie. And so you’d rather the time space between the question and the answer would extend forever, because you know the moment you say No, nothing good will follow. But surprisingly, Fred stopped at No.

Walking to school this morning, it got more creative. I passed a man sitting in his car. Noninteresting enough, he said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” I replied.
He held a tin he was eating from, out the window and said, “Can you have some chicken?”
Hah.

Marianne’s kasiki is this Saturday. It is a sort of bridal shower, I think—but what happens is speeches and prayers, lessons for Marianne and Anthony on how to live together and build a loving home (though they already have three kids and a home to be sure…). Marianne is my mom’s daughter. Did I mention that this wedding takes place the day after I leave Mukono? Suck. Nanteeza is a bridesmaid, and I’m missing it.

Bwindi destroyed us. Eight of us 12—make that 9: Brooke is now sick too—came down with something. Some sort of dysentery for some, salmonella for me. Whatever it was we got, it had us all up on Tuesday nights at our respective homes, gripping banana trees for dear life while we wretched. Hah. It really did suck, though. Especially when Hannington and Mom heard me over the soap opera and came outside with some water to gargle and some ash to spread on the puke-covered ground. That’s when I told Mom the semester wouldn’t have been complete unless I ended it the way I began it.

My body has been crazy-weak, so I just want to sleep. Like last night. I borrowed Ratatouille from Dr. Button so the family could watch it. I took a “nap” at 8, asking Mom to wake me up at 9 if I was still sleeping. Next thing I know, Nanteeza is kneeling outside my mosquito net saying, “Danielle…supper,” at 10:48. Yikes.
Sleep is good, but the meds are working. And meds are good.

Because I was sick and went to school late yesterday, Nanteeza and I had yet another wonderful breakfast-table conversation. We talked for hours. It was basically a DTR, hah. I told her I really thought she was the reason I was supposed to be in Uganda—that I’ve learned so much from her and have loved our friendship extensively. She told me,
“Also me. I like you so much—to the extent that I get jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of you going home. I always think, ‘If I could lock this one up, I would. Shut the gate and don’t let her leave.’”
And I leave in 7 days.

As exciting as the prospect of going home really is, the prospect of driving out of Mukono, heading toward Rwanda, scares me. This morning Mom and I talked about differences in culture at breakfast (Uganda: be modest, cover your lower half—America: be modest, cover your upper half; Uganda: don’t say yes, just raise your eyebrows and grunt—America: say yes, or nod your head, or say “Mmmhmmm,” not just “Mmmm.”; Uganda: bend to pick something up…don’t squat, for squatting is shameful—America: squat when you pick something up…don’t bend, you’ll hurt your back…etc. etc.). Amidst this conversation Mom asked if I was looking forward to the Farewell Banquet planned for next Thursday. Looking forward to it?
Yeah, I cried at the breakfast table. Again.
Basically, I love this family, and there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I could stop it. They’re beautiful.

Only one more thing (and only 25 more days).

2008-04-08T05:37:00.000-07:00

I wanted to mention another reason why this Dr. Scott is pretty dang sweet.

On Sunday, at the time of the offeratory, the whole auction business started again (just like in Kapchorwa). But it wasn't only eggs and greens, this time, that people put in the offering plate. There was a whole lot of eggplant, a whole lot of beans, and in came this girl carrying a massive pot of sweet potatoes on her head. And two pumpkins.
So, when they started to auction it off, our students started yelling prices in Luganda. Dr. Scott was giving them money to buy the food (again, the money goes to the church. People bring what they have and then they sell it). At first, I really didn't like this. I thought maybe there was a woman here or a woman there who came to church expecting to buy her family's meal for the day, at offeratory time. I thought, sure, we're giving the church money, but someone else could better use these beans or pumpkins. We don't need it. I tried to shake it off, and laugh with the rest of the church as the Mazungu bought and bought.

That's when Kyle leaned over to me--holding his basket of eggplant and avocados--and said, "Who do I give it to?" I asked him what he meant. He said Dr. Scott, the man who gave us all money to use to buy the food, told him to give it to whoever the Lord led him to. Next thing you know, there's Becca with her pumpkins, Betsy with her beans, and Kyle with his eggplant, walking around the church and handing this food to people. Incredible. I really really liked this doctor. He's incredible.

And Becca is our comic relief.

2008-04-08T04:10:00.000-07:00

Sometime last week (the days now all blur together), Susan and I cooked together again.
Susan is so great, teaching me how to drum on my face and my rib cage (they really like drums here. All forms). She also tried teaching me how to whistle through my hands. Couldn't do it.
But I taught her how to whistle through your thumbs and a piece of grass. Of course she did it. First try.
In silence, I sliced the cabbage for awhile, while she poked the fire and matoke. For the sake of conversation, I asked her how many children she wanted to one day have. I'm glad I asked. We talked for an hour about Susan's future husband and children, and once again, culture slapped me in the face. She was telling me about the importance of taking a long time to get to know someone, just to make sure he's not putting on an act, and he really is a good egg. Sure, I could understand this. Until she said: "You see, if you marry quickly and don't take time, you might find he is one who, what? Who practices witchcraft, or one who does what? One who eats the firstborn."
I can't say that I've ever worried about that. It was intense.

A major stream of mail came in last week. Which means, Aunt Marilynne and Uncle Ernie's pictures came in. (My family loves looking at the pictures, especially those of my Great Grandma). Anyway, Marilynne and Ernie have this tiny Yorkie, I think. Either way, it's wearing a sweater in the picture.
When Rebecca got to this picture, she just stared for a few minutes. Blinking, with a dirty smirk on her face. I couldn't stop laughing, just to watch her silent first impression. She finally said, "This is what?"
I told her it was my aunt and uncle's dog.
"This is real? It isn't a teddy bear?"
No. It's a dog.
"You mean, God made this one?"
Yes. Yes, He did.
"So...this one is putting on clothes?"
It was wonderful.

Again, sometime last week, I had a great conversation with Vicky and Clare. (Clare is one of Vicky and Susan and Franca's dormmates, who always asks me when I'm going to give her the fire extinguisher I promised her). Anyway, Vicky was telling Clare that I was going to come back one day, and with my family. Clare said, "Vicky, you just want to steal her brother."
Vicky laughed and said he was too young. "Sure, he looks, what? Like a 25-year-old, but he is only 15. I don't want to be a sugar mummy."
(Have I mentioned the STOP CROSS-GENERATIONAL SEX billboards yet? The sugar daddy and mummy commercials? I guess it's one of the biggest ways AIDS is spread. So they combat it with massive billboards with a picture of a man, for instance, and the caption: "Do you want this man sleeping with your teenage daughter?.....Then why are you sleeping with his?"

On my walk home from school the other night, I passed a little girl kicking a busted soccer ball around the ground. I joined her and kicked back. For the next half hour the two of us played volleyball in the middle of the road. I never even took my bookbag off (maybe I'm paranoid. Yeah, yeah I am). Four or five others joined us, just to watch and laugh. Before I left, I asked their names and said, "Nze Danielle. Not Mzungu. Danielle." I tried not to make it obvious that I walked away quickly, quick enough to get in the house, pull out my notebook, and write down their names before I forgot.
I passed Victo, the first girl I met, on my way to school the next day. She yelled, "Hi Mzungu!" and I greeted her with her name. As soon as I said Victo, the woman standing next to her started squealing and laughing. She turned behind her and yelled to another lady some Luganda sentence that had "Mzungu" and "Victo" in it. The same thing happened in the evening that night. And even though I keep reminding Victo of my name, Mzungu is still all I get. Whatever.
(The other ones are Olivia, Nanchent, Chalifa, Okabago, and Malcom Nansa. But pronunciation-decoding is all I had going for me).
The first night, after our volleyball game, they yelled after me, "Mzungu, get for us a ball!" I said okay, picturing the yellow and purple Nerfball just sitting in my suitcase. But I'm going to wait it out. I don't want them to see quick turn-around time and think "genie." No thanks.

Bwindi this weekend was incredible. Incredible if you close your eyes and try, really hard, to forget about the drive. Twelve-fourteen hours, each way, on the bumpiest, dustiest roads in the world, in a hot van with 15 others, when you can't move your bent knees even an inch. I've never felt more unsaved in my life. Thinking heathen thoughts--or at least joking about setting the van on fire--and surely complaining with biting sarcasm every chance I got. In other words, I really don't feel like myself in Africa. I seem to be growing more bitter by the day.

Other than the van-ride, I maybe take back what I said about Kapchorwa being the most beautiful place ever. Now it's quite the toss-up.
We slept, for 3 nights, beside a mountain that houses gorillas. Yeah, gorillas.
Gorillas we didn't see, sure--but gorillas that were there somewhere, and ready to see upon shelfing out 500 big ones. (On the opposite side of this mountain is Rwanda, and the precise place where "Gorillas in the Mist" was filmed. So I'm told).

Bwindi is where V-Money was born. And so I am not surprised by its beauty. (If I learned anything this weekend, one of the main things is that I will miss Vincent, our driver, as much as I'll miss my host family). He calls me the linguist. And I tell him he's one of my favorite Ugandans. [On our ride home on Monday, we stopped at his parents' home for lunch. Also awesome].

Our purpose in Bwindi was to meet with a certain Dr. Kellermann--"Dr. Scott"--from California. Some years back, he and his wife moved to Uganda and began their own mobile clinic, from a trailer or something. This weekend, seven or so years later, we are given a tour of an incredible hospital--with a newly built pediatrics ward and women & maternity ward, and an HIV ward, etc. etc. This guy is incredible--he surely made this missions-travel-trip the best of the 3, I think. Saturday morning he took us to Botwa? (or Batwa?), so we could meet and help the pygmies he works with. [I wouldn't have known they were pygmies if someone didn't remind me; they are simply shorter...not ridiculously short, which is the impression I used to get]. Anyway, it doesn't matter what they look like.
What matters is that we finally were able to DO something for once. For a few hours we finished building a mud house. Which, as Becca put it, is every five-year-old's dream. Yeah, it was awesome. Messy and awesome. Afterwards, we danced with them. By "we" I mean, I was still washing all the mud off of myself even by the time they finished. But we brought drums and guitars to the work-site, because they won't take you seriously unless you jam with them. Amazing.

I pulled Hope, one of the Bwindi women who works with Dr. Scott, aside to ask her about the house the particular pygmie family was living in before this new home we were building. (Wow--bad verb tense all throughout that, but I will not fix it). She showed it to me, right behind the one in the making. For a family of seven, there was this tiny tiny tent, big enough for maybe 3 people to sit comfortably, made of banana leaves. That was their home. Hope told me that it only costs $450 for the supplies and stuff (but soon it will be 600) to build one of the bamboo & mud homes--complete with tin roof--that we were building. She pointed this way and that, over the mountains and banana trees, to indicate the other countless pygmie families that Dr. Scott wants to help, but is just waiting for funds, donations, etc.
She took me into one of the other homes, where an infant was sleeping in a blanket, one 1/2 feet away from the fire pit--aka their kitchen. "They are suffering," she said. "Especially because the leaves don't make a proper roof. When it rains, it is useless--the floor is made of dirt."
Anyway, I don't know what to say about that, other than just to say it.

By the by, I like Hope so much. She was the best part of dinner that night (she sat right next to me; I got to hear about her husband and their all-J's family of seven [this is getting common; all of V-Money's children are D's]). Her husband teaches Literature at a faraway school on an island by some lake (a lake I think we visit after Rwanda). Anyway, she only sees him once a month. She was a good listener as I vented about needing to see everyone at home, and missing home like crazy.

Let's see. Sunday. Sunday was wonderful. We Americans have collectively agreed that this Sunday we met the best dancer in Uganda. A middle-aged man named Erik. I can't explain his dance skills, other than: if I had a jump-rope team, he would be on it; first pick. Like the languages, the dances vary from tribe to tribe. This one is the best thus far. Not only Erik, but the little girls. You should see them bust it out (I video-taped it, surely). He danced basically throughout the entire service, except for when I was preaching (even though, halfway through the sermon, they interrupted me with a hymn. Very random, very hilarious. I just clapped with them until they were done, and then continued). My translator, Richard, leaned over and said they were singing the hymn that coincided with the passage we read. Sweet.

After church, we went to dancing Erik's home for lunch. Many people gave speeches (speeches come with every event here, impromptu or not), and they fed us well. As we were leaving, Erik's son, maybe 6 or 7--wearing a dress suit far too big for him, the belt hanging all the way to his feet--walked in the sitting room carrying a live chicken. He handed it to Brooke, our leader, and said, "We love you and we thank you. This is a gift for you." Yeah, our chicken--Jerry Seinfeld II--rode on top of the van, his feet tied to a spare tire, all 14 hours.
(Monday morning, as we were leaving, somehow his feet got untied. He escaped the box. The attempt to catch him lasted far too long, and consisted of Todd chasing him down a main road, carrying a branch). Gifts that run away. Another sweet part of Africa [this reminds me of Clare's comment to me last week. Sitting in Vicky's room, Clare told me she wished I had more free weekends. Because her mom really really wanted Clare to bring a white person home to their village. "She wanted to give you a goat," she said.
I gotta say--I have no idea how I would've responded. How I would've held it on the matatu. Crazy.

Anyway, not too long after Erik's son gave Brooke the chicken, we all went in their front yard to dance some more. It was a whole lot of fun. Dusty, all of us imitating a jump-rope sort of dance, with a whole lot of stomping, but fun. Once we thought we were done, half of us made it to the van, but Richard came over to me and Betsy and said, "Do you still like the dancing?"
"Yes," Betsy said.
"Sure?" Richard said. "You do?"
"Yes," Betsy said.
As he walked away, excited, I couldn't stop laughing. Because the communication barrier was apparent; what Richard meant was, "Do you still want to dance?" So, surely, Richard yelled something in the Rikiga language that meant, "One more song," and we danced some more.

Erin and Becca and I spent most of our time pretending to be Steve Erwin tracking gorillas. We tackled each other from behind bushes in the forest trails. What I learned, and what Becca learned more than any of us, is that it's really really hard to climb a tree in a skirt. The blasted dress code.

Sunday night, after singing Luganda songs around the dinner table with V-Money, Erin, Sharon, Becca and I sat under the stars. "Munyenye nyinji nnyo," ("the stars are very many"), we told Vincent. He laughed and said we must email him when we are home.

Under the stars, I taught the girls my favorite Luganda song I told you about a long long time ago. "Tunakuwaki ffe," I am guessing it is called. They learned it well, and we danced around for awhile, singing it. Becca eventually went to bed, and the three of us sat out there watching. The stars were not only SO CLEAR that we could see the star dust...like the wispy extra specs that I don't think I've ever seen, but we caught two shooting ones. It was beautiful, so so beautiful. Especially knowing there were silverbacks only blocks away from us.

What I also learned this weekend: my professor, Dr. Button--his wife, Rosie, has a speaking part, as a hostage, in the movie "Last King of Scotland." And the little girl she is holding in the scene? The little girl who didn't understand/didn't even like my batman joke. (The doctor in Mukono who is supposed to take care of us Americans if/when we get sick, he is the newspaper reporter in this same movie). I should watch it or something.

Speaking of sick, we've all been, basically, this past weekend. Each night, on the dot, everybody. Everybody but Melody, really, but Melody had the meds. Thank you, Melody.
I have sort of been sick since last Thursday, though. Last Thursday as in, maybe two weeks ago. I've just been hoping it will go away. I think it will.

The last thing I learned this weekend: how very much I did not plan on building friendships with Americans this semester (I forgot, I guess, that I wouldn't be alone here); and how very much I love them all; and how very much I am going to miss them.
The worst seat on the bus, I think, is the seat I sat in for the last 14 hours. Only because, it is generally agreed that the 2nd row has the worst feet space. And the middle seat is the worst of that row because you have no window to lean on, and/or stick your head out of when you think you're going to hurl.
Thus, Becca and I grew a lot closer this trip. Not only did her IPOD make the way a whole lot more bearable, but the girl didn't protest when I lay/laid/lied? on every bit of her. Her shoulder, her lap. At the end of the trip, I apologized and thanked her for being my body pillow. My back on her lap, I looked up at her and said, "I just wanted to be comfortable, you know?"
"No, I wouldn't know. I haven't been comfortable this whole trip."
I think she was sort of serious. But very Christ-like. She surely took one for the team. And we're better friends because of it.

Before I go, one last thing. Becca and I walked to Mukono High School today to meet with her dad. Her dad is the headmaster of the school (and the president of the rotary club--the rotary club that my family friend, John, wanted me to visit a few weeks back). He showed us around. What I mean by that is, yes, he took us to every classroom, one by one, and introduced us as his daughters. And we had to address them. Impromptu, of course. (When in doubt, speak in Luganda. They love it).
John is trying to see if the rotary club at home would be willing to help sponsor a project alongside the Rotary Club in Mukono. Hence the purpose of today's trip. Becca's dad (he calls her Baker, even when he writes her name) showed us around to help give me an idea of their needs and what they do. They need a clean water source; so far, they daily lorry it in.
Anyway, it was incredible. Becca's dad, Julius, is the sweetest man in town.

Also: all my classes are basically done. Finals are this week and next.
It's crazy, how fast it's going.
But I'm really really okay with that.

To clarify.

2008-04-01T01:08:00.000-07:00

That's not April Fools.
Todd really did shave his beard.

Now we don't have "Yesu." We have Kirk Cameron.

Todd shaved his beard.

2008-04-01T00:24:00.000-07:00

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).

Katelyn, this sky is for you.

2008-03-31T23:14:00.000-07:00

What a walk from a luncheon will do to you.

After 36 days.

2008-03-28T06:45:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-03-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-24T07:29:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-03-24T05:31:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-03-24T04:51:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-17T05:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-14T00:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-13T06:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-11T00:37:00.002-07:00

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.

2008-03-07T03:07:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-03-07T02:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-07T00:58:00.004-08:00

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.”

What reminds you of Aladdin.

2008-03-04T06:38:00.000-08:00

Note:

1). This is probably the longest you'll ever read from me.
2). I had 8 pictures to go along with this, but at the last minute, the internet reminds me that it hates me, or hates you, or hates us both. I'm done trying. Sorry.

Takwenyo (yeko). How you greet in Kapchorwa.

It’s hard trying to learn two languages at once. And it’s hard realizing that only miles away in every direction is a different tribal language. It astounds me how many ways you can say “How are you?” and right now, I only know five. Two of them African. Language is a mystery.

Mystery sounds like misery if you say it fast enough. And maybe I am an exaggerator, but: misery is a word I thought of often while I was in Kapchorwa. I can’t even pinpoint why. But these are some of the more obvious:

1). I miss being in control of my choices. Being able to stop at one cup of tea and one banana, because frankly, I’m full. But, even though that cup of tea is the worst you’ve had, you are forced to drink two because Mama wants you to, and she wants you to have two bananas, no—one more, two more. Have five: and all you want to do is puke and then return to Mukono where they accept your stomach for who it is.

2). We had to pack lightly. And I stupidly left behind some necessities that I didn’t realize were necessities at the time. I will spare the details, but I had to get creative, fast.

3). I felt like I had to explain myself every time I needed to use the “restroom.” I would even be on my way there, walking, pink toilet paper roll in hand, and Mama would stop me: “Can you do the dishes first?”

“Is it okay if I just use the latrine really quickly?”

“Well, I would like you to do these dishes.”

“Alright,” and dishes take two hours and you swear you’ll pee your pants.

But other than those things, I really had no reason to complain. Especially because: Kapchorwa is the most beautiful place in the world. And that is not exaggerating. My host dad tried to take a picture of me gawking, the day he took me for a tour.

In Willoughby, I considered myself blessed to have Lake Erie at the end of my street. Beautiful, really: always. But at the end of David and Beatrice’s (my parents) road, is a cliff. A cliff that overlooks a hazy horizon of valleys and hills and valleys and hills and the mountain range of Mount Elgon, and incredible waterfalls. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stand at the edge of that cliff forever, the wind flapping my skirt and my whole life, reminding me of how great and massive and creative our God is.

There’s a scene—in fact, the background of the Menu Screen—in the new Pride and Prejudice, where Elizabeth is standing at the edge of a cliff, and the sun’s going crazy, highlighting everything with such beauty, as if it’s the world’s birthday. That’s what it was like.

Beatrice was my mom, David my dad, Faith my 11-year-old sister, Abraham (13?) I did not meet—he’s at boarding school—Israel is 6, Moses is 3, and Elizabeth (Favor) is 5 months.

It was fun to hike behind Israel and Moses. To see Israel lead Moses; it seemed backwards, but real.

I called Moses “Chelimo.” The Kapchorwans give their children two names: a Christian name and a name that indicates the happenings of the birth. Because Moses was born at 10 AM, which is the time for milking the cows, he is called “Chelimo,” which indicates that very thing. Favor was born while it was raining, so she is Cherop; and I forget the others. But Chelimo stuck with me—and that’s what I called him.

Chelimo was my favorite. Mainly because he was a mystery to me, an unknown adventure. Faith and Israel could speak English, though little. Favor, of course, couldn’t, but I didn’t expect her to. She doesn’t even speak Kopsabine (their language). But Chelimo—sure, he could talk. Just not my language.

I would forget this. He would have one-sided conversations with me all day, playing tag around the compound, him naked, me clothed, or sitting on my lap and playing with my face and hair. I took his talking for gibberish, baby talk. I remember the day I realized that he was speaking—it was me who couldn’t understand:

He was standing in the corner of the kitchen, and I was bending over, my face in his, to make faces and airplane(?) my lips like a motor. He said something in Kopsabine. Mama laughed and translated: “He just said, ‘Are you the calf? Are you going to lick me?’” I was slightly depressed that I was missing out on Chelimo’s sense of humor, because I didn’t know his language. His language that wasn’t baby talk after all.

Favor is beautiful. Black babies, I’ve decided, are more beautiful than white babies. When I wasn’t washing dishes, I guess my only rural work was taking care of her. We took to each other really well. I was thankful for this; too many African babies scream when they see us, taking us for ghosts or something.

