Todd shaved his beard.

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

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

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

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

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

What I learned this weekend:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katelyn, this sky is for you.

What a walk from a luncheon will do to you.

After 36 days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After 36 days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sepia: Because this is better than writing a paper.

Rainy. season.
Good. Friday.









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













Surely you know what this is.

Where Gambling is Illegal.

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
















Me and Becca. The famous Becca.









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














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

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

It Don't Beat the Way it used to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what I wanted to say about Friday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry I just stole an hour of your life.