Mama was always carrying Favor on her back. In a blanket, wrapped around her and tied to her front. She let me carry her this way too, but only for pictures’ sake. Disappointing. (They loved the camera, wanted pictures of everything).

But even as we fetched water to give the cows, and as we hiked through the banana plantations so Mama could machete off the leaves, she would carry Favor. This woman didn’t rest.

I touched the cow’s utter and laughed. That’s as far as I got, milking-wise. Mama made it look so easy. But, really, they’re slippery. Slippery and hilarious.

I did kill a chicken. Not the way I imagined, and surely not the way you are imagining. I was sitting in a chair, talking to a neighbor. I guess I not only use my hands as I talk, but my legs too. I simply shifted my foot to the right, and Stella points to my foot and yells, “Chick!” I pick up my foot, and there it is. A baby chick. Flat and oozing, twitching its neck. I immediately apologized and felt bad, but that lasted a second. Then I couldn’t stop laughing.

They cooked me two chickens while I was there. A true honor. And they gave me the gizzard. Adeline, one of our leaders here who is a native of Kapchorwa, told us before we went: “If they give you the gizzard, eat it. It’s an honor. It’s for the visitor.” So I ate it, or so I thought: I ate as much of it as I thought was edible. But then Mama pointed to the remains and said, “This is the nicest part. For you, the visitor. You eat.” So I ate it all. The second time they gave me the gizzard, it wasn’t so bad. Rubbery, sure. But the power was out, so we ate to a kerosene lamp and I couldn’t see my food. It is better that way, I’ve decided.

Esther lived at the house too. I thought she was an older sister at first. Friday and Saturday I thought this. But on our walk home from church on Sunday, she told me she has only known the family a few months. She rents from them—yet they call her their daughter. Beautiful.

The first night, Esther asked me about my experience with Compassion International. I told her about Suhail, the little boy in India who Jenny and I sponsor together, and she was really interested. What I found out on Sunday: Esther works for Compassion here in Uganda. After church, we stayed for a few hours to work in the office. She had me type up some schedules and other information for her.

Why this matters: she showed me where in the churchyard the children come to play and learn on Saturdays. There were things that are much like monkey bars, and simply a bunch of land. She showed me the list of names, the Mazungu, who sponsor children who live in Kapchorwa. In Uganda. Walking back home, she waved to a little girl, and I told her takwenyo. Esther told me she was one of the Compassion kids.

You’re in America, sending 32 dollars a month that you don’t see tangibly translated to blessing for a child whose picture and letters you have, but nothing more. You’re never really sure if it’s real, if his life is being changed. But in Kapchorwa, I saw that it was real. It is real.

I’ve never before considered getting sunburnt while bathing. But we bathed outside, in a wooden stall thing. It worked out, having the sun there. I didn’t have enough room to pack a towel.

As far as the latrine goes, it had no door. Which made for nice bathroom time at night. Normally a bathroom view includes a tile floor and maybe a can of air freshener. Not in Africa. You get to watch the moon and the stars. And Faith. Faith escorted me to the bathroom, so I guess I wouldn’t get killed, and stood next to me the entire time. Privacy out the window, as she asked me how much matoke and coffee plants cost in the U.S.

Sunday morning church was nice. The offering was sweet and interesting. As the basket passed me, eggs accompanied the shillings. Someone also put a bundle of greens in there. Just like the old days. This is their income, their tithe. After everyone gave, they auctioned off the items, so the money would go to the church. Makes sense.

I mentioned the stars a bit, when I mentioned the bathroom. But it is also the scenery for the night-milking. So beautiful. They looked straight out of Lion King, really. Rather, I’m only saying that because that’s how all the USP students refer to the stars here. If you ask me, it’s more like Space Mountain. A ceiling you didn’t think could ever be real. We’re talking not just freckles here and there, but the kind of freckles you see on the people who are covered in freckles. All over the sky.

I noticed them most on the last night. I was walking back from Becca’s house (I had visited; I’ll mention that later) with her brother Isaac and my brother Israel, and the power was out. Everything black. The stars have never been so intense.

I hope you don’t need transitions. Because I am just writing as it comes, according to a list of single words, for remembrance sake.

I took a few-hours long walk with Mama, Favor, and Alfred (oh, I’ll get to him) one day. The best part was passing the water well (?), the water fetching area, where we met a woman named Esther. She invited me to church with her on Tuesday, the next day. I agreed. She said, “I will come collect you at two.” And she did. It was a fellowship of about twenty people tops, and it was wonderful. It started with only three of us: Esther, Rose, and me. Rose called herself my mother-in-law the whole time, especially when she found out I wanted 5-7 children. She told me I was an African, an African who needed to marry her son.

But Esther held on to each of us and said the Lord joins us when two or more are gathered, so let’s do it. We prayed, we sang, and people kept coming in. Then there were drums, sweet drums. And testimonies. It was less Anglican than I have experienced in Uganda thus far, but I don’t know the denomination. But we all prayed on our own, out loud, in our own languages. And it was beautiful.

They invited me to greet them, in front. So I did, briefly. Said some Kopsabine words and thanked them for having me—and I thought I had fulfilled my duty. But after a woman gave a really long message, they asked me to share something with them. Esther said I had 10 minutes. It was fun; a man translated for me. I just talked about Psalm 131, what God is teaching me now, all that jazz.

After I spoke, the service was supposed to end. But it started raining pretty crazy-like, and as I said before, the world stops when it rains. So we all sat in there, they all gathered around me, and we talked. They wanted to know why Americans have so few children, and if there were poor people in America. “You mean…white people? Poor white people?” And Rose was astonished that there were drunkards in America too.

Anyway. This Tuesday afternoon was the highlight of my stay in Kapchorwa. I loved it.

I mentioned I went to Becca’s home. What happened was, Becca’s dad came over to drop off a cell phone to be charged, since we have electricity. And naturally, he stayed for tea. Leaving, he asked me, “What will I tell Becca when I see her?”

“Tell her I miss her and I will see her tomorrow.”

“Oh, but why don’t you just come with me and tell her yourself?”

So I went with him. Mama told me to greet her and hurry back.

An hour later, after some passion juice and g-nuts, I said I should probably get going. Becca’s dad said, “But no. We haven’t even had supper yet.”

What I love is that Becca speaks her mind, and hilariously. She told her dad, quite animatedly, that it was my last night with my family, and “You can’t kidnap her! I am very much against child abduction.” That’s that.

But another of my highlights. What a joy to see Becca; it felt illegal, talking to a Mzungu.

One of the days when my Mama was working at the school and I was home with no one who spoke English, an old woman visited. I’ve never been given such nasty looks. She even growled at me, and kept doing weird things with her mouth and eyes. I took Favor from her. Later, my grandmother had told Mama, surprised, that a Mzungu too can know how to keep a baby quiet and happy.

But that lady made me want to run.

Mama Beatrice and I visited her sister’s home. It was the first African hut I ever sat in. And yes, it was sweet. Small but nice. I could live in one, I think. Maybe.

I don’t want to talk too much about Alfred because it was just ridiculously awkward. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable and unsafe. It was one of the no-one-at-home-speaks-English-today days. All except Alfred. And he wanted to talk while we washed dishes. I don’t know, I won’t go into it, but he wanted me to bear his children. It wasn’t implied, but stated.

He was the reason I couldn’t wait to leave Kapchorwa.

They showered us students with gifts as we left. Vincent, V-Money, our bus driver, wouldn’t let Caroline keep the chicken, or the matoke bundle. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. Mama gave me 8 hard-boiled eggs and a funny shirt with a fuzz patch, whatever that is. Hours later, there our van was, pulling up to my familiar rode. Adeline had gotten a phone call from Mama apparently, left the van, and returned with a bottle of fresh honey for me. They really are so sweet.

Overall, I loved the conversations I had with Mama. She just said funny things all the time. Once, though, they said they wanted to give me Favor when I left. So I could take her to America. And that was awkward. Mama also thanked me for being willing to live with them: “Some people think what? They think black people will eat them.”

Some experiences of the other kids in Kapchorwa and Soroti:

Nikki and Holly’s mom, I guess, was quite the riot. Someone had said something to the girls about how they couldn’t fetch water with the rest of them. They think Mazungu can’t get dirty or do anything laborious. Their mom flipped out: “Are they not human? They too must eat! What, are they monkeys?”

And Emily and Allene had to go to a funeral in Soroti. The son of the woman who had died, though, spent the day drinking. Someone went to get him, brought him to the funeral, and everyone beat him with sticks. A dishonor to choose boozing over mourning.

And Todd. Oh, Todd. The one who everyone thinks is Jesus. A person can only take so much. In Kapchorwa, he told me, as people would call him Yesu, he started saying, “Oh hey, George Washington Carver.” Or, “How are you, Chris Rock?”

After two months of it, I think you’d understand. We’re getting snappier. We feel like caged animals. Just stared at, hollered at, told from motorcycles, “I need your love,” and of course, called Jesus.

Feel free to take a break. There is much time/many events to cover.

After Kapchorwa, we had some days to chill in Soroti. I wisely chose Betsy as my roommate, under the condition that we would fall asleep talking about all the foods we couldn’t wait to eat. It felt more like lust, going back and forth:

“Captain crunch berries.”

“Lasagna.”

“Confetti, vanilla cupcakes.”

“Cinnamon rolls. Pillsbury. Hot icing.”

It was a good time. The power went out and we ate honey from contraband cups and forks, in the dark.

The following day is still a blur, because they didn’t really prepare us for it. It wasn’t until we spent an afternoon with a bunch of people and got back on the van that we learned the place was raided by the LRA in 2003. There were mass graves we saw from the window, and we were told that some of the abducted children still haven’t been returned, and those who have, are suffering crazy trauma right about now.

The issue was treated much like September 11 is treated by us now. “That’s over now. That’s our past.” No one really wants to talk about it. It’s a reality, though. One of the Soroti kid’s host-dad showed her where they used to live, near the road, before they had to hide deeper in the bush, to avoid being killed or captured. Intense.

All 36-or-so of us left Soroti and the chill days to return to Kapchorwa for more debriefing/relaxing. We stayed in cabins at a retreat place that half-burned down the day before. Interesting. The cabin I stayed in was sweet—mainly because there were holes in it, and when there was a sweet windstorm Saturday night, I not only heard it, but felt it. It’s not often you feel the wind as you sleep.

Saturday we spent the day hiking up and down Kapchorwa’s almost-mountains and to all 3 of Sipi Falls’ waterfalls. It was a sure good time.

When we weren’t hiking, we were on top of the most beautiful cliff/mountain. Sharon and I spent much of our time up there, and called it Steaddricks, our names combined. We read African literature to each other up there, and watched the clouds—which seemed to be in reaching distance.

Saturday night, this same mountain was our star-gazing spot. For about 10 of us. We talked about New Kids on the Block and other things, and tried to find the constellations. Two slept up there—this, the night of the windstorm. Crazy jazz.

I feared sleepwalking right off of it.

The best part of the star-watching night: Kapchorwa has basically no electricity, save for a few select homes. Which means: one of the hills our cliff overlooked was completely black, except for about 7 lit-up houses. It was gorgeous, and reminded me of Aladdin. Which part? Who knows? But it reminded me of Aladdin.

Sunday morning this same mountain was our sanctuary for church service.

Amazing to sing songs about mountains, and God’s making of the mountains, on top of a mountain. These two hours are the culprits of my insane sunburn.

I don’t remember if I mentioned this earlier: but I missed my Mukono family like crazy. I don’t know how I will say goodbye to them in April.

I came home to new hairdos had by all, and I found out that Huntington is not Huntington, but Hannington. Which makes sense: Sharon couldn’t figure out why she overheard people calling him Hans. The name of my brother’s old turtle and my mom’s grandpa. Sweet.

And last night was amazing, if you can say that. Another hour and a half with Rebecca. I wrote a poem about it today.

I feel so inadequate, talking to her. As far as: I have no words to say, nothing that can ever measure up to encouragement. She hates her job. She wants out of Uganda, or at least out of a home that isn’t hers. She wants to leave the room that has 4 bunkbeds, one for each daughter who has already left and started her own life. She wants to feel and know that God is on her side, because it sure doesn’t seem like it. She shows me the oldest picture she has of herself. She is about four and frowning.

“I have always been sad. What makes you sad? Nothing.”

I don’t know the sadness that comes with Christians. Because it boggles me, I can’t understand it. How can Christ and unceasing sadness be in the same category. They can’t, or so I thought. With Him, I have only known boundless joy, joy that makes you feel like life is a dance, a wellspring. But she tells me God is far, and when, when will He do something for me?
And I come from the land of opportunity, the land that makes me unable to answer. Because these are circumstances I don’t know, circumstances I don’t understand.
She is wise, and she is wonderful, but she is sad. That three-letter word seems so much deeper and so much more binding than it first implies.

I have the bunkbed to her left. So now there are only two empty ones. Two empty reminders that Jackie and Josephine have left, are on their own, and Rebecca isn’t.
When I leave, there will be three again. How am I supposed to leave her? Hmm.
Listening and praying. I think that’s all I can do, really. As active as those are, they do seem inactive, and sometimes worthless. But they’re not. I know they’re not.

Tomato plants.

2008-02-21T04:59:00.000-08:00

What I forgot to say:

When Vicky and Susan were explaining to me what the other students thought of them, Vicky said:

"When they say that you are sponsoring Susan, we tell them yes. Just to bother them. If we said no, they wouldn't believe anyway. But we tell them yes so they will hang themselves from a tomato tree with toilet paper."
To which Susan leaned to me and explained,
"It is impossible, you know, to hang yourself from a tomato branch. And with toilet paper! You couldn't hang a, what? A lizard, from a tomato branch."

The humor here is incredible.

Below the Belt.

2008-02-21T02:06:00.000-08:00

I am pretending today is Friday, so I can write before I leave.

Tomorrow morning we leave for Kapchorwa, a village northeast of here, to live in a more rural setting; we return March 3, I believe.

They have a whole different language. Luganda is invalid. Crap.

Quick, little news up in here. But first: the big.

Rebecca got a job! I couldn’t believe it. It was one of those times when your mouth hurts because you can’t stop smiling, and when you’re not smiling, you’re screaming. She has been praying for this for so long; she feels helpless and bored at home, and all the other feelings, I am sure, that come with hopeless unemployment.

I remember that night we talked about the man from Brussels. She was so shocked as she told me,

“He took time off of work for a few years. He had enough money to keep him going. But he spoke…he spoke as if, when he was ready to get a job again, a job was just as guaranteed as sugar being available in the market. Hmmm.” That does seem to be the case; and I hate that she doesn’t have that same luxury. But, oh man, God is faithful.

We were about to watch “Little Man,” on Huntington’s DVD player, and Mom came in and said to us:

“Tell me. If I gave you something, and you said nothing, you did not thank me, how would that make me feel?”

We all just sort of looked at her; one of us said “Sad.” She said,

“Well then. Look what God has done today, and we haven’t even thanked Him yet.” At that, we all kneeled at our chairs in the dining room and thanked God for Rebecca’s job. I can’t get enough of this family, basically.

I had an incredible time with Vicky and Susan today. I am getting attached to so many Ugandans; I wasn’t expecting this outside of my household. But they are simply incredible. They were telling me about what people think of them here, because they always hang out with the Mazungu (they are so friendly with all of us). They get rolled eyes, the silent treatment, and people assume that we are all financially sponsoring Susan in her school fees, and they are milking us. That’s crap. Ticks me off. They don’t mind it, though. And I love that they are still so openly loving toward us. These two are such a blessing. They are the only reason I didn’t skip New Testament today.

It rained torrentially yesterday. When it rains here, it’s like the world stops. I wouldn’t expect this. But, after showing up in New Testament completely soaked through—my slip was even showing through my skirt…I really was drenched—no one was really there. The professor came later, once it stopped raining, naturally. And afterwards, I got as far as the library and it started again. A crowd of us waited for a full half hour in the library before venturing back out. It’s interesting. But if you walk in it, chances are you are the only one, you are assumed crazy, and you are white.

I keep meaning to mention that they burn the trash here. I don’t know why I really care, but it’s neat: having two garbage pails together, usually. Labelled Burnable and Non-burnable. On my walk home, I pass countless heaps of burned and or/burning trash. Pretty smoke.

That song here that I love so much: my mom taught it to me. It’s incredible and beautiful. Hopefully I can videotape my Sunday School class kids singing it and eventually put it up here.

(Sorry about the lack of visuals…it takes so dang long to upload).

Be back in 10 or so days, hopefully with slaughtering a chicken and milking a cow under my belt.

Catching dusk.

2008-02-19T05:42:00.001-08:00

I couldn't explain the dusk thing. So I am back, because Mongo Beti, an African writer, says it beautifully:

"Every evening, as the sun went down, the distinct features of village and surrounding forest merged in dark anonymity, and night spread across the sky like a great velvet cloth, yet scarcely more sombre than the tropical undergrowth which it obscured. And every evening, watching this metamorphosis, I thought: Look your fill. A darkening picture, perhaps; but look closely, you cannot risk forgetting it. When you remember it in after time, think of your pleasure at recalling every minutest detail, even the infinite gradations of shading in the evening sky, or the bird in the distant forest, sadly celebrating the faithlessness of each fickle day, like a boy weeping for his mother's death. Think of the grey, neutral banana-trees, their sharp outlines melting into the darkness till they take on the semblance of ghosts. Think, last, of the moon, rising in splendid self-annunciation behind the tangled trees, unlooked-for and incredible, slowly climbing till she rode clear at last, tranquil as a goddess, gleaming, radiant." --Mission to Kala

Mmmm. I suppose if you are born here, you should naturally be able to write beautifully. In other words, I really regret not taking a picture of the sun this morning. And later I will try to catch dusk.

A certain Luganda praise song keeps me up at night. Nothing matches. And words can't cut it.

2008-02-19T04:51:00.000-08:00

I just finished doing homework with Sharon under a mango tree. Enough said.

I had to print out a paper on Friday, and I don’t think I have yet mentioned what that’s like. There are mini-shacks all around campus, down certain roads, that have barely enough room to turn around in, yet there are printers and photocopiers. You pay by the page, and hand them a CD with your stuff. Very cute. It is much like buying air time for your phone, which again, you pay by the minute. Mini-airtime shacks/stands everywhere you go. In fact, that is Celtel’s slogan, I think. The commercial has stuck with me: “everywhere you go.”

I learned how to count on Friday. I mentioned this a few weeks back, that Rebecca had taught me. But really, she had just written all the vocabulary down in my notebook. I don’t learn that way; I need to speak it and learn via conversation, and later rereading.
I was having tea with mom, eating groundnuts (G-nuts), and I separated them into groups of eleven, just for kicks. Then I decided I should teach myself to count that way. And I did. Emu, biri, satu, nya….real good stuff.

I ate chocolate on Friday. We went to the store, and I already had the candybar wrapper opened within feet of the door. It was amazing; beyond that, I am speechless. And today. Today we are having cheese. We are walking to the Colline Hotel, which has food, and ordering a plate of four pieces of cheese and four crackers for 6,000 shillings. This is ridiculously much, considering a banana costs 100. But in American money, 6,000 would be…what? Four dollars? I am ready for this. I have dreamt of this.
(Colline Hotel: Kyle went there last week for a one hour full-body massage. Hah. And for 8,000 shillings. Less than ten bucks. Hilarious).

I forgot to mention that last week, and all the time really, we saw/see what I guess I will call music trucks. They are like icecream trucks, minus the icecream, and plus the DJ. We’re talking microphone in the driver’s seat, or in the truckbed, and massive speakers also lining the truckbed. As we were walking home, Caroline bet us that they would say something about the Mazungu into the microphone. A second later, the DJ in the truckbed talked over the Kiganda music: “Hah! Mazungo!”
I keep thinking what Julia told me about “rockstar.” White rockstars. It sucks.

Also Friday: we watched Amazing Race as a family. And afterwards, Rebecca and I watched the Bachelor. So refreshing, American TV.
In the Amazing Race, there were about 15 or so teams still. As soon as I saw the soccer Moms, I called them out, said they would lose. Sure enough, they were the ones released that episode. My family wanted to know how I knew. It is hard to explain a soccer Mom to an African. No offense, soccer Moms. (Aunt Sharon, this doesn’t include you. You are a Soccer Coach Mom, which is much different. Much different. Very “I would win the Amazing Race if I entered” sort of different).

Great conversations came out of that TV session. Such as: for part of the race, the teams had to travel via donkey. Rebecca got such a kick out of this. She basically kept falling in her chair, laughing like crazy, saying such phrases, which I wrote down word-for-word in my moleskin:
“A donkey? They do not know what they are doing on Earth.”

“The most unserious animal I have ever seen. Serious work, but unserious face. You tell it to stand, it goes. You tell it to sit, it stands.”

“A donkey needs someone patient to ride it. Someone like Jesus.”

There was a news special on coffee during commercial breaks. Mom sighed and smiled. “When I hear the word coffee, I get so happy,” she said. “Coffee is in my blood. I was raised on coffee money, I went to school on coffee money, my life was built on coffee money.” Simply interesting.

Rebecca has developed nicknames for me. “Steadman,” which is probably my favorite, “Nani,” or “Nina”, after the football player for Arsenal who she has a crush on, and “Ohio beauty.” I purposely don’t answer when she uses “Ohio beauty.” That, or, I say, “Tuswaala,” which means, “Stop already; you are shaming us.” My family still can’t believe that Rebecca taught me this word. Aida says she is teaching me bad Luganda. The other day, Mom was imitating a hand motion I made in our music video, and I told her, “Nswaala,” conjugating the verb, and saying I was ashamed. They laughed for a while.

I call Rebecca “Salty,” “Blue,” and “Nanteeza.” Nanteeza is her Luganda name. It means something like gift/mercy/God’s provision. Blue is her favorite color, and Salty: like Sweety, but Salty is better. Salt of the earth. Preservative. Necessary for all foods. She learned this in a sermon on Sunday.

Saturday was…I can’t remember what happened on Saturday. But what didn’t happen: I did not get a black eye from an oar, or lose my two front teeth. Which happened to others during the rafting trip. Instead, I did laundry for two hours in the sun, and a whole lot of homework. I was reading outside, and some visitors came. The boy, like most everyone, asked how I could stand the sun, and said, “Me, I will not do it. I fear getting blacker.”
When I was hanging my clothes on the line, I had an entertaining conversation with preteen boys walking through the backyard:
Boy 1: “Mzungu, give me my money.”
Me: “Sirina sente.” (I don’t have money).
Boy 2: “Mzungu, what are you doing?”
Me: “What does it look like I am doing?”
I mean, really.

Sunday school was lovely again. I just love Susan. I will call her Susan 1, since she was the first Susan I met. This is relative-of-mine Susan, fellow Sunday School teacher Susan. Susan 1. I met a little girl named Patience, and then one named Peace. It got me thinking about other “series” names for kids. Like “Denver,” and “Houston,” and maybe even “Springfield.”
“Little Rock” would be the dog.

Sunday afternoon was far lovelier. We went to Rose’s house, my sister, the mother of Daniel and Joshua. We were celebrating Daniel’s success and departure for boarding school. (Most kids, who can afford it, go to boarding school. Such is where the good education is found). Speaking of which, I pass a school every morning and evening on my walk. A bunch of uniformly dressed young boys, running around a courtyard—which I see through a barred gate—playing football, or soccer. The “barbed wire” is pieces of glass lining the tops of the walls. Anyway, it makes me think “Dead Poets Society” every time I pass it, and there’s nothing like thinking of Robin Williams and literature in the morning. An unexplainably delighting combo.
Anyway, my point: Daniel is 13. And Daniel is by far the most respectful, well-behaved boy I have ever met. For instance:
Rebecca was sitting in front of the TV, which was boasting a Spanish soap, while she was looking through a photo album. She was engrossed in the album, if you ask me. Not even watching the TV. Daniel wanted to play PlayStation, but of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it. Instead:
“Aunt Rebecca, are you watching that?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
“You want to play?”
“I can wait until you are finished.”
Gosh. I want Charlie to meet this kid. Daniel didn’t even break the PlayStation into two pieces.

AIDA IS BACK. That is what happened Saturday. That is what happened Saturday and mattered.

I got to spend a lot of time with my sister Jackie this weekend. It was most enjoyable. We talked about poverty, Canadian sentence tags like “-eh?” and Luganda’s “banaange,” (“my friends”), and other things. But Jackie has been to Scotland. So, most often, I just want to ask her about that. Repeatedly.
She was complimenting me on how fast and extensively I was learning the language, and Rebecca told her how I think they sound like they are singing when they talk, where they put their stresses, and just the sing-song-ness of it all:
“WebaLE,” “KAAAAALEEE,” “GYEEEEEBAALEEE KOOOO,” etc. Jackie protested, and said it is me, us, who sing when we talk. And with each one of my one-line protests, she pointed out how I do rise and drop my voice with different words. While I say, “That’s funNY,” she said, “I just say it flat. That’s funny.”
I bet none of that made sense, because you can’t hear it, only read it. But it’s interesting, that’s all.

Sunday I was walking with Rebecca and Rose’s house-girl, Annet, to buy soda from a small shop. We made this walk a few times that day. Rebecca and I were disagreeing about the color of the dirt. I insist that it is red, especially when it rains. “No, no. It is brown. Look, it is brown.” It isn’t brown. It’s red. Then she said,
“Hmm…one day I will walk here and remember that I once shared the red dust with Danielle. And I will cry.”
I told her I will come back to visit. I said it, and I meant it—and that makes it official: I am coming back.

My favorite time of day, anywhere, not just here, is around dusk. But it’s not dusk—it’s different. The sun has left and the moon is still undecided on whether or not he’ll be joining us. As the sun exits, it leaves behind some extra light that will last us a few minutes or so. It’s like a generator of sorts. Anyway, it is perfect here. Because the smell and feel of the air matches what it looks like. That’s something I can’t explain, so I’ll stop.

Last night. An adventure. A most unpleasant adventure. I had a History paper to write. The power was out, so I had to handwrite this paper (which is allowed, just slower). The bad part was having to write it without music. I shut off the music, Spice Girls’ “Viva Forever,” (really the only justification-song for Spice Girls ever being around), when I thought someone was about to break in. Noises are nonstop outside—and I still can’t tell which is the goat and calf and which is an intruder. And robberies aren’t rare. So, surely I didn’t want to sit in the dining room anymore, right by the door, with everyone asleep. I’m the kid who slept endless nights at the foot of my parents’ bed. Uncomfortably but feeling safe.
So I went to bed with all my books and paper and my flashlight, and even grabbed batteries because I could sense it was that time, time for it to run out when I needed it most. Which happened. But I tried changing the batteries in the dark, and realized it is a one-use flashlight. Suck. So I stumbled to the bathroom, where we bathe, sat on the floor, and finished my paper. (I wasn’t going back into the dining room, of course). It was just a pain, both literally and figuratively. Things I take advantage of at home. Convenience.

I apologize for the length. But I need to write the following for the sake of processing thoughts, and for the sake of sharing how cross-cultural and how intricate our God is.
As departure for Uganda was approaching last semester, I met worry. I’m not used to worry, really, in its strangling form. It was new for me. But my mind was consumed for weeks on second-guessing and wishing I could control things I couldn’t control. I tried feasting on Psalm 131, the weapon against worry:
“I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me.”
Weaned children rock, as in, they rarely cry in their mother’s arms (yes, moms, that’s debatable). But when a child is weaned, he knows by now that his mom will provide. He doesn’t necessarily need to cry when he is hungry. He trusts, he knows. He is content, and reasonably enough.

As much as I memorized and prayed over this passage, it helped very little. But what did help: my suitemate Talia and I had a sort of prayer meeting with her family and some friends one Saturday night, just before I left. It was a “just because” prayer meeting—it wasn’t connected to my trip at all.
I had just met this woman, also named Danielle, that night. Yet, after we prayed for a bit, she told me, “Worry is all over your countenance. It is all over you. God wants you to trust Him. The Holy Spirit doesn’t want you to have to go through this. Just stop worrying about what you can’t control anyway.” Dang. I told her, obviously, that she hit it on the nose, and so another of the ladies was praying for me. As she did, I silently prayed Psalm 131 over and over. In the middle of her prayer, she sort of started to laugh, or giggle really. She said she felt dumb, but “God, I keep seeing Danielle, a child, sitting in your arms. You are holding her, and she is fine.”
Psalm 131 for sure. It was all so wonderful, being confirmed in that way, by the Holy Spirit Himself, working and speaking through someone who barely knew my situation and didn’t know the importance of the Scripture I was praying simultaneously. I wasn’t surprised, though. Our God is like that. All the time.

Anyway, I was encouraged. After that night, trusting came a lot easier. I was a weaned child. But now. Now it isn’t worry so much that is wedged between us, but it’s disobedience of sorts. The fact that I’m simply not as determined as I once was, in terms of making an effort to know Him. He’s been on the back burner lately, and when we talk, our conversation is basically constant apology on my part. That’s no way to pray or live; guilt is binding, but I can’t get around it, can’t battle it effectively. Because this is what I am thinking: Yes, I am your weaned child. But what is keeping you with me? Yes, your grace abounds, as does your mercy, but when is enough enough?
I keep thinking, and almost hoping, that He’d give up on me. His kindness can be too much; if I were Him, I would’ve stopped listening, stopped loving, a long time ago. Yet He keeps forgiving me. I keep thinking of Hebrews 10: “If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left” (so true: Christ died so I could get away from this bondage. What more can He do for me?) The writer of this passage then refers to such sinning as trampling “the Son of God underfoot” and treating “as an unholy thing the blood of the covenant that sanctified him.” I am counting Christ’s sacrifice as crap, keeping my distance like this, putting other things before Him like this. So I do not deserve His kindness.

And now my point/how God is using Africa and my African family to combat this struggle: A few weeks ago, Rebecca and I were cooking and talking about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Thinking of mothers, she shared with me one of her favorite passages: in Isaiah 49. “But Zion said, ‘The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.’ Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands…” As great as that was, I didn’t think about it for too long.

This Saturday night, Rebecca pulled out her Bible and walked around the room, reading this whole chapter, squinting and straining her face and voice when she said, “Though she may forget,” “Though she may forget, I will not.” She loves that part.
The next day, we were sitting on mats on the grass at Daniel’s party. She grabbed my hand and looked at the lines on my palm. She was looking for an M, because there is one on hers. She showed me an M, a Y, and a backwards K on her palms, formed by the lines of her skin. “M is for Mukama. Y is Yesu. And K, Katonda.” The names of God. Written on Rebecca’s palm. I thought of Isaiah 49, of course.

And to top it off: as the party ended, Daniel’s dad prayed, we sang, and he grabbed his Bible. He said he wanted to talk about what the pastor talked about that morning. He opened His Bible to Isaiah 49. Rebecca and I looked at each other, much like my best friend Jenny and I looked at each other every. single. day. sophomore year as Romans 7 kept popping up for us both, just when we needed it. And so he read that passage. Can a mother forget her child? No. But even if she did, I will not, God says. You are written on my hands.

Isaiah 49 has been for me like a Psalm 131 Part II, after a horrible intermission between. Weaned child becomes disobedient child becomes forgiven and not forgotten child.
I had been weaned, but because of my disobedience, I have been expecting Him to push me off His lap. To stop holding me, stop feeding me, stop treating me as His. But He will not forget, He cannot forget. He will not walk away from His daughter. And I am sick of being the one who walks away all the time—and away from something so good!
I love that this is what I am learning in Africa (Give me weaned or give me forgiven; distance from Him is death).
And I love that He doesn’t only teach me in my context, but wherever we happen to be together. I love that I followed Him here, that He was on the plane, and off the plane, waiting. He didn’t stay as I walked through security. This is how He is. And it makes me love Him more.

Post Script:
We have returned from cheese. I think I’ll wait for America’s version next time.

I can now listen to Mr. Brightside without fast-forwarding the risque.

2008-02-15T00:09:00.001-08:00

The circumcision has been cancelled. I mean, I'm sure he's still being circumcised today, but the American students aren't sitting in the bleachers. Metaphorical bleachers; I promise the ritual isn't that public.
I think it's a blessing for all involved; these kids are crazy.

Speaking of crazy kids, I saw a DONATE BLOOD poster in the lunch line, and laughed. Maybe I was thinking of what my mom would think/say/punch if I told her I was going to sit in a chair and have a needle injected in my arm in East Africa. Yet, apparently, not everyone here agrees with the danger. I've been told that a few are looking to tattoo themselves in Kampala.
I can think of better ways to die.

Such as: bungee jumping over the Nile. All that to say, fear not, Mom. Because the circumcision has been cancelled, rafting and bungee-jumping is tentatively back on the schedule for tomorrow. But I am not a part of that schedule, this time. It was so last-minute, and I don't think 24 hours is enough time to reflect, pray, and jot down the pros and cons of snapping crucial bones in your body. I need more time than this; for me, it will be another weekend with the fam. And I think that's equally exhilarating.

All week I have been trying to upload the most amazing video ever made by humans of the 21st century. I don't mean that pridefully, just truthfully.
Alright, it's not that great, but Betsy, Sharon, and I filmed a sweet music video here on Tuesday, and now I have to watch it every time I go to start homework. It boosts my blood pressure or something.
I took my laptop home that night to show my family the video. Rebecca and Irene screamed the entire time, and made me replay it 3 times. No Rebecca imitates my dance and sings the song every chance she gets; and it's more entertaining than the original, if such is possible.
(Charlie, we then watched our video of Mr. Brightside in the car. They loved it immensely; and I realized just how much I miss you like crazy).

I also used the laptop opportunity to show my family more recent pictures of my family. The only hard copies I brought were from high school. So, Charlie, for instance, has shot up. "He grows by the hour," Rebecca said. She went on to talk about our height, mainly my brother's, and she compared herself to a Chinese. "Me, I took 27 years, and this is how big I got. YOUR BROTHER IS SO BIG!" Over and over.

We had pizza at the Buttons Tuesday night. It was alright; the salad was the exciting part. And bagels, oh my goodness. And coconut and coffee ice cream. It was a wonderful Tuesday.
At the Buttons we met Abigail and Alex, the children of these missionaries/professors. And they are so incredibly smart. I enjoy seeing Mzungu children; there were three in my Sunday School class, and I found myself staring at them, much like everyone else stares at them/us. It is just so shocking still to see white faces. White little faces.
Abigail, age 7, told me that according to the Romans, her name is also Danielle, because her dad's name is Daniel.
And, in preparation for my favorite Batman joke, when I asked her if she knew who Batman was, she said no. Her dad was instantly on the defensive: "She knows who Batman is; she just doesn't KNOW who Batman is." So I asked her again. You know, Spiderman's friend. Do you know who Batman is?
"Oh, yes. But I do not know who is inside the costume."
And all that in a nearly-English accent. Incredible.

I was watching the news with my mom the other night. There was a special on Japan. The words "Tokyo" and "Kyoto" came up, and I nearly lost it. Goodness gracious, they have the same letters! The Japanese are geniuses. The special was about this fisherman who eats oysters raw from the river/sea/ocean/some body of water. I told my mom about the minnow I ate from the creek once, and about how that is the farthest I will ever go when it comes to raw fish. Then she said, "I wish you will be here when the ants come." Apparently, ants, loads and loads of ants, pour from the ground during a certain season, and they are rather tasty. "You have to put them in your mouth fast, so they will not bite your lip." Well, yeah. I think about that all the time.
Unsurprisingly, I agreed with her: "I hope I am here when the ants come too."

Aida and Rebecca's absence in the evenings allows for much mother-daughter time; surely I enjoy it. Last night, after watching some news in Luganda, she shut off the TV and we talked about love and marriage, short of Sinatra. She wondered what I thought of racially-mixed, culturally-mixed marriages. It was a great conversation. She is simply wonderful; and we're on the same wavelength.

I met her Wednesday night at church for the prayer service. Preparation for Easter/fight against witchcraft. Rev. Henry, who I think is the best-looking Ugandan I have seen thus far (Sharon and Caroline's dad), had my aunt read the passage. My mom was presently absent--I forget where she went, but she was only gone for a minute, and I had to find in my Bible where the heck we were. Aunt Victo said something that sounded like Mordecai, streamed in with the Luganda, and so I hurried to Esther. Then I heard "kabaka," which means "king", so I looked at the start of every chapter for "Mordecai" and "king" in the first paragraph. Esther 4. And I guessed right.
It was one of the sweetest experiences ever.
Earlier in the week I had asked my mom where I could find/buy a Luganda Bible. Wednesday night, as we chopped up the greens, she asked me why. I couldn't really voice my reason, but it had something to do with having the language written down, and in the best form ever, and being able to read Luganda when I wanted, and someday trying to teach my kids to pronounce it: she doubled over, put her hands on her knees, and laughed. Extensively.

In these nightly news-watching experiences, I get more and more depressed. Depressed is too strong of a word, but, saddened, I guess? Disgusted, maybe. There were some riots going on in some Ugandan markets. After the police chase down the culprits, they beat them with their sticks. Like dogs. Even when they're not putting up a fight. There they are, surrendered, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and being beaten.
My mom didn't like it either; she complained, lamented about it for a while. The only difference: our American government would punish such police. Here, it is normal. Just not right.

Speaking of what is normal here. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Franca, and two new girls: Claire and Harriet, we passed the blood drive going on under a tent in the courtyard.
Claire: "Me, I don't want to find out. I would rather not know. Live freely."
Harriet: "I will not get tested until I am married."
Vicky: "I know I do not have AIDS."
I hate that I can just safely assume that I do not have it; but an air ticket away, it's similar to, "Do I have pneumonia? Do I have the flu?" Suck.

On a lighter note, there is a fellow missions-emphasis student here named Todd. He is different from the rest of us, in that no one hollers MZUNGU! as he walks down the street. They yell YESU! In fact, that is how Todd is greeted here by most everyone. He is white, he has a beard, and a curly sort of (fro?), hence, he must be Jesus. He is Yesu to everyone.
As funny as I find that, I hate the fact that because the white man brought Christianity to Africa, Christ is "white man." Jesus was middle-Eastern, for goodness' sake. Let's darken those hues and eyebrows.

A similar story of "greeting" while walking the streets. My friend Betsy has made some friends of her own. A certain man who wants to go running with her. He, short-short wearing running shorts, first approached her, saying, "Please teach me to walk like you walk. I love how you walk." Interesting. I am currently taking lessons from Betsy on how to walk like she walks.

Valentine's Day is interesting in Africa. Much different than at home, though I don't know how to pinpoint it. I wasn't expecting the holiday to be a very big deal, if it was even celebrated at all. But it carries a lot of meaning and symbolism here. Whereas, at home I feel it is a holiday celebrating friendship in a lot of ways, here it is strictly for lovers.
(My mom chose to inform me of this just as I had handed Huntington his Disney valentine; and I already had reservations on giving him one. It was awkward).
If you are taken and "waiting for your valentine and the evening date", you wear red, or red and black. Then and only then. For, if you are wearing blue stripes, or I guess magenta, you are on the market, and will likely be approached so that you too can change into red and have a date lined up for the evening.

I was wearing magenta. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Susan, and Franca, we were discussing both the Q source (NT talk), and why Franca was allowed to carry around a flower on Valentine's Day. I sensed someone who wasn't Vicky or Franca or Susan walking next to me and staring. It was Ivan. I met Ivan last week at tea, and we had a conversation about copying homework, i.e., cheating, or "xeroxing." He couldn't understand why I thought it was wrong. As we left tea that day, Susan said, "That one is confused." (They say "this one" and "that one" a lot, regarding individuals. It's fun). I also saw Ivan earlier in the week, when I was carrying home a few gallons of water from school. (We are responsible for refilling our jerry cans when we run out, and transporting them home. The most uncomfortable traveling experience of my life, other than half-marathons. My hands are still recovering). But Ivan had passed me and my jerry can, and said, "Should I join you?" No. No you shouldn't.
But here he was, walking next to me as we headed toward tea time at the dining hall.
Ivan: "Who is your valentine?"
Me: "I...I...don't know."
He pointed to himself, smiled, and said he didn't have one either. Hah. I kindly apologized, and said no thanks, and gave him what I thought was a good reason to refuse. But he persisted.
Whether he was serious or not, once he realized I was always serious in my refusal, he took a step back and grabbed onto his friend's shoulder. Leaning all his weight on his friend, he said, "Help a brother. I think I've had a stroke."
We laughed at him, but continued our walk and discussion of the Q source. After a minute or so, still behind us and still holding onto his friend, he said, "Never mind the Q source. You have a brother dying behind you."
One of the girls asked if he was really dying.
Ivan: "Of a broken heart. Of all days. This day. Valentine's Day."
We laughed at him some more, and Vicky offered some comfort: "We are going to the kitchen, Ivan. You can console yourself there."
Ivan: "But how can I, when my heart is pumping like this?"
Vicky: "A hot drink will help you."
Ivan: "A hot drink? But my heart is already on fire."
So I turned around and kicked him in his shins.
No, I didn't kick him. But I couldn't help laughing in his face; it was hilarious. The performance was worthy of applause.

That day at tea, Vicky asked me, "Danielle, are you the firstborn?"
Me: "No."
Vicky: "The youngest."
Me: "No."
Vicky: "Oh...you are in the middle. That is why you have these?" And she pointed to the center of her cheeks. She told me she loved dimples, and that Franca, "that one", has them too.
Me: "Franca, are you the firstborn?"
Franca: "No."
So I have yet to uncover the mystery of what cheek curves have to do with lineage. I suppose "Are you the firstborn?" is a legitimate way to introduce any question.

The other night, Rebecca was sitting in bed reading her Bible out loud. "Do I sound like your people?" she asked. She was trying to remove her Luganda accent and talk like us. It was entertaining, and a rather decent job.

Highlights of last night:
1. The stars were far more ridiculous than they have been thus far. And to top it off, the clouds weren't blocking them, yet were still present. Whipped and slashed like white paint all around them. So beautiful. Mom stood outside with me to look at the moon. She said, "They used to tell us that there is a woman on the moon, carrying firewood on her head. One day she was carrying her firewood home, and the moon swooped her up. Now she is there forever."
2. It was the first night I did my homework during sleep time, other than in my bed with a flashlight. I sat at the kitchen table with my computer, techno Mr. Brightside in my headphones on repeat (the only 12 minute song that can be on the same level as Free Bird, live version), and I finished a paper for Literature. I don't know what it was about it all...but I have never enjoyed writing a paper so much. It was probably the Killers. And having more light than a flashlight. But I surely felt productive.

I am learning, in class material mostly, about how community-oriented this place is, these people are. And I love every bit of it.
It is really challenging, and really novel--yet it makes complete sense with much conviction--to be told in chapel, "Look at the Lord's prayer. Give US our daily bread. Forgive US our sins." We are, I am, a lot more self-centered than I thought. The whole individualism movement, which I thought was a fact of life, is mainly an American thing. Surprise, surprise. We want to be unique, we want to be ourselves, we want our relationships with God to be just that: us and God.
But, really, do we take communion in the corner of our bedrooms, or do we eat the flesh and drink the blood in a circle of thirteen. It makes me wonder about the disciples. Was it Jesus-Peter, Jesus-John, Jesus-James, Jesus-Thomas, or was it Peter-John-James-Thomas-Jesus.
I am learning, (again: in the class room, not by practice), that our relationship with the Father is just that: OUR relationship with the Father. The body is so much more important than I thought. I've been learning that the past few years, but even more so now.
What does that look like? Having a many-persons relationship with God, instead of an individual one? I bet it looks quite like the Trinity. And like praying with Jenny, interrupting each other during prayer, with comments and even laughter, in a three-way sort of conversation.
But as an entire church? This is hard stuff for me to grasp. But I'm looking out for it, in wonder, just the same.

Tuesdays, Fridays.

2008-02-12T01:36:00.001-08:00

I don't know where to start, so I'll opt for the chronological, I think. Much has happened, yet nothing has happened. Details, everyday minor things, still seem huge to me. So, sorry if the details bore.

I left school early on Friday to go grocery shopping with Rebecca. An adventure. Along with vanilla extract, you can buy pineapple extract. (Mom, you want me to bring some back? I have no idea what you'd put it in...but, heck. Sweet, yes?) These extra hours gave Rebecca and I a lot of time to talk and just enjoy each other's company. I am going to miss this girl like crazy. (She started classes yesterday. Yes, post-degree classes. She gets home around 10, dinner time. I'll rarely see her now).

Anyway, Rebecca and I sat in the sitting room (go figure) and talked about an array of things. Such as, the word "fat." They told us when we got here, to not be offended if we were called this, because here is is a compliment. I half believed that, thought it was just a self-esteem cushion. Feminine tears our program leaders wanted to dodge. But, no. I talked to Rebecca about eating disorders, and she said she wants to start a campaign to make the word "fat" universally acceptable, if not loved. She told me that fat is beautiful here. The men want meat on their women. Her exact words: "We think it is beautiful, flesh hanging all over, dancing when you move." Hah, dancing flesh. Gorgeous.
I decided to keep my eyes open. Like Saturday, at the graduation party we went to. The larger women. Yes, beautiful indeed. The African dress. the gomez, is much more becoming on a larger figure. Seriously.

I don't want to skip to Saturday yet, though. Still on Friday, Rebecca was encouraging me to wear my mosquito spray. I was grimacing, or saying, "Okay...I will eventually" or something. She said,
"No. I need to look after you. I am your...what is your sister's name again?"
"Christine."
"Yes. I am your Christine in Africa."
We laughed. Later in the conversation, we sighed at the same time. I've taught her "jinx" because we say things together a lot. When our sighs were mutual, she said,
"See. We are sisters. You didn't know I was out here in Africa, but now you've found me. When you get home you need to tell your Dad, 'Shame on you for leaving our other sister in Africa.'" Yeah. Shame on you, Dad.

My family called on Saturday night. Rebecca talked to my mom and told me afterwards how much she loved my mom's voice. She wouldn't stop talking about how lovely it was.
After my two moms talked, Josephine came over for her last time before leaving for the Netherlands. Her flight was the next day; Mom's hug and goodbye to her was rather long. As we walked back into the house, Mom told me that my mom cried on the phone.
"I know. I'm sorry," I told her.
"That's what she said."
But it was awesome watching my one family connecting with the other all on a tiny Nokia.

I'd have to say the best part about my family calling: my brother Charlie asked if I had seen any lions. I laughed and told him they weren't in town. Only in savannas and such. His response:
"What, do they have electric collars that keep them from coming into town?"
Yes. Yes, they do.

Saturday, from 1 until 7, I sat in a chair at a graduation party. All in Luganda. Rebecca eventually "captured" me, as she called it, and apologized for 6 hours of Luganda. I reminded her that I am a day-dreamer. Such is my weapon.
But ceremonies, parties, etc. are so different here. We're talking full suits, formal dresses. For a graduation party. Plus, we had mass at the party. No communion, but mass still. So interesting.
AND CAKE. I'm very much in love with the cake--including the way they cut it. At the wedding, when they cut the cake, they counted down from 3, and on 1, they opened three bottles of champagne and it fountained over them. Some sort of sparklers also came out from around the table. At the graduation party, silly string replaced the champagne. According to my mom, "We are Christians." So, no champagne. :)

The other highlight of the graduation party: one of the dads stood up, and announced into the microphone, that he was buying both of the graduates a goat. This is very generous. An honor indeed.
Which reminds me: last night I learned Kwagala, our cow, 's story. She is a new addition. Mom used to have 3 cows; I forget what happened. Then she had no cows. Then her daughter got engaged--Miriam--and her fiance's family gave Kwagala as a gift to the family. So it's not just in the books. The cow I say goodbye to every day is a dowry cow. Cute.

Sunday morning was wonderful. I talked to Mom about getting more involved in the community, perhaps Sunday School, and the next day she tells me she arranged with the Sunday School teacher that I can help. It was wonderful. I knew two of the other teachers already: Frank I had met at the graduation party, and Susan was the first Susan I met in week one, who asked me "How is your life?" and wouldn't let go of my hand. Teacher Betty is our leader, and Teacher Betty gives us soda between services. I like Teacher Betty.
(Have I mentioned we drink soda from reusable bottles? As in, straws are a must, unless you want to contract something. Oops). But I have started a sweet bottlecap collection.
The children were wonderful, the songs we learned were wonderful, and the only name I learned was "Leona." Shame on me. But I think we're friends now. Leona is wonderful.
A sweet part of Sunday School: a little boy ate a blue crayon. I wrote a short story once about a little boy eating a blue crayon. It was like the word becoming flesh.

I woke up from my Sunday nap to start on the peanut butter cookies. Instead of taking 10 minutes to cook, as the recipe said, it took a good 50 minutes. Three batches; we're still eating them. They are entirely incredible. Rebecca helped; it was the first time she had ever made cookies/seen cookies being made. She was in awe.

After the baking was done, we started on the meal. Mashed potatoes, spechlies (spaetzles) and the beef and sauce (essentially, beef stew). Note to Mom and every Distler: if you put green peppers and onions, and heck even eggplant, in the gravy, it's far more wonderful than you'd imagine. Grandma and Grandpa, I thought of you most the time I was dropping the dough into the boiling water. Who the heck would've thought spaetzles would come to Africa?
It all turned out incredibly well. To tell you the truth, I had been silently dreading it all week; I feared A. I would screw it up, or B. Their tastebuds would object. Neither happened. Mom said, "We must always mash our potatoes now," which I hope doesn't happen, and everyone loved the spaetzles.

The cooking lasted from 5 until 10. When I try to count the hours, it doesn't make sense. But maybe it's the whole cooking-over-a-fire thing. It takes longer.
Before Sunday, I thought African cake was the highlight of my stay. Shallow, yes. My family is up there on the list too. But those 5 hours of cooking were definitely some of the greatest I have had here thus far. I am convinced there is just something about cooking when your Mom is not around to watch/help. When you are in charge, and it's up to you to feed the family. To quote Christine, "I just want my own kitchen."
I can't describe what it felt like, other than to compare it, parallel it, to another feeling. And it felt exactly like the whole month of May, when I babysat little Bill. Specifically: the last two hours before his Mom came home. Lying down with him as he finishes his bottle and we watch the original Superman series. He falls asleep, and I soon after him, and when we wake up and I have to pull him off of me and hand him to his mom, we are both covered in warm, damp sweat. Baby nap sweat. The whole ride home smells of baby formula, and it's all rather beautiful.
That's what the 5 hours of cooking felt like. My sweaty shirt and his sweaty shirt.
I tried explaining that to Rebecca. We sat next to the fire, waiting for the spaetzles to finish frying, and I said, "I feel like a mom." She laughed at me.

In that same conversation, she came to mention, or ask really, why white people can't dance. She found it rather hilarious: "But it is uniform. It is not just some of you. NONE of you have rhythm. It is true." And, well, yes. It is true. Because even those who dance on TV, she said. "Even Britney Spears. They all take classes, don't they? They do it over and over and over. Us? Put on the music, and we'll do it. We do not need classes."
I then mimicked for her what clapping sounds like in American churches--a badly broken metronome--and together we laughed at all white people everywhere.

Aida went home to her village this week. Originally, they told me she'd be gone one week. But Rebecca told me she always extends it. It will be two or three before she is back. Gosh, do I miss her. I feel selfish, wanting her to be home with us, yet knowing she is visiting her son Ibrahim, whom she only sees twice a year. She has to make a living, and that means being separated from her son and family and home. For her sake, I guess I hope she extends her stay at home for awhile.

Just to clear things up: Martin didn't kill the chicken. He just held the head and the knife afterwards.
Martin knows my name now, or Dani, rather. He had called me Becca for awhile--Rebecca was the name of the American student they hosted last semester.
He hugs my legs when I come home and says things I can't understand.

I will hopefully blog on Friday, if I can control myself. Tuesdays and Fridays, the days with only one class. Friday I will probably be the only white kid on campus. Everyone else is going on the circumcision field trip. Call me crazy, but I'm really not interested. I asked Sharon if there was something wrong with me--because everyone is completely excited. I think there is a certain portion of my brain missing that everyone else has here. The I-want-to-watch-a-live-circumcision cerebellum or something. Becca, a different Becca from all other mentioned above (this is an American mission student Becca), just said:
"Who is going to let 35 Mazungu watch their circumcision?"
Seriously. Let's do this in private, people. Or at least sell tickets.

Dr. Button is having us for dinner tonight. Not in the cannibal way.
We are having pizza: yikes.

Tie a cord around his legs, and he'll still kick the bucket.

2008-02-07T23:48:00.000-08:00

I only have one class today. That is my excuse for writing.
I feel I need to excuse my hypocritical ways.

There's a first for everything. And that's what the past 48 hours have been filled with. It started with my finally asking Rebecca, "Is it okay if I wear trousers to bed?" because night gowns are ridiculous. So 2 nights ago was my first time wearing sweat-capris to bed, and man, was it blissful.
On a more upsetting note, today could possibly have been the first time I've left a house without brushing my teeth. I woke up at 8 and basically ran out the door. I blame the capris; I am sleeping too soundly.

Speaking of sleeping too soundly, I heard a certain phrase for the first time yesterday, and it was the first time my guinea pig laugh escaped while in Africa. That's a lie: Becca is hilarious, and so hurts my abs. But it was the first time I laughed that hard with my family, to the point of needing to catch my breath. I was asking Rebecca how she slept the night before. She told me, "I slept like...an embryo." Oh my goodness; I lost it. She explained, after my repeating it ten times and telling her I'm going to say it forever, that: babies don't really sleep through the night, so why say "I slept like a baby?" And sleeping like an angel isn't any better; angels have to keep waking up to go rescue people. But embryos, on the other hand....

Another first. Death of the nkoko.
When I got home from school yesterday, I asked Mom, "Nkuyambe?", which means, "May I help?" She told me, "No, there is nothing. Right now he is killing the chicken." Well, gee. I put down my bookbag immediately and asked if I could watch. I didn't know what I was saying; I am much more impulsive here. The words "Can I watch?" coming out of the little kid who would cry and scream when her sister killed the ant in the kitchen right after she promised she wouldn't. I'm still dreading the day I run over my first squirrel. I know I'll lose it.
But I went in the backyard and stood next to a boy I've never seen while he plucked all the feathers out (I missed the beheading). Frances the milkman's little boy, Martin, was also standing and watching. Martin, who is 5 I think, was holding a bloody knife in one hand, and the chicken's head in the other. I laughed, thinking of his age-mate, my cousin Tyler, and what he would look like holding the same.
It was sweet to watch. While he broke off the legs, blood poured out of the severed neck. I'm laughing while I write this. It's just too much.

The death of the chicken ushered me into the "first" I have been waiting for. Breakthrough with Martin. Gloria has gone to school, I think--this I am guessing because I haven't seen her this week, and last time I saw her, her head was newly shaven. (During school years, the girls must have short hair). And I really want to play with the kids, yet the others can't get over the Mzungu factor. I'm famous, not a playmate.
But Martin. While we watched the chicken's plucking, he started using that bloody knife to cut tiny fruits/seeds off a tree for me. Just to play with. He eventually made a running motion and said a Luganda word, so I think he wanted to race. We ran around the backyard for a bit, Martin chasing the calf, and me chasing Martin. He doesn't know English, so most of our communication was imitation. Us stealing each other's flip-flops (slippers), spinning in circles, and rolling on the ground. The rest was like a movie. This little boy saying no words because I can't understand them anyway, ten feet ahead of me, making the motion for "Come." Sometimes he would say "jangu." Other times he just put his hand out and clapped his fingers down. It's like a baby wave, and it means "Follow me", essentially. He led me all around the yard, under and over the wooden bars of the cow stall, and to a corner where you can peer between cracks in the bricks (of the walls that surround our yard).
At one point, a bit after we danced together, he jumped up and down and pumped his arms. He was making a squirting noise with his mouth. I thought he was still dancing, but wasn't too sure--until I put two and two together: the squirting noise, the pumping motion, and the cow standing directly behind him. It was time to milk Kwagala, and Martin was ecstatic. I said "Oh, mata," which means milk, and that was the extent of our understanding.
But watching Frances milk? Another first.

I realize I am falling in love with the food. Who would've thought? Josephine and John came over for dinner last night (Josephine leaves for the Netherlands for 5 months this Sunday--studying abroad), and we basically had a feast. (The newly-killed chicken being a main factor). I've finally been giving myself regular portions, instead of eating very little. Huntington stood over my plate and said, "It looks like Danielle has finally come to Africa." Granted, this was 11:30 at night. I had a banana for lunch. I was hungry.
Today in class I was looking at a drawing I made in my book last week. A grotesque face, complete with moles and empty eye sockets, eating a whole load of stick people. Flames in the background. On the bottom I wrote: "If matoke had a face." But I'm beginning to think my relationship with matoke is similar to my relationship with cats. One minute I will say, quite firmly, that I hate it, and three minutes later I am petting the thing (or eating it). But I don't eat cats. A.L.F. does.

On a more depressing note, four people died in Mukono yesterday, and Huntington watched it. He told us, "Today was bad. I saw people die." Taxi accident at a nearby gas station. Brake failure had it running into the pumps and one huge metal thing slicing through the van. Goodness.

In that same conversation, I realized that I need to come back here. At least someday. I don't think I can bear never seeing this family again. There was Mom, sitting outside with Huntington, Rebecca, Jospehine, and me, excitedly talking about the football (soccer) game that was going on inside. You could probably hear Aida and Irene's cheers down the street. Mom waved her hands while she talked: "Me? Those are not real goals, those penalties. It is only the goal-keeper. I love it when they kick a goal with everyone running," and then she squealed.
When I said goodnight and goodbye to Josephine, I knew she wasn't coming back from the Netherlands until June. This is only the second time I have seen Josephine; the first was at Mom's birthday party. Yet I had to walk out of the room really quickly so I wouldn't cry when I told her goodbye. I can't imagine what it will be like in April, saying goodbye to this family. I am totally in love.

Jenny wrote me an incredibly encouraging email after my last blog. About our deep gladness not necessarily being easy 24/7. It was so simple, so obvious, yet it really hadn't occurred to me. (And this is why I love my best friend). But our deep gladness should be deep enough to pursue even when it seems to suck; this is essentially what she said.
Emailing Daniel just now, at 3:11 my-side-of-America time, I realized that Mom, when I busted out of you, hah, at 3:11, do you even know what time it was in Africa? 11:11. As if the best number in the number line hadn't already won my heart.
That's deep gladness right there.

It is interesting to see the hands-on results of a short-term missions trip. As in, Rebecca got home late yesterday; she was at the dentist. What I had forgotten was that there is a team from Michigan here this week, providing free dental care to Mukono. First knowing my sister, and then seeing her come back from "the dentist" made it all very real for me. But what sucks:
Sharon and Caroline live with the Reverend of my church. They essentially invited the team to come or something; so the team had dinner at the Reverend's house Monday night. Caroline and Sharon made sloppy joes, to join the rest of the African-style feast they had prepared for "our most honored guests."
Tuesday at school, asking how the sloppyjoes went, we didn't get the expected response. Sharon and Caroline were so torn, so hurt, so offended by the team. Not in the matter of sloppy-joes. But in the matter of, "We were embarassed of them all night." I'm sure we're all guilty of it, going into a culture for only a few weeks, so our motives are different. We don't want to learn so much as we want to help. I guess it's not completely horrible, just naieve. But they said things at dinner that were inappropriate, insensitive, ungrateful. Making faces at the food, but cheering for the sloppyjoes. Asking the family very direct questions, but as if they were babies. Eew. But thanks for the dentistry.

Rebecca and I have a shopping date today. I am on a hunt for chicken broth. Spaetzles (Spechlies) are coming to Africa; Grandma, you'd be proud.
(Last night Rebecca said, "Sunday, we are going to Ohio.")

California Raisins.

2008-02-07T02:30:00.000-08:00

This is my official disclaimer, explanation, that I need to cut down on the blogging. That's not a sure statement/promise that I will, but at this point I am going to try.

Having one foot, and a whole heart, in the door of home and America still is preventing me from living fully here. I notice it as I walk to school, bypassing Ugandans and thinking about how I'll get on the internet once I get on campus. Which has me only smiling at the bypassers instead of adding an "Oliotya?" So, well, sorry. Or maybe you're thinking "finally." I have written so much already; now it shall be more sparse.

Not only for sanity's sake, but for GPA's sake.

But what I learned today:
I am so glad I took that class with Ugandans. Susan, Franca, Vicky, and I continue to hang out more. I was afraid I would only have Ugandan interaction with my family. That's why I took the class. And now I am thankful; these girls are beyond wonderful. And quite hilarious.

I am also learning how my life at home doesn't reflect the fact that the world is in need. Desperate need. I am still lamenting over missed Snickers bars and Doritos, excited to get home for that. Luxury is ridiculous, and I think I need to change something about the way I live. It should be fun to find out.

What I forgot.

2008-02-06T05:48:00.000-08:00

Rafting/bungee jumping was supposed to be next weekend. But. The circumcision ceremony I mentioned is, well, Saturday. So some people, of whom I am not one of them, are going to that instead.

Today the chalkboard read:
RAFTING CANCELLED ON ACCOUNT OF CIRCUMCISION.

I don't know if you find it as funny as I did, but yes: I took a picture of the blackboard.

Digging for a Pulse Draws Blood

2008-02-06T05:30:00.000-08:00

I am more a part of this family than one would think. Watching the Cup of Nations, poor number 11 (kumi n’emu= eleven) fell. I told my family I love eleven. Nkwagala kumi n’emu. They wanted to know why, and why it was important to me. I explained.

I also mentioned 11/11/2011 and marriage. Mom said, “That is just like Josephine (her newly-married daughter). She was married on July 7, 2007.” I fit with this family; this I know.

I also know that I love walking to school even more, now that school has started back up again for the kiddies. Who knew school uniforms could be so adorable, so Crayola? We’re talking bright pinks and deep purples. Swarms of them. Who doesn’t want to see that when they wake up in the morning?

I never thought I was vain or materialistic. I thought I could live on a campground; and maybe I can. But: I miss my Chuck Taylors, my vans. I miss the feel of my punk jeans. I guess I just miss feeling decent. Walking down the street, half of me wonders if the stares really are because of my skin color. We look like crap on a regular basis, and it doesn’t do much for the self esteem. What surprises me is that I care.

When I got home from school last night, my mom was clapping behind her back and in front of her, alternately. I mimicked her, but my bookbag was in the way. I suddenly knew I wanted to wear my bookbag on my front—so I did. Mom and Rebecca laughed as I walked around the backyard, supporting my back like a pregnant woman. I unzipped one of the compartments, peeked in the bookbag and said, “It’s a boy.” Mom said, “No, no, no. That is boring.” I loved that we were on the same page; I loved that I was in a country that probably rarely even has ultrasounds. Mom then said: “Oh, to walk around for nine months with someone inside, and you don’t know what it is until…” And she made a firework motion with her hands. I told her I couldn’t keep the bookbag on for nine minutes, let alone nine months.

Also as I got home, Rebecca was wearing a bright pink flower in her ear. She cocked her hips and her head and did this weird smile thing with her teeth. She was pretending to be the tramp, Marina is her name I think, from our favorite Spanish soap opera. It was hilarious. The entire night, especially as the show started, she was imitating this promiscuous Spanish woman. So great.

Ashhhh Wednesday. I am stoked; and I don’t have a reason why. But I have really been waiting for this day. Tonight we have a prayer service at church—it’s going all through the night, actually, for those who wish to stay. We’ll be praying against the witchcraft and the witchdoctors, etc. who are apparently gathering also on this day. Dang: sometimes I forget about spiritual warfare. Or, I should say, that is most often.

But, because our God is universal, as is the battle, if anyone would like to pray from 11 AM your time till…whenever, that would be incredible.

I just left to go to class. Waited for a ½ hour for the professor, which is entirely normal. Yet it was a 1 hour class. The wait was amusing, though; I’ll give it that. One of the girls stood up, pretended she was the professor, and read us the parable of the ten virgins. Maybe 2 of us were listening to her, but she kept it up. She finally told Vicky to listen. Vicky said she was a virgin, so she didn’t have to. Hah.

Vicky is by far one of my favorite Ugandans. After class, my American self had her schedule planned; she would return to the room and check her email. But I walked out of class with Vicky and Franca, and they just assumed I would walk with them, follow them wherever they were going. I caught myself thinking, “Geesh. I have stuff to do,” and immediately wanted to spit on myself (but because of where my mouth is situated, it would’ve been difficult). So I followed them. In the process, during our walk, Vicky was asking me about cultural differences I may have noticed. She asked me,

“At home, if you are passing a friend while walking, do you say hi and keep walking, or do you stop to talk?” I told her it depends, but it is natural to do just that. She said, “Ohhhh. See, here we are concerned about people.” (I was laughing on the inside, spitting on myself). “We want to know how people are, so we stop and talk.” I then recalled last week when I passed her, Franca, and Susan (a.k.a. Suzann, how I previously and incorrectly spelled it), said hello, and went on my merry way. What an idiot: “hindsight is 20/20, my friend.” (Dr. Farthing, Dirty Work). As in, “You mean to tell me that you placed a bet in Rocky III, and you bet against Rocky?” “Hindsight is 20/20, my friend.” Yes.

We had fish again last night. Eyeballs, fins, I just love to see this on the table. The bones are perfect, though. Very cute. It makes me think of God while I eat. The anatomy of the fish: one of the mysteries most Americans never see/eat. We just had fish for lunch too—it actually didn’t look alive, and it was wonderful.

Back to Vicky. She, Franca, and I went to their dorm room, and again, I was given hospitality at its finest. Vicky pulled out some passion fruit drink mix, some water, and made me a drink right then and there. Only sometimes do I remember to offer people food/drink, and never do I pray over my juice. Vicky did the sign of the cross, and drank her passion fruit drink. So. Great.

Kapintos. That is the word for wedgie; I mentioned I had forgotten before. But Vicky pointed out someone’s today, and we had another 5 minute conversation about that word. De ja vu at its most honorable point.

Xerox. “Let me Xerox your workbook.” This means copy, as in cheat. Another amusing part of the 30 minutes of waiting for the professor. Everyone says it.

Funny story. Jenny, today it is raining, has been raining. Very chilly here. I let Susan wear my sweater, or should I say your sweater? The clothes we sentimentally traded before I left. (I hope I can build the guts to eventually ask for it back. Don’t worry. I will try). But what is funny about it: I have to pee like nobody’s business (yet I’m now making it everybody’s business). Why does this matter? Because my toilet paper stash is in the pocket of that sweater.

(There is rarely toilet paper in the bathroom. If you gotta go, you better have some on you).

Sure, Susan can use the bathroom now. I can’t.

And now to what I cannot stop thinking about, to what I have been itching all day to finally sit down and get what’s in my head on paper, or screen. I think the typing might be a good stress-reliever. Word processor: yes that’s it.

I read a C.S. Lewis poem last night before going to bed. The last line was enough to greet me again in the morning.

“I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek—

But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.”

Missions. How many years have I talked of it, talked of it as if I knew what it meant. How many conversations have I had with my mom, defending this profession I’ve chosen with, “But this is what I was born for.” I would shake my head when people said I would miss my family, miss America, and I would stand firm.

What was I standing firm in? Something I hadn’t tested.

What I had tested, what I knew: I was uncomfortable, discontent, in America. In remaining in that same culture for the rest of my life.

I went to Jamaica, a new culture, for a whopping ten days and nodded, sighed. “Yes, God. I know this is what I want. What you want.” Ten days isn’t a test. It’s a quiz, and one that doesn’t count for credit. Because now, looking at all the calendar pages and malaria pills I have left, I am not nodding as adamantly, not sighing as heavily. On the sure—confused spectrum, I am all the way on the right.

I have been living by two quotes, unconsciously, for awhile.

Quote number one: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” –Gil Bailie.

I don’t agree so much with the first sentence; I think one of the most important questions we must ask, if we are following Jesus, is “World, what do you need?” But the rest: gold.

Quote number two: “The place where God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” –Frederick Buechner.

Phrases like this, “what makes you come alive,” and “your deep gladness,” have made me assume that Africa, or Somewhere—yes, capitalized—was running through my veins. And once I got there, I would come alive, I would have that deep gladness.

Shot down. I am living in Africa for more than ten days. And at least 20 times a day I am wishing I were with Charlie, making fun of his driving instructor, or having a conversation with my sister in her scrubs, just stopping by for lunch before she heads to one of her jobs. Sitting around the campfire and watching my dad laugh at Russ, our amazing neighbor, and his coarse jokes. And playing Scrabble, or Sorry, or Rummy with Mom. I am admitting what I never realized, what I’ve been fighting against when I’ve told them I could survive continents away from them: I think it’s my family that makes me come alive. They are holding my deep gladness.

Yes, this frustrates the crap out of me. When I was eight and lying in bed, telling Jesus yes, I want you to save me, that was after months and months of struggling with both God and my Sunday School teacher. “What do you mean I have to love God more than my mom and dad? Miss Darlene, that’s impossible.” I’d cry and make mean comments to God countless nights, because how could He ask such a thing?

So when I broke through that, when I finally realized I could put God before my family, I thought the battle was won. And here I am, 12 years later, wondering, “Now what am I supposed to do with my life?”

I do blame Africa somewhat. Africans don’t consider identity as an individual thing. Their identity comes from those around them, their roots, their ancestors, their families. Apart from that, who are they? Who could they possibly be?

I also blame the Spanish soap operas. In “Nunca te dios adios”—sorry, I am not adding the accents—“I will never say goodbye,” Juan Francisco, his wife Fanny, and their daughter moved from Lima to Europe. Last night the screen read “seis anos despues,” or something. Six years later. They were still in Europe. Then Franny’s dad had a heart attack, so they flew back to Lima. Juan Francisco walked through his door, and his mom hugged him like she saw him yesterday. And I’m thinking, “Hug him harder, you fool.” My mom has been emailing me to tell me just how hard she’ll hug me at the airport in May. And here, Mrs. Francisco barely cares. Maybe I’m being hard on her. Spanish acting isn’t so hot anyway, if you ask me. But she could’ve freaked out a little more, after not seeing her son, daughter-in-law and grand-daughter for six full years.

Watching it, I pictured my own returning home after even one year. While these four months are killing me.

I am not saying my deep gladness, the passion that makes me come alive, is no longer “being elsewhere,” living overseas, engaging with a new culture and a new people full throttle. Because it very well still is. But I am now noticing the duality of it all—the fact that I have two deep gladnesses, and they are at odds with each other. So I walk to school in the rain, refusing a ride from Becca and Melody’s host-dad, so I can think. So I can straighten this out. So I can mull it over again and again and again. “A scholar’s parrot may talk Greek.” I am finding I never knew what the Greek meant in the first place. It’s like sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Luganda Bible, and everyone clapping. Yet you have no idea what you just read. You knew the syllables, but not the meaning.

Looking my deep gladness in the face, here in Africa, I see it looks a whole lot different than it did last month.

I have always had trouble finding my pulse. I remember the Monday night Women’s exercise and fellowship my church used to have. I was the only kid who came. And the only one who couldn’t find her pulse in time, in order to count with the rest of the women.

So I’m trying to find my pulse, what makes my blood beat, where my deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger, what makes me come alive.

Here it is, I’m gonna say it: I officially don’t know what I want to do for the rest of my life.

An hour ago, I would’ve ended the blog there. But I just got out of class. A seminar where we discussed what our telos is. “Purpose, end.” What we’re striving toward. One of the guys in class said that very recently he considered filling a backpack with the necessities and living in the woods for a few woods. “If I can glorify God with anything, why not do it chopping wood, fishing?” My first impulse was to laugh. Yes, I giggled. But I think he knows what he’s talking about.

What did Christ say my purpose is? To love Him with all my heart, soul, mind and strength, and to love my neighbor as myself. Worship and relationship. This is why I am alive. So, right now, do I really need to know what I’m going to do with my life? Yes and no. Yes, in the way that all I need to know and do is the jazz about love for Him and others.

And No, in the way that life doesn’t work that way, having everything spelled out in numbered, green doors to choose from.

In 12 years, I’ll get out of bed and, over coffee, or now, maybe tea—make that milk tea—I will realize, “This is what I am doing with my life.”

Do I know which continent that bed will be in? No. But I can love the Lord and my neighbor in any of the 7, and I suppose that is all I need to know.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

2008-02-04T23:53:00.000-08:00

I asked my family if I can cook for them soon. This weekend. Mom said Sunday. Now I am committed and completely worried. (Mom, I just might have to call you during a gravy-making crisis, I've decided. Pretend I am Winnie, calling mid-morning, but please be tolerant). :)

This place is full of surprises. I found out recently that Huntington has a daughter (I'd like to know these things, really). I also found out that Irene, our cousin who lives down the hill but spends the evenings with us, is the head of the household. She can't be much older than me, yet she is raising 3 younger sisters, managing a garden, a chicken coup, and a bay of annoying pigs. She also attends UCU with me. Dang.
Now that I think about it, I was touched when she came over a few weeks ago to lament her younger sister's trouble in school. They were probably going to hold her back a year. I noticed she looked for distraught than a sister would, but more like a mother would. And now it makes sense.

This morning I remembered a past conversation that happened during Ally McBeal night. Jackie asked me, "So what is the fuss about being blonde?" It took me some time to understand that she was saying "fuss," but I finally tried to explain.
"Well, a lot of people think blondes are prettier than brunettes and redheads and all other hair colors."
"Is this true?"
"It depends on the person. It's more of an opinion."
"But why are they always shown here (the TV), and in jokes, as (makes an imitation of flipping hair and looking dumb)?"
"As ditzes?"
"Yes."
"It's not like they're stupid. But maybe it's the brunettes and redheads being jealous and taking revenge."
It was an amusing conversation.

Speaking of all things amusing, I was in a Luganda kick last night. Asking how to say milk, sugar, spoon, cup (we were drinking tea). This went on for awhile, until it was time for devotions. And this is what they dictated for me to write:
Rebecca: Leelo. Today.
Me: Leelo. Today.
Rebecca: Ogenda. You are going.
Me: Ogenda. You are going.
Rebecca: To read.
Me: To read.
Rebecca: the Luganda Bible.
Me: the Lugan...(looks up, laughs nervously).
Next thing I know, Rebecca places the Luganda Bible in front of me, I give her my English one, and I am reading Proverbs 21. Somewhere around the time I read that it is better to live alone in a desert or something, than to live with a quarrelsome wife, they busted into applause. Aida yelled, "Wonderful! Wonderful!" and Mom made the normal noise most African women make during church, or when Stella and Peter gave their ceremonial hug at the wedding.

I've never been clapped at in such close proximity. During piano recitals, Mom doesn't sit next to you and clap in your ear. In baseball, cheering Dad is in the bleachers after your triple. The only hands-on applause could be from the third-base coach. And even then, he rarely looks enthused. "Two outs. You know what to do. On contact."
But here, sitting at the kitchen table, looking across at Aida, I don't know: I can't really describe what I felt. Other than, "Dr. Lo is so right."
There is something about learning someone's language that goes deeper than most other things and ways to know another culture, another people. Because they are involved, too, in the process. (Rebecca looked at me sarcastically and asked, "Who taught you?", for she is mainly responsible). :) And their pride isn't just by association. They are personally pleased, honored, as I pronounce their words the way they are supposed to be pronounced. "Better than even some Ugandans pronounce," is what my Mom said.

The most important phrase I learned yesterday? During the African Cup of Nations, Egypt vs. Angola?:
"Lwaki toyagala Egypt?"
"Why don't you like Egypt?"
Rebecca thought it was funny to make me guess. I found it has nothing to do with her not liking the letter E, the song "Walk like an Egyptian," or a possible poisoning of the waterhole. When they score goals, on the field or in life in general, they pray to Allah. Period. Rebecca doesn't like Egypt.

What Aerosmith means to Africa.

2008-02-04T06:20:00.000-08:00

So much to say, so little time: I am writing this baby in shifts.

(I just tried 3 times to post a video from the wedding; no such progress).

I was just given an ultimatum. Is ultimatum the right word? No, I don't think it is. But I was given a choice/dilemma. So far, I have been denying the option to raft the Nile. I mean, I've already ridden a boat along the thing--and white-water rafting, I feel, is something I would like to do in the general vicinity of my home...my country. As in, 24 hours after I can say goodbye to my family; if I don't return from Africa, I wouldn't want this to be the way. It makes sense in my head. But now: there is another option. Bungee-jump over the Nile. And this I am seriously considering; maybe because it is cheaper. I wonder which is more risky. And I wonder if I could pass this up while maintaining an adventure-driven conscience.

There were no forks at lunch today. At least not enough for me and Becca. We laughed with every bite; rice is hard to hold.

Now to this weekend. Twas packed to the full with goodness—all around goodness.

Friday was the play. It was more of an evangelism tactic (Heaven’s Gates and Hell’s Flames) at Kampala Pentecostal Church. But still: I enjoyed it. It was interesting that the first scene had a girl dying of AIDS; it is such a present danger here. And two construction workers, one of them leading the other to Christ right before a building collapses on them, was talking about the matoke and posho he hoped his wife had packed in his lunch. Oh, cheers for cultural relevance.

What was amazing was the altar call afterward. Whether in America or Africa, it doesn’t matter: seeing people give up their lives, and first get out of their chairs, is…well, there’s nothing like it. First it was just the children. Loads and loads, running toward the man who was acting as Jesus, and hugging him. (Black Jesus: finally). But then a man probably in his twenties got up, and dang: that did it.

I admit, though, my favorite part of that Friday in Kampala was the grocery store. You don’t know how homesick you are until you walk through those sliding doors into all that fluorescent jazz and air conditioning, and actually see Snickers Bars. I just wanted my mom. That was also the moment I told myself, “If I ever come here as a missionary, I will live in the city.” It was so overwhelming, so wonderful. Even though I didn’t buy the bag of giant pink marshmallows. The fact that they were an option was enough. More than enough.

The worst part: taxies. My first time in a taxi—and this a van, a seatbelt-less van, in the night, no streetlights or stoplights and certainly no driving rules or enforcement. Talk about scary. It was funny, though. The taxi-driver didn’t stop where one of the passengers wanted him to stop; so she started going off on him in Luganda. In English she said: “This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die. Taxi-drivers and conductors!” Hah—my mouth dropped; she basically told him to drop dead. But I had misunderstood—Rebecca later told me she was talking about status—“This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die taxi-drivers and conductors.” It’s all about the punctuation you use: life and death. Prime example.

Saturday’s taxi was the first. I am so safety-driven, I normally wear my seatbelt even when I am only switching cars in the drivers. “Because you just never know.” How helpless and completely paranoid I felt on Saturday—not only in the second-most dangerous country road-wise, but I was in the very front seat, no seatbelt. I wish I could’ve taken my blood pressure. You have no idea how badly I was freaking out on the inside, how many times I pictured my bloody, scarred self in the middle of the road. This really does take a getting used to.

But the wedding made up for it. I will try to post a video later; I have never been to a more beautiful wedding in my life. The ceremony, eh: I can’t deal with Ave Maria and laying flowers at a statue of Mary’s feet. She was just a woman. Yes, a good one. But just a woman, a human.

Also, they didn’t kiss! They were pronounced husband and wife (I assume; it was in Luganda), and they hugged! Can you imagine? (They say “Can you imagine?” all the time here).

Anyway, the reception was out of this world. Outdoors, for goodness sake! Outdoors with 6 massive white tents and lights strung everywhere. The music was incredible, a lovely mix of Kiganda music and James Blunt.

I really can’t get enough of this culture, respect-wise. You would never see a bride kneel, and in the grass, in her gown. Yet she did, as she served her mother and then her mother-in-law cake. You kneel for your elders no matter what your attire.

And anyone could give speeches, not just the best man and maid of honor. As Rebecca puts it, “A man who once drove your taxi to Kampala could give a speech if he wanted to.” Nice.

We were at the wedding/reception from 1:30 until 9:30, and we left early. As we left, the bride and groom had just started dancing—to what? My favorite wedding song. Even in Africa.

The food? Fantastic.

I think it was my favorite day in Africa thus far; Africans sure know how to do weddings.

Once the taxi dropped us off, though, my mom tried getting me to ride a boda-boda. I struggle with politeness; even in America, if someone offers me a drink or food, even if I’m starving, it is really hard for me to say yes. I feel rude accepting things, I guess. So it was horribly uncomfortable to tell her, “I’m not allowed,” even as she kept pressing and saying, “But I know this one.” Meanwhile, I am remembering Brooke, our leader, ‘s words: “You can sleep around and contract diseases, as long as you don’t ride the boda-bodas.” I wanted to give that example to Mom right then, but I didn’t think it was the appropriate time or place to bring up HIV. But I did refuse. And felt horrible the rest of the walk home.

Except when we started looking at the stars. Daniel told me to look for the Southern Cross, so I have been. But to no avail. I kept tripping all over the road, trying to make out the constellations, until she finally had us stop so we could concentrate. She pointed to three stars straight in a line, and called them entunga lugoye. Which means something like “I am sewing.” She said the three stars in a perfect line look like a stitch. Which they do.

So I have washed laundry by hand. All I can say is: when you’re doing dishes the next day, and the charcoal of a pot rubs against your newly clean skirt, you have a much greater appreciation for the toil of laundry. I was pretty sad.

Now for the fun stuff. Awkward, though. Awkward and stalkerish and very uncomfortable, but funny. When I got home from the wedding, Rebecca told me I had a friend visit. A little boy. Remember Raymond? The boy who wanted me to pay his school fees? Well, as Rebecca questioned him, she gathered that yes, I had showed him where I live, yes, I told him to come visit me on the weekend, and yes, he would like to wait for me to come home. Dang: the little kid must have followed me home. We all laughed so hard, though. With Rebecca’s imitation of him, Irene was on the kitchen floor, trying to catch her breath, and I was crying. It was so hilarious. As was last night, when Rebecca grabbed my Luganda notebook and wrote me a whole host of responses to people who are bothering me. So we sat at the kitchen table, yelling Genda! until, again, we couldn’t breathe anymore. Genda really just means go away. But it was funny.

I think Sundays are my favorite day in Africa. Just like home, I suppose. But when I woke up and Mom told me she felt lazy and we weren’t going to church, I didn’t protest. Then, for the rest of the day, I thought about all the times on vacation I gave my mom a horrible time, pleading and coaxing, and even bribing, to take me to church. And here, I gave no response: (Sorry Mom).

The day was so relaxing: a whole lot of reading and sitting in the sun and listening to Shania Twain at least 8 times (the radio station here has about as much variety as the menus. Matoke or rice. Shania or Celine). Every single song was about love, though. It got too much, and I asked Rebecca if it was the love station. She said no, it was country. Makes sense, I thought. Until they played Aerosmith.

Mom and I walked to the hotel last night, to sit outside with Fantas and talk about courtship. That’s when I decided that wind-swaying palm trees are one of my favorite things in the world.

Have I mentioned how little I care about homework? I was just reading an email from Jenny and thought I should mention it. There are days I worry, but only briefly, about losing scholarships. But I think it’s funny to compare the OCD-with-schoolwork high school kid to what Africa is making me now. See look, I have a book report due in two days. I haven’t opened the book, but here I am, stress-free, journaling.

I will reserve my stressful moments for the traveling moments. I can’t believe I am saying that I look forward to returning to a world with policemen and tickets. I just might speed uncontrollably so I can get pulled over, and give him a present. Baked goods should do; I don’t mean that in the mean way.

It's like Christmas morning.

2008-02-03T21:36:00.000-08:00

Rebecca. :) Dancing to Shania Twain.

That's my mom!

left-right: Irene, Mom, Rebecca, Aida

Aida! :)

Irene

Huntington: I wish he would've smiled with his teeth; that is the norm, and the nations are glad for it.

Shrugs not drugs.

2008-02-01T00:52:00.001-08:00

At breakfast, I explained Groundhog's Day to Mom and Rebecca. They laughed at us, asked if we get together and celebrate this holiday. That is the moment I decided I will forever have a party on Groundhog's Day. We'll wear skins on our heads.
Tomorrow, laugh at yourselves. Some of our traditions are hilarious.

Sharon and I walked home together (half way) last night. We passed a man and a woman, the man wearing a trench coat, the woman wearing some sort of important uniform. Both were carrying rifles. The best part was Sharon, who was telling a story, and who kept on talking like it was nothing. Like people always carry rifles in the street. When the story was done, she said, "So, rifles. Did you notice that?" So funny. But so...crazy.

I learned how to tell time yesterday, African style. I asked Rebecca why when it was seven o'clock, they used the Luganda word for "one," and eight is "two", and so on. Here, they count their hours in two separate sections--12 hours of day, 12 hours of night. Day starts when the sun rises: 7. Day ends, night begins when the sun sets: 7. So hour one of daytime starts at 7. What we would call midnight, they call the sixth hour of night. It makes sense.

Jackie, one of my adult sisters who has already moved out, brought over her DVD player last night, along with nearly every season of Ally McBeal ever made. It was great to have a clear TV, no static. But Miss Ally McBeal wears ridiculously short skirts, for a person, and especially for a lawyer. I am already conditioned to now shudder and stare, in surprise and pity, when I see kneecaps here. And Ally's skirt was nearly at her underwear line. I was embarrassed for her, and for having to say, "No. Only dumb teenagers," when they asked me if it was okay if I walked around America like that.
They also laughed pretty hard when Ally's coworker John accidentally flushed his trained frog pet down the toilet. John mourned extensively and held a memorial service at the law firm. Jackie called him crazy, said, "That is too much," but then looked at me and asked if that was normal, if we give our pets memorial services when they die. I wanted to say no, but I laughed and told them about my guinea pig's death, and Elizabeth coming over to comfort me and stand with me in my backyard while my mom dug the hole. They laughed.

I told Jackie good night (Sula Bulungi) and that it was nice to see her again. She said, "Do you think I am leaving? At this hour?" It was eleven. She stayed the night, slept in the bunk above me.
Betsy told me a similar story this morning: her sister was getting her hair braided, so the beautician lady and her son came over to do it. It took too long (takes hours), and she still wasn't finished, so what did they do? The woman and her little boy stayed the night. These people are so hospitable, and it comes so naturally. I love it.

I am going to a play (I think) tonight. They called it "a show." It is in Kampala and is called "Heaven's Gate and Hell's Flames." Hah. I'm excited. And the wedding is tomorrow. Doubly excited.

Gloria still runs out to greet me every morning, to yell "Hello, my friend!" and "Safe journey!" This girl is my favorite.
Jenny, I keep seeing kids push around tires, with sticks or their hands, like they did at the Haitian refugee camp. Yesterday, I asked a little boy if I could try. It's as fun as it looks: a lot of fun. (Also Jenny, I am listening to Backstreet Boys right now--"Get Down." The song where AJ says "kind" really nasally. Love it; that's more than a suggestion).

I'll end with the lesson I learned last night. I was making bird? noises with my lips and teeth last night while we were putting the TV away. This is one of my favorite things to do with my mouth when restlessness kicks in. Rebecca laughed more than was due. She asked me where I learned that, if I had heard anyone do it in Uganda. Apparently Luganda runs deeper than words, than an alphabet that doesn't own an X. There are a series of sounds you make with your tongue, teeth, and lips, that have different meanings. One means you are really really annoyed and disgusted with a person that a verbal insult wouldn't suffice; I told her I will use this on my walks home, either when I am about to get hit on by the men or hit, literally, with the matoke trucks. Another meaning indicates boredom (I'll have to be careful not to do it around the house). And if you put more tongue into it, it can be a sympathy sound, used in tragedy. She said it can also mean "Well," or "Alright," like a shrug. That one I don't understand.

Rebecca asked me if it is possible to get addicted to the malaria medicine. But I think it's the tea I'm getting addicted to. This is the one thing I wasn't expecting. Tea time is beautiful.

Sharon just quoted Celine Dion.

2008-01-31T05:47:00.000-08:00

My day started with me walking very slowly behind a little boy in sweet racer shades and Barbie sandals. I would normally pass him up, because we whites walk so dang fast, but I thought someone should babysit him. He looked to be about 5; his mom was walking a full 15 feet ahead of him, never turning around to even check on him. And this on one of those dangerous roads I mentioned. Man, what a difference from the world I'm used to; I still remember where exactly in the kitchen closet my Mom stored Charlie's velcrot wrist-leash.

I read some Hemingway last night; it was beautiful. I got home before everyone else, didn't know what to do myself, searched my suitcase for something that wasn't homework, and had a ball. When my mom came home, I was sitting on...a concrete slab? I don't even know what to call it. It was pretty dark outside. She said, "My baby!" and I'll admit: I loved that she called me baby. I also loved that her next words were, "You aren't reading in this light, are you?" because that is the one question my biological mom has probably asked me more than all other questions. I guess I like to read in the dark.

Last night was out-of-the-ordinary. Rebecca was gone til late, since she was at her friend's burial. And Mom left for about an hour because she was going to "visit the neighbors real quick." So there we were, me and Aida, watching Malcolm in the Middle. Finally, something other than dubbed-over Spanish jazz. When the TV gets fuzzy or goes out, Rebecca or Aida always does the following: pulls back the drapes, walks outside, adjusts the tree branch to which the satellite is attached, while looking through the open window at the TV. I got to do it last night. Every time I adjusted the branch, I would get to the doorstep and the TV would be fuzzy again. This happened 3 or 4 times; it was the hardest I have laughed with Aida. Even harder than when she impersonated Ghana's victory dance, and sings along with the Uganda Telecom commercial every...single...time.

As much as I am not a fan of matoke, I have not had it in three days, and, well, I can feel that something is missing. I want to hit myself for wanting some, because it tastes like nothing, except that it tastes like something you never want to taste again. So I can't really explain why I'm hoping we have some tonight.

I never noticed how censored, and for good reason, America's media is. Until I saw the news and the newspapers here. Dead, charred, bloody bodies from car accidents or Kenya's tribal wars...on the front page like it is nothing. I hadn't realized, until now, that the only dead body I've ever seen (that wasn't in a casket) was pretend, in a movie, on ER. Not real life.

I am taking a New Testament class for the second time in my life. Today, listening for the second time, just in a different country, about Matthew and Luke being so similar and having used Mark as a source, I wondered if I was wasting time and money. But through this class I learned something sweet about Matthew 18 that I had never realized before. (I have to share, because I'm just so excited: When Jesus is giving instructions about confronting your brother who has wronged you, He gives the appropriate steps. The last step, which is what you do if the brother continues to ignore you and his wrong, is to "treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector." I always thought this meant excommunicate him. But what in the world. Professor George Hope, who my new Ugandan friend Lydia whispered to me "has a big butt", reminded me of the way Jesus treated pagans and tax collectors: with the most incredible love imaginable. Dang). So I am glad I am still gaining from this class. As in, gaining relationships with Ugandans as well; Lydia abandoned her group of friends to befriend the Mzungu this morning. (But then she told me her philosophy that she doesn't think married people sin as much as single people do. This was after the professor said "fornication." I was speechless).

And Suzann, Vicky, and Franca I have also met from this class. (I mentioned this the first week). I joined them for tea this morning. As we walked to tea, they too mentioned the size of our thin professor's abnormally large behind. Hah. Suzann imitated his walk, too. Said she recently saw a man with hips, and he walks like a woman. Then she told me the Luganda word for wedgie. Unfortunately, all I remember is that it starts with a C.

Lunch time was incredible today. Betsy, Becca, and I sat at a free table, in order to leave room for Suzann and the gang; we were supposed to meet her there. Instead, though, Joshua and Tim, two Ugandan men, showed up. Joshua is known for befriending the USP kids; and you can tell. He is very Americanized. He brings hot sauce to pour over his beans and rice; he asked us if we liked hot stuff, Betsy said yes, and he said, "What sort of hot stuff do you mean? Food?" We lost it.
I heard him say Steadman, and saw that he was looking at the engraving in my Bible. He asked what the C was for. For a few minutes he wouldn't stop repeating, "Danielle Catherine Steadman" in a very pompous, elegant, Ugandan voice. They all informed me it was, indeed, a pompous name, and Joshua told me to "leave your specs on, Danielle Catherine Steadman," because apparently my name matches my glasses. When they said goodbye to us, he used my full name. It was a lot of fun, as was the entire conversation.

(This is not to say that I do not enjoy Stevie Lennox's preaching at IWU. His chapels have always been my favorite), but Sharon and I had a good laugh at chapel this morning. Rev. Michael Okwii got on the platform and preached about what? The first line of the Apostle's Creed. I wonder if this was the first of a series of sermons. If so, God's sense of humor is even stronger than I thought. And I've always thought it pretty strong.

Han Solo. This has nothing to do with Han Solo.

2008-01-30T06:09:00.000-08:00

I’ll start on a light note; but I can’t promise it will stay there. It’s actually quite difficult to stay there.

But not only did I have some crazy, vivid, terrors-actually-in-the-room dreams last night, but around 3 o’clock I woke to scratches, clawing—I thought—starting to my right, circling my head, and reaching my left. Because I am more of the hide-under-the-covers-and-pretend-the-robber-isn’t-next-to-your-mattress sort of wimp, it took a lot for me to sit up, grab my flashlight, or “torch”, and search for what could’ve been a rat. It wasn’t a rat. It was my homework. A binder I had next to my pillow—falling and scraping against my mosquito net. I should stop sleeping with academics; that must be the problem.

For the more serious. I don’t know where to start. Maybe walking into my backyard on the way home from school. Hearing the usual “Mzungu, give me money,” from the neighbor-boy, and greeting my family in the yard. I eventually sat next to Rebecca, who told me her day had been sad. One of her college friends had just died of tetanus; she saw him only 2 weeks earlier, he talking about his future and how happy he was. She was telling me about tetanus, how people get vaccinated—but only after they get a wound that could have potential—and then the vaccination might last for mere months. Another reminder of how freaking good I have it. She told me how Africans live mainly by luck; you either live or you don’t. She asked me if I knew who Bono was—I’m thinking “Do I know Bono?!”—and then she quoted him, saying that “Africans lack emergency.” She said it is hard to convince them, even if someone dies right in front of them, that they need to check up on the wounds, etc. I can relate to that; it’s a pain to take vitamins. But here it matters—seeing the doctor or not seeing the doctor; it means another day.

Extending on Bono’s words, she said the road scene is similar (I already mentioned how dangerous travel/driving is here). Because much of the police “department” is corrupt, if a car hits a person, the police will bypass the person, not even checking their wellbeing, and try to catch up to the driver, threaten them, and get paid off to keep it silent. Neither do bystanders do anything to help the person, she said. If they hang around the scene, when the police return they will arrest someone beside the injured—“You are responsible.” I asked if there were ambulances. One per district, and she rarely sees it. When I asked her if people getting ran over—or “knocked”—was common, I already knew the answer. You should see the roads, how everyone drives. I thought my skirt was going to get caught in multiple spokes yesterday; and even walking in the grass, they’ll nearly push you off the road so they can stop and say Mzungu out the window.

To hear about medical care in Africa when you are not here—which was me last month—personally, I think it’s difficult to care or do anything about it. But after seeing the hospital—which I already talked about in detail—and realizing that getting even there is half the battle, yeah: Africa lacks emergency; and it hurts.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around her knees, leaned forward, and shook her head in disgust. “We are so stuck, just stuck here.” She told me this before, when she explained to me the educational systems in Africa (I can’t even touch on that; I’m still mulling it over, wishing it could be some other way). All I could say was sorry.

She broke up the depressing stuff to ask me more about my writing major, what I want to write about once I graduate, how they manage the classes—exams or what. After I answered, I asked her about electrical engineering, and how such classes are managed. She was talking about the things they invent for projects, and how that is all you really get to take with you once you leave university. Once you graduate, even resources are no more. “If you want to research, you cannot research. Our brains are being wasted. We just sit; we are stuck.” Essentially, the only libraries are in the universities—and these are only available to the students. (Dang! What we take for granted in America!)

I think this was the part where I tried to defend her, her country. The unbalance between her lack of opportunity and my endless supply, was already hovering over us, unsaid throughout many of our conversations. So I called it out.

I told her, opportunity or not, being stuck or not, Americans in general are not happy. I told her that wealth leaves the majority of the wealthy unsatisfied. I told her how self-centered the thinking of our country is. I told her, because of opportunity, because of technology, because of wealth, we think the world revolves around us, and essentially we need no one.

I mentioned that really, they were better off. When it all boils down to it, what’s going to matter in the end? I reminded her that Jesus slept on rocks—the Son of Man had no place to lay His head. In order to embrace life, to fully live, who even needs a house, let alone a mansion? Who needs a career? Sure, these things seem essential to survival; I’m not purposely being naïve. But what is Jesus going to ask us when we are done living? How many could you seat in your van? Or better yet, explain to me again, child, how you got your doctorate; I am so interested in hearing that story once more. Yeah right.

I told her about religion of the self running rampart in our country—essentially what I blogged about the other day: Africans being spiritual people, looking for a higher power, while so many of Americans worship themselves, and sometimes without even knowing it. And this is where it got incredibly good—if good is the right word.

(This is longer than I intended; apologies).

She mentioned a man from Brussels. I am geographically injured, so I have no idea where this is at. Somewhere in Europe, sure.

This man visited Uganda with some of her family members. This is what he told Rebecca:

“You Africans believe in God because that is all you have. You just want someone to come help you. Me, I don’t need God. I grew up with so many things—I am fine. You just hope there is more than this.” He is right, maybe, in the reasons. But of the two, his theology vs. Africa’s, well, guess who ends up winning in the end.

When Rebecca asked this Brussels man what he thought of Uganda, he squinted. Used the word “unsightly.” Another time he had complained to her, after he brought clothes for the people. Rebecca cracked up when she told me this:

“Danielle, so you know how when a person doesn’t have much, people think they cannot tell between what is good and what is bad. They give us old, ugly rags for clothes. He said, ‘I don’t understand you Africans. Who do you think you are?’ We may be the worst off, but we know what we want. We don’t need your clothies. No one is running around naked here, and if they are—they want to.” Rebecca always calls clothes “clothies,” and I love it. It was a hands-on example of why we shouldn’t donate hand-me-downs. These are people with taste, believe it or not. Our junk isn’t their treasure just because they have less.

She told me I was different from the Brussels man. “You, you. It takes a big, big heart to come here.” (But it sounded like “beeg beeg hot;” the accent is beautiful). “You come and live among us. For four months! They say, ‘Who wants to go live in Africa?’ and (claps hands) here you are!” I told her it wasn’t big hearts that drove us; it isn’t much sacrifice to come. I told her, “We think, or I think, ‘How could I not want to come?!’ You are so wonderful here, so loving, so different and amazing. It doesn’t take a big heart.”

She replied: “But you did not know what it is like here, and you came. You could not search the web. You could not search ‘the Surekenyas’ and see where we live, how we live and then decide. You could not get a list of what we eat and say no no no, I do not want that. But still you come. That is what says so much. Just coming.”

I still protested. Told her I was gaining more than I was sacrificing—that Brussels (that is how we then referred to the man) is a moron, and Uganda is not unsightly. It is wonderful, they are wonderful.

Rebecca: “But still. You must know you are different.”

This was a long conversation—but so rich; so I’m sorry, but there is still more. Feel free to stop, but I’m moving on.

We somehow—as if it’s hard to understand why—got on the subject of God. I’m not going to lie: talking with Rebecca about God is like sophomore year all over again, needing the sleep but staying up til four with Melissa, one of the wisest Christ-desiring gals around, to discuss this God of ours, and His amazing love and mysteries.

But we got on the subject of the difference between knowing and doing. (It was a trivial conversation that transferred to God). I told her my relationship with God has been a lot of that lately: me realizing I am growing distant from Him, but not knowing what to do about it, or not committing to do anything about it. I told her I think about it daily, run towards it daily, but still come up short in the “action” area. (Of course there isn’t a rule, a well-known formula on “How to Be where you want to be with God again.” Thank God.) I illustrated with my hands, pointing to myself for the Knowing, and holding my hand way out in front of me for the Doing. Knowing I need to get closer to God and actually Doing it. “I wish I could figure out the bridge.”

Rebecca reminded me of something I, of course, know so well, but forget to apply, to understand: “But we cannot build the bridge. We cannot do. God does.”

Of course I wasn’t thinking in terms of “works,” as in “good deeds.” But neither was she. We were talking about the conscious ways we pant for God, go after Him. Choosing to be focused on Him rather than on everything else that seems more enticing in a period of 24 hours. These were essentially Rebecca’s words:

“You know, there is a difference between leaving and surrendering. If someone drove a car into a house, and then walked away, they would be leaving the mess, and nothing would ever get better. But if the person drove into the house, got out of the car, and just stood there, waiting for someone who knew how to fix it, he would come, and everything would be fine. We are not supposed to struggle. We are not supposed to try and try to build our bridges. You are supposed to fold our arms and wait for Him to bring the supplies. He knows how to build the bridge. We do not.”
(I don't necessarily agree with the "not struggling" thing. Steinbeck's East of Eden taught me too much about the beauty of struggling between good and evil for me to forget so easily what I learned. But as she talked, I realized I really was trying to do it all myself, to fix and fill the gap that I had dug between me and God).

I mentioned how beautiful heaven’s logic is, in that in this world surrendering looks the same as “leaving it be.” But not according to God. People who don’t know God wouldn’t understand that surrendering, handing our lives and tries over into His hands, is actually active. In fact, it is the only form of “doing” we can do, successfully. Otherwise we’ll fail, fall short. Always.

“Waiting for Him to build the bridge. Danielle, this is trust.”

Whoa dang. Dang whoa. Take your pick. I know that Christ's blood, Omusaayi gwa, not only covers my sins, but also takes care of what I fail to do. "Falling short." But I too often forget that it is Christ Himself who bridges the two of us together. You'd think I would know this: for crying out loud, He was a carpenter.

I wish I could write how she sounded, what it looked like, in the dark, only seeing her teeth and one eyeball, from the light coming from the latrine and the moon.
The sights, the sounds of wisdom.
Every time I talk with Rebecca, I feel like God is elbowing my side. “This is why you are here. Listen.”

To accompany the aforesaid.

2008-01-30T04:52:00.002-08:00

this is my crib. My crib and Rebecca's suitcase.

jerk. enough said.

Number 7, Cheese.

2008-01-29T00:11:00.000-08:00

Meeting the many missionaries this past weekend revealed to me one thing (among others)...but one crucial thing: If I am serious about living in Africa one day, I must be willing to give up cheese. Talk about daggers through chests. Cheese is surely somewhere on my top ten list of priorities, and probably in many locations--such as, God #1, Everyone else # 2, Colby Jack # 3, Muenster # 4, sharp Cheddar # 5; I really wish I were joking. This is something I need to think long and hard about, the nearly inaccesability of cheese here in Africa. This is what makes me seriously consider Europe as a possible mission field.
I would have no trouble settling for Greece.

The upside, though, on the flipside of cheese, is: the family-man missionary we met, Mark, father of 4, said Africa was great for raising his children. He said it's a wonderland for them, for obvious reasons, as long as they keep the red mud and insects in moderation.
He also said he is respected a lot here, because of the number of kids he has. They told us that when an African finds out you're an only child, they say sorry. :) I think my 7-children plan will go over well here.
(Mom: the other missionary's wife, who just had a child, said that if she's ever in the states and pregnant, she will fly to Kampala to deliver the kid, because she was that crazy about the doctor. Who knew?)
I almost forgot. We visited one of the missionary's homes--the one I just mentioned about Kampala and delivery. Gorgeous, gorgeous home--and a great size. Beautiful yard, everything. What are the living expenses? 500 dollars a month, to rent. I can't believe this; crazy. What I meant to say, though, was: as you walked into their home, they had 4 clocks hanging, with the different time zones of their family members. It was the sweetest thing ever; I need to start buying clocks.

I forgot to mention the church service from this weekend. Words can't describe, really, so I'll keep it brief. There were so many "special music" slots. They love to sing--and dance! The kids were basically moon-walking, and with such rhythm. Jealousy right here.
The children performed two songs for us, really long songs--and they all had solos. So incredible.
Kyle, one of our guys, preached while a Ugandan man translated. It was such a sweet experience for us; I can't imagine how it was for him.

Two of the missions students here are engaged (they came that way; 2 weeks is quick). What is funny: Scott's family here told him they would be at the wedding. None of us knew what to think about that; Scott didn't know if they expected him to fly them in and all that jazz or what--so he just let it be. Last night they mentioned it again, so Scott said "I have to know if you're serious." They are. His African parents are planning on paying their way to the states, and staying with Scott's family (return the favor, right?), then leaving to visit other American friends once Scott and Betsy leave for their honeymoon. So hilarious, so wonderful.

Speaking of weddings, I get to attend one on Saturday. I didn't think I'd get the chance, for I am missing my sister's by a day. But weddings are constant here. Two other missions students have already been to one; they had to wear the traditional African dress. I'm a little scared about that. But pumped all the same.

I don't think I could ever complain about the bathroom situation here. Actually, "toilet." The bathroom is where you bathe; go figure (skating).
Hole or seat, doesn't matter: what is amazing is that the toilet paper rocks. As in, your main choices are pink or teal. You can't go wrong. White is boring in so many ways.

We watched Africa Cup of Nations last night--their massive "football" tournament. I couldn't believe I was in Africa, with the African commercials, and my African family. Because it all seems normal, similar to home. Aida got a kick out of imitating Ghana's victory dance; it was hilarious. I asked Huntington who he wanted to win. He told me Morocco are northern Africans, Arabs, and Ghana is in West Africa. So, obviously, he wanted Ghana to win. He laughed about this; but he laughs when he says anything and everything. Rebecca kept pointing out one of the players on Morocco's team, who apparently looked like a terrorist. The only word, strung in with her Luganda, that I could recognize was "Taliban."

Speaking of only one understandable word strung in with everything foreign to me, I was able to understand a conversation Huntington and Mom had last night, solely by nonverbal communication and one recognizable word. He came in holding pills. They talked back and forth, he pointed to his nose and his thigh, and I heard "boda-boda" in there somewhere. Boda-bodas, initially "border-borders" are motorbike taxis, not to be confused with motorcycles, which they call "picky-pickies." (Dad: change Leona's name to Picky-picky, please). Anyway, boda-bodas are ridiculously dangerous--and this is why the U.S. Embassy doesn't care if we Americans come in to Africa, sleep around, contract diseases, etc., as long as we don't ride the boda-bodas. Or so I'm told. What I gathered from Huntington's "mime": he had fallen off a boda-boda, hurt his nose and thigh, and that's what the pills were for. Afterwards, Mom translated. And, well, bingo.

Scott Hendricks (I'm sitting next to your sister right now), you wanted to know some of the characteristics of Katonda. :) I will email you more fully later (as I learn more), but one thing that's pretty sweet: the missionaries explained to us that the term "African atheist" is essentially an oxy-moron. That's not to say that everyone here knows Christ, but it says something about how receptive they are to all things spiritual. They are very spiritual people--which has a lot to do with their history with ancestral gods and spirits, witchcraft, etc. But on a good note: it isn't hard to convince them of Katonda, Yahweh, God. Ben, one of the missionaries, told us about a conversation he's had with many Africans. When they find out about the number of Americans who don't believe in God, they get so confused, and indignant. They find it so ignorant. "How could they not believe?!" He compared it to, if it's raining, saying, "It is not raining." Of course rain exists, and of course it is raining.
It makes sense, I suppose. Our country is so centered on the self, our ability and our scientific advances, etc. that allow us to provide for ourselves, to think so highly of ourselves. Here, Betsy's host family tells her, "If it doesn't rain, you don't get washed." Harsh. But really, they are dependent on Him, His presence and His provision are obvious to them, and God's existence is a no-brainer, ("E.T.C., E.T.C." as Professor Mukakanya would say).
I love how simple it all is. I wish we were more like them. They are absolutely right when they call our unbelief ignorant. God is as sure as fire, water: life, of course, wouldn't be possible without Him.

Maybe thunder is the workings of God's stomach.

2008-01-27T22:35:00.001-08:00

I've decided my favorite "nature" part of Africa is the thunder. There is no contest.
Friday night in Jinja, it rocked like no other. It felt like an earthquake, and woke everyone up. Becca asked the next morning if we had heard it; I bet her America heard it.
But then I went home, to Mukono, and sure enough, they heard it there. A full hour away.
Separate storms? I don't know. But so amazing.

As was/is the Nile. Gorgeous, massive, incredible. We boated it. The first monkeys I saw in Africa were on the shore. And none of us was eaten by any croc. A good, full day.

We toured Jinja, the city that holds the source of the Nile, Lake Victoria. One of the missionaries here led the tour; his brother, another missionary, died here a few years ago. They tell us the most un-safe thing about Uganda is the driving, the roads. I've never seen anything like it; vehicles, not pedestrians, have the right of way.
Not to scare anyone, but just to give facts, Uganda is the second-most-dangerous country, car accident-wise. Aritrea? is number one.
But Vincent, our driver, is incredible. Grade A, no doubt about it. He doesn't even need lanes to keep us safe.

For part of the tour, we stopped at a hospital. It's one of those things you just don't believe, even while you're there, right in the middle of it. A tuberculosis ward, a malaria ward. It was the first time we greeted someone and I heard a "I am not so fine." It was heart-wrenching and overwhelming; in no way were we prepared for that. What is more, we had 10 or so minutes to spend there. It was like tourism--us parading around these people, saying hello, and having to leave. So dumb; it was horrible.
They wait for weeks, months--depending on how much money they have--in a bed. Some never even seeing a doctor. The nurses aren't there to care for them, only to keep house. The families have to do the caring. There was essentially a family gathered around most of the beds, holding the hands of their sisters, brothers, daughters as they slept, or shook, or coughed.
I can't really comprehend that this is going on only a flight away from a country who has the best medical care around. I feel like I could never know what true suffering is.

I went to bed at 7 last night. Skipped tea time, family time, dinner, everything. Jinja was great, sure, but too great. They gave us pizza. Sure, my body had no trouble adjusting to the African food. I bet these past two weeks my intestines have been saying, "Finally. The junk is gone." But it was just a 2-week tease, before I went back to pizza (but, really, how could I have passed it up?) I was comparing the entire weekend, complete with shower head, with a reward challenge straight from Survivor. But I forgot what happens after the reward challenge. Everyone's stomachs attack them.
Because I think life's details are funny, I'll share that I puked in the bag that originally held my mosquito net. Rebecca was such a doll, washing it out for me, getting me a bucket, etc. And I felt like an idiot, passing the family again and again, returning to the latrine like crazy.
When I wasn't feeling dizzy, I was thinking about Mom and her cold washcloths and ginger-ale and toast--not to mention laying my head on her lap. But immediately after, I was wishing Mom, Mama Joyce, would get home; I was missing her, a mother's care. (She had spent the day in Luwero, a district or so away).
Sure enough, I was in the middle of making full use of the bucket Rebecca gave me, when I heard her come in, and everyone's greetings to her. She came into my room, wrapped her arms around me, and brought me some strong tea, no sugar.
They took incredible care of me. Right now, I feel better for the most part.
But I think it will be awhile, even once I am home, to eat pizza again.
And now, I think I'll pass on drinking from the bottle of Nile water that Caroline collected for us. Even if she does treat it for 4 hours with an expert kit.

I called my family from the shore of the Nile. (Telling Rebecca this later, she noticed I didn't mention Christine, and so she asked me if I talked to her. Then I dreamt that Christine came to Africa and met my whole family). But the night I talked to them, I dreamt that my family was pulling in the driveway, I was back from Africa. As much as I miss home at times, the dream was a depressing one. I was glad I woke up to a mosquito net; I am glad I am here for four months. Two weeks, the length of an average missions trip, wouldn't be enough. I think it's laughable now, and completely naieve, to think that I used to think 10 days was an adequate stretch, a trip to make one an expert on a new culture. Or better yet, long enough to make a difference.
And maybe it is. But right now that just doesn't make any sense.

I think I mentioned last time a little boy who asked me to be his sponsor. He met me again this morning, took my hand, and asked me to pay his school fees. I admit that these are the times I hate being white, a target labeled "rich." A). We're not allowed to give any money. B). Would it really even help if I did? But he held my hand the entire way to school, told me he wanted to know where I lived, what my phone number was, and what time I got out of school. He had also mentioned, "You were late this morning."
I am sure Raymond (and Marvin, his friend) are harmless. No older than 8. But I still couldn't bring myself to give him any of that information, for reasons I think are both obvious yet un-namable.

I forgot to mention in the last blog one of the poignant things Rebecca said to me, when she was talking about the English turning up their noses. She told me, "When the queen visited, she wore her white gloves the whole time. She wouldn't even touch us."
The queen visited Uganda in the past year or so; I can't tell you how excited they all seemed. Posters of her face are still up everywhere, and they named a street in her honor.
But she couldn't even take off her gloves.

Death to ethnocentrism.

2008-01-24T23:52:00.001-08:00

So, Mom, you're upset with the 10-year-old boys. Did I mention these rough-and-tumble kids were 3 girls, one boy? Seriously. Stop worrying about me walking home alone. First of all, I don't have much of a choice--and there are 11 other students doing the exact same thing. I don't know what you're picturing, but it's all in public. All homes are essentially outdoors--there will always be witnesses. And I think I've done enough assuring that I am safer here than I could be at home. I feel more uncomfortable walking next to Kicker's Bar on Lakeshore; no lie.

On my walk this morning, Gloria left her yard to meet me again. She asked me to remind her of my name; she has broken Uganda's winning streak of remembering names, but I forgive her because she's adorable. She asked if I would bring her sweets today. I told her I couldn't (we leave today for Jinja for the weekend), but would next time I pass. And so, her name is written on my hand; I need to go shopping.
Some promises are harder to keep. Some strides away from Gloria, I met two little boys. One of them stopped me, said he wanted to talk with me. He told me his father had died, and he asked me to be his sponsor. Such a commitment, which I'm not sure what it entails (besides going to his home, which he asked me to do), is too large. I don't even know.

Have I mentioned they say sorry a lot here? It is more a form of sympathy than apology. When you cough, they say sorry. If you drop something, they say sorry. (If you sneeze, they say nothing. I can't get out of the "God Bless You" habit, and they laugh every time). They use "thank you" in much the same way (it really is such a kind, beautiful culture in so many ways). They thank you for things not even related to them. For instance, you tell someone gyebale, or gyebale ko, when they are working hard (even if you don't know them and you pass them in the street, washing, or digging, or slashing the grass). Last night my friend Caroline's host-dad thanked her for having a curfew in America. Or they'll thank you for studying. No benefit to themselves. It's beautiful.

Beautiful, much like the past two nights' matoke. Two nights ago Aida made the most delicious batch of spinach I've ever had, and I drowned my matoke with it. Last night was an incredible eggplant sauce. Not only was I stomaching the matoke, I admit I wanted more.
I am enjoying eating hardboiled eggs. I always have, but here it seems more Cool Hand Luke-ish. No salt, no pepper, no symetrical slice down the middle. Whole and true.

My Luganda lessons hiked it up a notch last night. Rebecca was explaining verbs to me, and the different conjugations.
To laugh: okuseka
I am laughing: Nseka
Let us laugh/we are laughing: Tuseke.
He/she is laughing: aseka
So, much, fun.

Circumcision. That's not a word you write every day, in most cases. But I feel like I've already had 5 or 6 conversations about it. It might just be in the national anthem here.
For one, Rwanda just made a law or something, requiring all the Rwandan men to be circumcised, for the sake of combatting AIDS. They are beginning this venture with the children and military.
Also, there is a certain tribe or clan or something here that has a circumcision ritual. It is essentially the man's right of passage. (Maybe I don't know why I am sharing this info after all...oh well). There is a whole ritual, ceremony when the man is grown and ready. (I think it was Caroline or Kyle who recently saw the workings of the ceremony going on in Mukono the other day). The man, and a whole bunch of family and neighbors, run around dancing for a good long time (my mom gave me the impression they go door-to-door, and with instruments and jubilation). After awhile--that's a lot of dancing--the man can't feel much anyway. Then they circumcise him, in front of everyone. I don't know why I get such a kick out of this. Hah. Hah twice.
(I am in this room laughing out loud to myself as I write; my friend Melody just added to the story: for her African Traditional Religions class, she is required to go watch the ceremony. She just offered me an invitation. I think I'll pass).

The other night, Rebecca was picking my brain about what I thought of Africa. I was telling her my expectations, about what my friend J.E. said, having been here last summer. She asked me if he thought they were uncivilized and dirty; I felt so sick, again, of my culture and the countless reactions I got when I said I was going to Africa. The responses were much the same. I could count on one hand the people who thought it would be a great experience: my cousin Michael, my aunt Laurie, I won't keep going, but there weren't many. The majority would raise their eyebrows, flare nostrils, look disgusted and make jokes. Because, for some reason, we are convinced that America is the ultimate, everything else is primitive, unworthy. This makes me feel like I did when we flew over Sudan; flight attendant, I need a disposal bag, and quick. Honestly. It killed me to hear a girl, a wonderful, incredible, intelligent and WISE person assume, and assume correctly, that the Western world thinks of her and her people as not good enough. Please. She later told me, in a different conversation, why she wants to marry, specifically, a white American, as opposed to a white Englishman. She doesn't like the English. She has met too many of them, coming to America with her family who lives in London, who raise their eyebrows to her face, stick up their nose, and look at her as though she is dirty. If she only knew: Americans are much the same way; just not the ones she has met.

Can I just say that America is not the ultimate? It is more of the pretend version of life. (For the most part. Stereotyping isn't fair, I know). We think we need not only toilet seats to survive, but every cosmetic product imaginable, every paint shade and curtain style and brand name shoe, etc. I'm not saying we are horrible people for buying our corn instead of picking it, but why do we assume that these people who actually know how to survive, and know the purpose of life runs deeper than plumming and other luxuries, are primitive, lower than us?
I have only been here two weeks, and already I have met people whose company I am going to miss so much Saturday and half of Sunday when I travel to Jinja. I want to be with them all the time. They know how to love, how to live. They are some of the most Christ-like people I have ever met, and I have so much to learn from them.
When I mention I want to be a missionary, people ask where. Whenever I mention "possibly Africa," I am asked why in the world. "There are people in the states who need the help just as badly." Who says I want to go to Africa because they need my help? Maybe I need their help. Maybe we all do.
The thing is: we have so much to learn about God and about living that cannot be found in Cleveland. He is not only in America. He is in Ecuador, Egypt, Scotland.
In Uganda, His name is Katonda. It turns out He has characteristics I have never seen before. But they are prevalent in the people of Mukono, the people who have Katonda's name written all over them. And I'll tell you what, it sure beats a hot shower.

My sister gives me science lessons as we cook. Banana leaves are a good conduct (?) of heat.

2008-01-24T05:55:00.001-08:00

It’s currently storming, and the rain smells fantastic. I don’t know what it reminds me of, just like jackfruit—I had jackfruit from our backyard yesterday; it tastes like candy, but I can’t remember what kind.

Everything is so inexpensive here. As in, for lunch today, I had a chipote (fried tortilla-like bread), 2 samosas (mini fried triangles), and a banana smoothie, all for less than 2 dollars. We went out to eat a few days ago; my meal, again, less than 2 dollars, tip included. I could get used to this. Frugal living.

My banana the other day cost like 5 cents; but it’s just plain awkward to buy a banana. I’ve tried pawning it off on others: “Who wants to have an intercultural experience and go buy me a banana?” It doesn’t work so well.

This minority thing takes some getting used to; it is more difficult than I would’ve guessed. (The power just went out: sweet). Anyway, I swear these four ten-year-olds were ready to jump me yesterday. I’ve noticed, thus far, they are the only group of kids who make their body language and vocal tones match the fact that they don’t approve of me. The other “Hi Mzungu!s” have been friendly enough. But these certain kids on my street do it in a taunting fashion, making faces, feigned-nice voices. On my walk home yesterday, they weren’t in their yard as usual. They were carrying their water cans home. They circled me, much like the hyenas circle Simba, and boasted their names at me. Hands on hips, smirks. The little boy went behind me, and I was waiting for him to snatch my bag; but he only pulled my water bottle out from the side. I smiled, told them to have a nice day, and retrieved my water bottle.

I’m not afraid of 10-year-olds, really, but even if they would try something, I don’t think I could ever defend myself in such a situation. Who would hit or shove a preteen? I just couldn’t.

My New Testament professor also reminded me this morning that I was the only white person in the room. He was simply telling a metaphor, a Mzungu being his main character, and she being a ditzy woman worried about money. Rows ahead of me, people turned and stared, to see how the Mzungu was taking it. I was suddenly feeling what the few-and-far-between black students from my high school must’ve been feeling, when the teacher wants to know their opinion on Jim Crow, etc. It wasn’t marvelous.

My sister Rebecca and I sat outside last night for a good two hours; we even missed tea time. She was peeling matoke, and I was picking the bad rice from the good. We watched the stars and talked about marriage. That morning she had told me, “My problem is, I don’t like black men.” I took it for a jovial remark; but she explained last night. I listened, dumbfounded and depressed, as she explained African marriage to me. How the wife has the same rank as the child. How the man pursues her before marriage, loving her, wooing her, treating her like, yes, how Christ loves the church, but once they get home, door closed, everything changes. Physical abuse is more than common, she said. “It comes easy, like breathing,” she told me. The women won’t divorce because, here, it is basically taboo. Humiliating—and still the woman would be blamed, for not being a good wife, and leaving her husband one option: abuse. Rebecca told me this is why she wasn’t yet married, why she didn’t want to get married, unless she married a Christian American man. She said even the Christian men here put their manhood before the church, before Christ and His guidelines. The pastors speak of the well-behaved wife, their submission, but don’t touch on the rest of what Paul said. Men loving their wives as Christ loves the church. I told her that not all white men were angels; our culture has those guys too. But she assured me that this was the rule in Africa. Engrained in the culture. And she would rather be single.

As she talked, I was imagining and planning future ministry here for the first time. I have been listening, looking, for direction. I want to know if God has been placing Uganda on my heart for the sake of these four months alone, or if He wants me to come back. So I’ve been asking, waiting. So as Rebecca talked, I longed for African, Ugandan, Mukono-an? men to understand what marriage means. I imagined a small group, growing larger, of African men being mentored by a Christian man who wouldn’t step on their culture, but would lead and disciple these men into humility, regardless of what their culture tells them. I was imagining my missionary family in Uganda. That’s not to say God is telling me to return—but it was a good feeling.

On a lighter note, we kept watching the stars, and saw a plane. She told me she used to think the planes were travelling stars, stopping by all the other ones for a visit.

On an even lighter note, I’m going to share some of my friend Betsy’s experiences. Her homestay experience has been, well, interesting. Her family seems much different than everyone else’s. The poor girl. But: recently she’s been collecting some great stories. Such as, watching her goat give birth; sharing a couch with a rat yesterday, no one saying a word except, “Do you know what that is, Betsy?”; staring upwards last night at the top of her mosquito net, seeing the rat chill right above her, making its own hammock; waking up to three lizards in the same hammock. And the best of all: last night she returned from school, went into her room, and her host-sister (age 19) was busy throwing metal spoons on the ground and laughing hysterically. When Betsy asked what she was doing, she said her high school teacher had told her, “This is how Chinese people name their children.” She kept throwing the spoon, shouting Chinese-sounding words, and laughing. Amazing.

Aida roasted some g-nuts for us last night. And Dad, I thought of you—told them you eat peanuts every night. I recommend heating them, shells and all, over the stove. They were so warm, soft, fantastic. After the marriage conversation, Aida joined us with the g-nuts, and Rebecca asked me how many children I wanted. When it came to Aida’s turn, I found out she has a child already! A little boy named Ibrahim. I never knew. Aida lives with us; she is our housegirl. Now I’m wondering, desperately, sadly, if she has a family elsewhere, and this is merely her profession. I can’t imagine when she would ever see her son; maybe while I am at school.

I thought I was done, but Becca just reminded me of Community Worship (chapel) today. My goodness. The music, very African, the beautiful voices, the excitement: it was what I was imagining when I thought of African church (that’s not to say I’m not enjoying my more traditional, Anglican one). I think the two American girls in front of me were crying; you wouldn’t blame them.

Waking up to my alarm is useless. Really, I have no excuse. I get an average of 8 hours of sleep, which is double my norm at IWU. (This semester seems it will be a breeze. A breeze that smells like a mix of manure and palm trees). But this morning was another pathetic thread in my waking pattern: my watch goes off at 6:30. I shut it off. Wake up at 7:05 with the rooster.

An agricultural sort of snooze; I think I’ll bring one back with me.

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

2008-01-23T01:35:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What part of loose stool don't you understand?

2008-01-22T04:50:00.000-08:00

Perhaps writing daily is a bit extensive. However, it is completely necessary when you spend your afternoon going to the market, getting lost, finding yourself in a completely different town with no cell phone and two friends, one of whom had taken a laxative; suddenly phrases such as, “We’re lost? Are you crapping me?” become more than ironic.

I bought a banana and a tomato in town. My bagged lunch for tomorrow; finally, variety.

I don’t think we have to be conservative as we set out to be. The only pants I have here are jeans I wore on the plane. My sister asked me yesterday if I only brought skirts, and another sister wears jeans. As I said yesterday, my dress was shorter than usual yesterday: it reached just below my knee caps. “You have nice legs,” my mom told me. “Your skirts are normally so long, I can’t see them.” Hah.

I’ve learned that raised eyebrows essentially translate to a headnod. Accompanied by a grunt. It came across as rude to me at first, and I kept repeating my questions, waiting for a nod or an answer. But it’s all in the eyebrows.

Another difference: Ugandans are so friendly that their language doesn’t include a standard, bland greeting, as in “Hello” or “Hi.” So when you say hello, they say “I am fine, how are you?” It doesn’t fail. What a beautiful culture, needing to care and ask how someone is; such is the purpose of their greeting.

Francis’ son Martin kneeled to me yesterday. He circled the entire room that way, kneeling and giving you his hand. I suppose it is practice; weddings, proposals, etc. aren’t difficult to come by here.

Rebecca promised me a testimony about singing and praise. Sure enough, I got one. I asked her about it after dinner. After washing up, we sat in our room for a good hour; I was in awe of the conversation the entire time. I won’t put down the details, but she was describing me her college years and how incredibly close she had gotten to the Holy Spirit. She started her relationship with the Holy Spirit by simply making herself aware of His presence: greeting Him in the morning, setting Him a plate at lunch, etc. The rest of her stories were incredible—so challenging. She talked about the feeling you have when you know you’re not the only one in the room. She compared it to a blindman—sure, he can’t see when a person has left the room, but he can sense it. Rebecca gushed about how she felt Him always with her. I love the way she communicates too—she is so animated: putting her head in her hands and squealing, saying how much she misses Him, how she doesn’t know what she did wrong to make Him leave. It was breaking my heart. I started telling her about something C.S. Lewis had said in Screwtape Letters, of course giving the disclaimer that Lewis isn’t God, Screwtape isn’t Scripture. But Lewis writes from the perspective of one demon to another—the more experienced one giving lessons to the newby, giving him tips on how to trip a Christian up, get him distracted from God. I told her that at one point, the young/inexperienced demon is so glad, so proud of himself, because the Christian seems to be in a slump: he can’t sense God’s presence anymore. He isn’t as “on fire,” for God or as Rebecca put it, “hot”, as he once was. The demon thinks he is making progress, yet the older demon laughs at him; the paraphrase is something like “You fool! There is nothing more dangerous to us than when a Christian no longer feels God’s presence, yet follows Him anyway. God created His humans with seasons, just as He did the earth. You idiot, this is natural for him to go through a slump. The peak is just around the corner. So don’t you give up; you haven’t won yet. You are losing.” The look on Rebecca’s face was incredible; she sighed and shrieked. “So he’s coming back!” I can’t explain the overwhelming community, communion, that was going on in that room. God was stretching me, reminding me of the slump I too am in, and reminding me that it takes effort to know Him. He reminded me that I rarely give the Holy Spirit the attention He deserves; He is the part of the Trinity I most forget about. And at the same time He was showing Rebecca that just because we can’t feel God for a time, doesn’t mean we’re doing anything wrong. It is natural; and it is necessary for growth, to run after something by faith and not feeling. I was so happy with Him, so proud of Him, for mutually growing us both. Two different cultures, a bunkbed apart.

Needless to say, I told the Holy Spirit Good Morning today; I clenched my hand on the way to school, as if He were holding it; and I stared at the empty chair in front of me in History class, and smiled.

I’m not crazy. I’m just learning from a sister’s story.

A hippo is naked.

2008-01-21T06:45:00.000-08:00

Twice in one day. I realized throughout History class that I had forgotten so much. Such as:

During my newstime with Huntington and Rebecca, sometime before they asked me if there was a singular form of "news," a man came on the news with the name "Okello Okello." I instantly thought of one of Charlie's friends, Jacob Jacobs. We all laughed, especially Rebecca. She thought it was horrible: "At least call him Okello squared," she said.

I haven't had any sign of sickness yet, though I feel like it's waiting to pounce, like it has a quota to meet. It wouldn't be fair if I transferred conditions so quickly and so easily. I feel I should get sick, for the sake of some sort of equilibrium. Yet I feel fine.

I'm finding it is so hard to be myself. My family is a completely happy one, joking all the time. But still: it is difficult for me to be my ridiculous self. Jenny, here is where I miss you so much. :) Perhaps you're the only one I can fully be myself around, pretending we are Spanish horsemen as we drive to and from school. But if I pulled out fake reigns at the dinner table, I'm not sure they would laugh. No, they would laugh. But later they would discuss the crazy American who would hopefully never return.
Outside of the home, it is still hard. Being somewhere where I don't know many. My refuge is Sharon and a certain Becca, as immature as I am.

My history professor wanted to know today if our migits--he called them maggots--really existed, or if they were just for TV. He wanted to know if we had anything like Pygmies.

Rebecca doesn't know the day she was born, which I find sad. She has chosen one for the sake of documents, and she celebrates it on a different day--she adopted the birthday of an American girl they hosted in the past.

I find a lot, even in my own family, many children with different mothers. Men really do keep more than one wife. It is interesting to not only see it on the American side, but to hear Rebecca say, "I don't like how my culture thinks." I can't imagine a world where it's normal and accepted to share your husband, and yet I'm living in one right now.

I thought I would die from smoke inhalation the other day. The outdoor kitchen is an enclosed room, and this is where we build the fires. Dang, it was a scene from a firefighting movie. Rebecca bent down to avoid the smoke. I followed suit, but still couldn't breathe in any way. I don't think I like the fireroom very much.

I forgot to mention that yesterday John and my sisters were discussing 24 and Ally McBiel. Something other than Spanish soaps!

Rebecca reads transformers for a job. After church we went to the market, and I saw her always looking at the sky. She was looking at the wires. She told me that is how she knows her way around: the wires are her landmarks. She tried explaining different volts and things to me. So smart.

My mom was explaining the concept of clans to me Friday. Baganda, a certain region/people group where I am at, has its own clans. You can't marry from your clan, and your clans are very tight bonds. They are all named after animals, yet her clan is an African animal that looks like a lemur? and I don't know the name. She said I need a clan and a name; I will most likely be in the monkey clan, she said, because her daughters were, and I will essentially adopt their place in the family. Monkey may have been my last choice, but hey: I'm glad I get a clan.

I find myself day-dreaming of ho-hos.

On Knees and Kneeling.

2008-01-20T23:13:00.001-08:00

My phonetic spelling gets the best of me. I ridiculously wrote "quagala" down as love in my notebook and to...everyone. It's kwagala. I saw it in a hymn yesterday and felt completely dumb for thinking qu- would be common here. Oh no. But double j's and double d's and gye-, this is the norm.

The hymns are helping a lot as I learn the language. I have only been here a week, and I feel I know so much—well, not so much, but a good deal. I like to think of four months, and how much I will know. Hopefully enough to return some day and find my way home, so Christine can come with and meet my family. (I keep finding your hidden notes, Chris: thanks). J

Mom, you asked about starches. Every meal is essentially matoke, tasteless bananas smooshed and cooked, and rice. I dreamt about the food the other night. That my mom, my biological Ohio mom, met Aida, who cooks, and asked her about my nutrition. I also dreamt about a certain taco dip my aunt Sharon makes. But then I wake up to another day of fish I need to de-bone and de-spine myself, scraping the fin aside to the corner of my plate.

We had some noodles last night, and I felt like I was in Heaven. But then we had cake, made by my sister Rose who makes cakes commercially, and I realized Heaven is as high as you can go, so the noodle-Heaven must’ve been a farce. I have never had such excellent cake. She said there was cinnamon and nutmeg in it…and the icing was so thick and amazing. I wish this were the staple; matoke can take a hike.

I helped Aida peel/slice the matoke the other night. It was essentially a laughing session at myself. The sap stained my hands brown, and Rebecca pointed out that I was her color now. I told her I should cover myself in matoke before I walk to school, then the kids won’t call me Mzungu. She said they still would.

The power just went out; this is becoming the norm.

I’ve been able to talk more with Huntington. This is my 30-something, I think-year-old brother. The hardest Ugandan, Bagandan, to understand, if you ask me. But Friday night we watched the news together with Rebecca, and conversation was more steady. A goateed policeman came on the TV and Rebecca said he looks like a thief. Huntington explained to me she said this because of the goatee. Then he told me about a universal contest that was held recently, the world in search of the best beard. He told me a man from Spain won, and a man from Liverpool took second. He got such a kick out of this. Later we did dishes together. It was more of him teaching me the African way of doing it, but I think he assumed I didn’t know how to do dishes at all: “At home, do you just put them in the sink?” It was funny.

Sometime before the news, we were watching music videos—as in Snoop Dogg. Mom walked by and said matter-of-factly, “He dances like a woman,” and well, I lost it.

I am not collecting mosquito bites, as I would have guessed, but rather canker sores. In class the other day, one of our leaders was listing off side effects to certain malaria meds. Doxy-something gives you nausea and crazy dreams, and I’m thinking, “Fools. Why would you take Doxy?” Then he said Malarone, mine, gives you mouth sores. Revelation.

All of Saturday I essentially spent at church. My sister Sara was confirmed in the morning, and from 4-8 we listened/sang along with Christmas carols. Yes, Christmas carols. People are still greeting me with Happy New Year. I suppose only us Americans are in a hurry to wave goodbye to the holidays, which for so long, I thought they were calling “Holy Day.” Until I asked what Holy Day was, and they laughed. During the confirmation, the row in front of me was filled with children—one of them being very attentive to me. She turned around to pet my face and my hair during prayer time. “Child, we are praying!” my mom said.

It was dark walking home from the Christmas carols. Though it was a nice view and the lit-up hills looked like a scene from Aladdin, I was scared to death. There are no street lights, so I feel less safe. Possibly because the cars and boda-bodas drive nearly over your toes, there being no sidewalks or lanes and barely any good roads.

My mom translates the message for me, and tells me what passage we’re reading from, so I can follow along in English. Because I need to be intent on hearing her, and she is sitting next to me, I’ve noticed one of the most incredible things thus far. She has blue eyes. Her pupils are big and dark, but the outer rim, the color part, most definitely blue. Dark blue. I can’t comprehend it; but it makes it difficult to pay attention to what she’s saying.

At her birthday party yesterday, the family was great. Kids everywhere, and my brothers and sisters whom I feel should be my aunts and uncles. Marianne reminds me a whole lot of my Aunt Laurie. They just look so similar, just different colors. She is getting married soon; my mom told me I might be here for the wedding.

It was awkward at first, not really knowing anyone, and the people I do know, only knowing them for a week. But my sister Josephine’s husband John befriended me and asked a lot about Cleveland. He talked about when he was in the states, and asked me about Writing and what my family thought of me coming here. It is interesting and ironic explaining to someone that Americans think it is so dangerous here, and how laughable it really is. I feel much safer here, really. I explained to him how I can stop here and ask two men for directions, but I wouldn't think of it at home. America, I'm noticing, is much more dangerous. The heart and mentality of the people is just so different here, but correct, in order, the way it should be: humble and selfless. (I'm not pointing fingers; I too am American).
John took pictures of everyone, saying, “This will go on Facebook.” If that wasn’t surprising enough, my nephew? I guess, Daniel, has his own cellphone. My family is one of the more Western ones, I’m gathering. Complete with leather couch.

Speaking of Daniel, a woman named Ruth who I met yesterday at church, asked me to repeat my name about 4 times. She kept giving me a confused, almost disgusted, sort of look. “Like in the Bible?” I told her yes, only the girl version, and then I feared she thought I might be saying “girl virgin.” Awkward. Anyway, Daniel is pronounced as Danielle here anyway, which makes everything confusing, and might possibly make them think my parents were very confused.

The children are so respectful and obedient here. Everyone respects their elders a great deal, children or not. As in, the 30-year-olds entering the house yesterday, kneeled when greeting my mom. This happens a lot as we walk to church or school together. If she greets a child or vice versa, the child kneels where he’s at.

Walking to school today was awkward, before Sharon and Caroline’s dad, the Reverend, picked me up in his car (Caroline tore her ACL). My dress goes to my knees, but borderline: just to my knees. Though I was completely modest by America’s standards, I kept pulling it down to cover more of my legs. The looks I got were reasonable to their culture. Dana, one of the interns here, said someone came into her house on a Saturday and told her to cover her knees; she wasn’t very happy. On the contrary, from the waist up, that sort of modesty, doesn’t really matter here. One of the guys here said dinnertime was very awkward for him recently, sitting next to his mom with half of her upperhalf exposed. That’s as nicely as I can put it. If she would have been showing her thighs, though, oh my goodness. Now that would have been unacceptable.

Before I left for school this morning, Rebecca and I had a long conversation about singing voices. She couldn’t understand how I would say my voice is bad, horrible. “Horrible is a very strong word,” she said, laughing. I told her she has never heard me sing, and that horrible is the perfect word. She went on to explain that we can have different color and different hair for certain purposes of God (“my skin black so I can survive the sun, and your skin white so you can survive…I don’t know, so you can survive something. And you have nice, full hair to keep you warm, but it would be too hot for me.”) Then she said that voice is one of the constants, something God gives to all of us so we can praise Him. She told me my voice is unique, no one else has it, and that’s why it is good, and that is why the world will stop to listen to it. She told me that before Satan got kicked out of Heaven, he was the best singing angel (I’ll have to read up on this—there is so much I forget), and it was his boasting that got him in trouble. “He still thinks he’s the best singer, and he goes about boasting. That’s why we all need to sing and show him he is not the best. When we praise, God joins us.” It was a wonderful conversation. She told me she had a specific testimony about it she would tell me when I get home from school. While at times I dread returning to a matoke meal, I never dread returning to my family. And today I have a testimony to look forward to. Amazing.

Lookee, lookee.

2008-01-18T00:48:00.000-08:00

An average walk to class.

I told you it looked like French dressing.

Bigger in Africa.

2008-01-18T00:28:00.000-08:00

I don't remember if I've said this yet or not, so sorry if I have (you may skip to the next paragraph, in that case, or in any case, a suitcase even). Anyway, everything is so much bigger and majestic here. The clouds are so incredibly massive, as is the sky. And I wish pictures would do it justice, or even film. All I can say is: "You must go to Africa and see the sky." I have no idea why it's like this, and it's not just my imagination. This observation has been confirmed by many. Like the thunderstorm last night. Torr-en-tial. The rain is a million times harder, the thunder that much louder....yes, I feel I have said this before. Maybe it is worth saying twice.

Have I mentioned we don't eat until 10? Mom, I wanted you to know that, a sort of dare to hold dinner off til eleven, see what happens. (Yes, I've said this too).

New things:

I feel like I will have to pee for the rest of my life. A lovely first sentence I’m sure you appreciate. I think it’s the tea. Tea time like crazy, being a former British colony and all.

My classes are great. Yesterday, in African Literature, we all had to stand in front of the room and introduce ourselves and our experience with Literature. Our Ugandan professor clapped, and excitedly, after each person, yelling, “You are most welcome!” I am thankful to have a literature class, though I miss Dr. Brown and my writing classes already. Besides, Patrick Mukakanya is a whole lot harder to say than Mary Brown. I really might regress to third grade, call him Dr. M.

We didn’t have fish; this is tonight. Last night, my mom made my plate, perhaps noticing how little my portions usually are. “You must get strong,” she said. Huntington then flexed his muscles and laughed, “Strong like an African.” And as I ate, I kept picturing the carbs expand in my intestines; and I am normally not worried about this.

Sunday is my host mom’s birthday. She said I will get to meet the whole family that day, because “my children want to celebrate their mother getting old.” I’m excited, and look forward to seeing how they celebrate birthdays. Maybe with maize. I had corn on the cob last night, which they called maize, and I ate it without butter and salt (though they offered the American her choice). It was excellent.

Church is also Sunday; Sharon’s host dad is third in command, a reverend, at my church. It will be fun to share this experience together.

I am astonished with how happy the Ugandans are when they wake up. I am never a grumpy morning person, but being an American, I thought I was in the minority. Not here. Susan, who I met last night, and who slept above me, smiled over the top of the bunk bed this morning and said, “Good morning, how are you?” with such joy. And Susan is just one example. [When I met Susan last night, we shook hands and didn’t let go for about 5 minutes. This takes getting used to, but I enjoyed the friendliness. It could’ve been awkward, but they don’t make it awkward. She just smiled and kept asking me, “How is your life?”]

When they say how are you? it isn’t like a question, I noticed. It is a sing-song statement, which makes sense that Oliotya? which essentially means how are you (when you’re speaking to children, informally) doesn’t sound like a question either. The rhythm, the song, in their voices is beautiful. I hope I take it home with me.

That's what I'm talking about.

2008-01-17T07:05:00.000-08:00

Where in the world should I start. Probably right above the equator; that would seem appropriate. I will try to make a quick catch-up attempt.

The flight made me want to slap myself for ever wanting to be a missionary. Long drives are bad enough, and when there’s no Journey or Johnny Cash to strum the steering wheel to, well, I end up puking somewhere in Sudan. I kept thinking about the two words: four months, and wondering what the heck I got myself into.

But then I walked down the plane steps onto Entebbe airport, and dang: I remembered why I was on the plane in the first place. Right away Africa, and night Africa, had a distinct smell. Distinct can be synonymous with beautiful.

We stayed in a convent the first night; that’s what I’m talking about. Mosquito nets are great; I am the 8-year-old who loved sleeping in forts. And this fort is not only see-through, but keeps me padded against malaria. My host-sister Rebecca, 26, pointed above my head the first day to show me the mosquitos. “Have you ever seen one?” When I told her that I have not only seen one, but seen many, and been bitten many times, her mouth literally dropped, and she put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my. This is news,” she said.

I live with the Surekenyas. We live in a village called upper Nabuti. My mother is Joyce, my sisters Rebecca and Sara, my “workgirl?” (that is how I was introduced to her) Aida, a cousin Irene, brothers Huntington and Martin. Frances is the milkman and yesterday I met his toddler, another Martin. The goat doesn’t have a name, and neither does the week-old calf. But my cow’s name is Quagala, which means love. So, Katonda quagala means “God is love.” Katonda is the only word I recognize when we read from the Luganda Bible as a family each night, and as we sang Luganda hymns around the dinner table. This part of the night is my favorite. Our discussions are so intellectual and challenging, straight from something like a Dave Smith Bible class. They know the Bible so well.

I get home from school around 7, which is my curfew. The walk is about 25 minutes, though I wish it were longer. The trend for us American students is to gain at least 10 pounds from all the starch. So I admit, I went to bed hungry last night, for I am carefully watching my portions. I will train myself to eat less. The food is alright, though. Beans and rice and matoke (oh goodness…fried bananas…tasteless, no thank you) are the staple foods. But we don’t eat staples, believe it or not. My family has great sauce, meaty—but bony—sauce that I drench everything in, and then I can get over the blandness. The way they cook is incredible; I helped Rebecca last night. To capture enough steam, they cook their stuff in banana leaves.

At 7, we have tea (it’s amazing—and usually Quagala supplies our milk). They drink tea about 3 times a day, I think. With tea we sometimes snack, like groundnuts. After tea—and much Luganda talk (I am learning; they love to teach me)—we have prayer/devotion time. Then we watch TV; they just roll it to the kitchen table and usually watch while we eat. Mainly Spanish soap operas. One of the soap operas has a man named Francisco. All 3 episodes I saw focused on him luring a girl Mackie. So shamelessly, though—as in, his only compliment for her was “You are so beautiful,” or “You are so beautiful,” or “You are so beautiful, so you must sleep with me.” I finally said, “Francisco just says the same thing over and over,” and the whole family laughed. Huntington said, “Look, she knows Luganda!” Because, right before me, like 3 seconds before, Rebecca had said something in Luganda, and apparently, I had repeated her, but in English, and had no idea. It was great.

We don’t eat until around 10 at night. This is the norm. Dinner is when food is ready, period.

Yes, the bathroom is in the backyard (but who can complain to seeing the African sun rise over the hills on your walk to pee?), and yes they are essentially two stalls. What are in the stalls? A whole in the cement. Not too bad, but your aim must be good, and you are sure to increase your leg muscle strength. Positives, I suppose.

I wash in a basin. A green bowl, really—and it’s much easier than I thought it would be. I don’t miss showering—until I will need to shave.

I wake up to roosters and fall asleep to reggae or some sort of music or race going on outside. They stay up late here.

The dirt is red and beautiful—it smells wonderful, and everything is so colorful! And when it rains (essentially, daily, despite it is dry season), the roads turn to rivers of French dressing. Seriously.

The people are so friendly, so hospitable. I can’t say enough how much at home I feel with my family. I return to hugs and Rebecca holds my hands (here, men and men hold hands and women and women. Totally normal) and asks about my day. I couldn’t feel this welcome as a guest in America, that’s for sure.

I got lost walking back to school on the first day, even though my mom walked me to school and I wrote down directions. I guess I forgot that my directional sense is just as bad in a different hemisphere—I still need to make note of landmarks. Some people watched in amusement, and I said, “You can tell I’m lost, can’t you?” but kept walking, because they seemed pleased with this white girl, mzungu, being clueless. So I found someone friendly (and really, this is the norm), and these were two young men, Peterson and Mosa. I gave them the name of my village and my family members, and luckily Mosa was my neighbor and Peterson the grandson of my mom (but do I believe this? I don’t know. Here, extended family is immediate. Rebecca is really my mom’s niece, but she calls her Mommy and lives with her—this is the norm). When I want to figure out who is who, I have to ask, “Biological?” and usually they laugh and say no. Anyway, Mosa and Peterson showed me the way home; I was quite far away. Neither of them offered me marriage, thankfully. The conversation was wonderful. It was Steven, a student, who asked me the next day, “Are you married?” and when I said no, “Then why must you return home?” When I told him I had family there, he said, “Yes, but you need another family too. And maybe a family in Uganda.” Hah. I just shook his hand. Steven wasn’t my type; too forward.

I showed my family the pictures I brought. They gawked at frozen Niagara Falls, and Rebecca said we were the cutest family she’s ever seen. But the picture of Charlie I showed her has him drinking out of the dog bowl, so I am sure she was just being nice. When I walk into our room dressed in the morning, she says “Smart.” Which means nicely dressed, classy. I love the way she says it, how they say everything, really.

Campus is freaking beautiful. Classes are essentially outside, everything is so open. My missions class is even in a hut. :) It is so hilly here, so you can see the full horizon (everything here seems so much more wide and majestic) and hills upon hills filled with colorful buildings and trees. And that is just the view from the cafeteria. Yesterday at the cafeteria, I was taking my plate to the return bins and these two little boys came running up to me and my friend Betsy. They smiled wide and took our plates, then poured our remaining food in the sacks they were carrying. Then they helped themselves to the rest of the food in the bins. I didn’t know how to feel…I was grateful I had food left over for them, but then ashamed that I had to feel grateful for such a thing. There was no shame involved; that’s just how they got their food. They must target us mzungus, for we can never finish our plates with how much they give us.

On my walk home last night, little kids chanted and clapped, “Mzungu! Mzungu! Mzungu!” as I passed. It was more awkward than amazing—weird, being the minority. We are told we all look the same. Sounds about right.

There is so much to catch up on, so many wonderful experiences so far, I don’t know what to say. Except, I never thought I would be a foreign exchange student. The only white kid in my New Testament out of 80 some students. The professor kept saying “pooz pooz” until I realized he was saying “Gospels.” I was so confused when we had to break up into certain groups, and neither did I have a book. I finally found the right group and they all kept turning around to look and me at smile, but in a making fun sort of way, I felt. Until Suzann started asking me questions, to see if I was in the right place. After class she and her friends (Ivan, Frederick, Vicky, Franca, Eunice, etc.) took me to the place where I could get my books, and talked to the man in charge for me, and explained my situation. Suzann even went to the front of the line for me. So hospitable. They constantly say, “You are most welcome!” and carry conversations as if they’ve known you for years. I met a woman on campus, who says she is the grandmother of the campus or Mukono (the town) or something, named Robina. I met her very casually. I didn’t expect her to remember my name. Yet she does. Just like, when I arrived at my home the first day, Rebecca pulled out photos the last host student had brought from Boston. Rebecca pointed to all of her family members and told me how they were related to their host sister. They are intentional, though it comes naturally I think, to genuinely care about people.

Last night Rebecca and I stayed outside to wash my shoes (clean shoes and feet are so important here, just like dressing nicely). It was dark, the stars ridiculously huge, and Rebecca described—and acted out—a dream she had. I told her (I’m interrupting to say Robina just walked in the room I am in, and she remembered my name)…so I told Rebecca a verse in Isaiah that her dream reminded me of. She told me God often speaks to her in her dreams, but this dream had stumped her. When I mentioned the passage, it aligned with what she had prayed for before she went to bed. How amazing that God crosses cultures as He does, to bring unity in His family. So amazing.

“God is amazing” is what my mom said at breakfast (bananas are so much sweeter here, and egg yolk much whiter) the night after it rained, hard. We need rain, or else it is a far walk to the wells. We have a massive, yes MASSIVE tin water tank/tower in the backyard, and it went from empty to full in a few hours. Rebecca told me last night her reasons for loving rain: number one being it reminds her of God’s unconditional love, for rain falls on both the good and the bad. This is more profound than my and Rebecca’s first conversation. We were watching Smallville and I explained to her Kryptonite and some things from original superman, including Christopher Reeve and his unfortunate horsebackriding. But I love and value our conversations. They are always smiling, always laughing, and even when it’s in Luganda and I don’t know what they’re saying, it is hard not to laugh with them.

As long as this stay here is—and trust me, I am constantly reminded and sometimes overwhelmed with such long months—I know already why I am here. And it can’t really be put into words. Other than, quagala is abundant here. Life is abundant. And children actually smile when you wave or even look at them. When Peterson asked me on our walk home what I thought of Uganda and when I gushed about its greatness and my longing of coming for so long, he said, “That is just like us, wanting so bad to come to America.” I wish I would’ve asked him why. I might’ve even said, “Why in the hell would you ever want a thing like that?” Because, really, if it weren’t for loved ones back home, I could stand the basin and the latrine—the cement hole—and give up returning. Maybe Steven’s marriage offer is still up for grabs. I will look for him on campus tomorrow. (On second thought, we are having fish tonight. And so far other students who have been given fish…well, not only is there no tartar sauce and no breading, but let’s just have gills and all, why don’t we? Don’t even bother removing the head. I like to make eye contact with my meal. Yikes).

Until next time.

Some Luganda phrases:

Olyotya? (How are you?)

Bulungi (I am fine).

I wonder what their word is for “more than fine. Much much much more than fine.”

P.S. Mom, don’t worry. I was joking about Steven. I will be sure to refuse, even with dowry.

I might not be able to write very often....

Missing jeans already...hello skirts and adDRESSes.

2008-01-09T22:11:00.000-08:00

I've been asked about my address there. Turns out, I've had one all along. And didn't even know it.
Here it is:

Danielle Steadman, Uganda Studies Programme
Uganda Christian University
P.O. Box 4
Mukono, UGANDA

(Yep. That's how we cross the ocean, Mr. Postman).

Two days to go, and words can't describe my excitement.
Thank you, Jesus.

Uganda, November

2007-11-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

Go through the motions, Adam. Act out being alive, like a play. And after awhile, a long while, it will be true.
--John Steinbeck, East of Eden

A fire once red and vast. Dwindling, whispering, blue now. Colder than I thought it could be, would be. Born red, it would die red, I thought. Falter was never a word it knew. Unchanging, constant, alive, is what it knew.

It’s faltering now. I’m holding a match in one hand, a gas bottle in the other. I’m standing here, watching it. A pathetic light, barely any warmth. I’m tempted to reach in, to wind my fingers around with the smoke; they can’t be real flames. They can’t.

Should I add to it, will I add to it? Should I stir it, breathe into it, bring it back? Or do I stand here, watching, waiting for it to rise on its own?
My breathing is fast, “all worked up” is what they call it. I’m sure my eyes are darting—a bit like what I want to do. Dart, away from this, toward something else, a stronger, brighter, hungrier flame.

This fire is nothing. What I am seeing, feeling, as the orange shines against my skin, as the smell sinks into my clothes, is nothing.
I want it to be everything, like it was before. High and red. The logs used to crackle and move, they were so uncomfortable. But now it’s nothing.

I know it’s everything. Must be everything. Was everything yesterday, must be everything today. Will be everything tomorrow, whether I can see it and feel it or not. I’ll keep standing here, keep watching. I will not walk away. I’ll wait for the flame to come back. It will come back, and I will be here when it does. I will not falter, and it will come back.

Uganda, baby.

2007-09-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

Four months to go!