Recently, I was reading through The Little Woman, the autobiographical account of Gladys Aylward. It’s a fascinating little book of quite a fascinating little lady (literally; never shared her height, but her shoe size was a whopping three) who packed up her British belongings and took the rather spotty Trans-Siberian railroad and a Japanese boat through varying degrees of danger and fearfulness to China. She was in the midst of the Japanese fighting and final Communist takeover, losing her home in the first bombing, and walking with the orphan children she cared for hundreds and hundreds of miles to safety.
Now, obviously, I was quite impressed by all this. I have read few more thrilling accounts of Christians who have been privileged to serve our God in areas whose tourist boasts could not include “safety.” Gladys even refers to herself as a spy at one point - a title I am more than a little envious of. But I read one simple little sentence, phrase rather, that simply stopped me up short, blinking and momentarily stunned.
To make a long chapter as abbreviated as possible, Gladys had just traveled ten days through grueling terrain to preach. She didn’t know exactly whom she was to preach to, only that she was to share the gospel of Christ. A strange man, a Tibetan lama (priest, not mammal) to be exact, came across her and her companion in a rather remote part of the country and invited them to his temple where no less than 500 priests were waiting to be told that Jesus loved them. In sharing the story of the reason behind the priests’ patient wait (which had actually begun five years previous), the head lama makes this fascinating statement: (I’ll share it in the context of the paragraph)
“Eagerly they hurried back to the lamasery and we read the accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. We believed all that it contained, though there was much we could not understand. But one verse seemed of special importance. Christ had said, ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel,’ so obviously one day someone would come to tell us more about this wonderful God. All we had to do was to wait and, when God sent a messenger, to be ready to receive him. For another three years we waited. Then two lamas, out on the hillside gathering sticks, heard someone singing. ‘Those are the messengers we are waiting for,’ they said. ‘Only people who know God will sing.’ ”
Did you catch that. Christ had said, ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel,’ so obviously one day someone would come to tell us more about this wonderful God. Obviously.
If those who have not heard - if those who are waiting to hear - can have a hope, more than a hope, an implicit faith in the power of God and the obedience of His disciples to execute the Great Commission to “GO” and “PREACH” - how dare we hesitate.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Oh, What Wonders These Hills Have Seen!
Stop for a moment out on the rocky, rolling land not so many miles from the great Mediterranean vastness, in the heart of what is known as the Judean hillside, near a small, inconspicuous village grandly called “The City of David.” Thousands of years ago, white flocks of sheep, trailed by their young vigilant masters, speckled those hills. One of these young masters was a song-writer, a poet, a thoughtful lad with a vibrant trust in his God, who would later become the greatest king Israel has ever known. But while he was still a boy out with his herd of sheep, David would sit upon the wind-swept hills and dream poems and songs about the Messiah who one day God would send to rescue His people Israel. Never doubting but ever praising the One who had promised such a Savior.
Many hundreds of years later, in those same hills, amongst the bleating of the sheep once more, an angel would appear to a new set of young vigilant masters. This angel would bring the news that the boy David had written of, the news that here, even in their own Bethlehem, the City of David, the Messiah had indeed come. Born as a baby, resting in the same place from which you might feed a lamb, wrapped in the same fabric the shepherds wore. A Messiah. Come to set His people free.
God must look on those Judean hills with their scattered flocks of sheep and shepherds with special affection. Perhaps that is why one of His Son’s most well-known stories is a simple tale of a shepherd’s unwavering search for his one lost lamb. David would have understood; the shepherds who heard of the Messiah’s birth would have understood. The Son of the Most High King came as a Savior to the simple, the poor, the common, the outcast. He came into the heart of the hills, hills flecked by little families of lambs and their leaders, hills written of in poems and songs, hills that have witnessed events the wonder of which the world has not dreamed.
Many hundreds of years later, in those same hills, amongst the bleating of the sheep once more, an angel would appear to a new set of young vigilant masters. This angel would bring the news that the boy David had written of, the news that here, even in their own Bethlehem, the City of David, the Messiah had indeed come. Born as a baby, resting in the same place from which you might feed a lamb, wrapped in the same fabric the shepherds wore. A Messiah. Come to set His people free.
God must look on those Judean hills with their scattered flocks of sheep and shepherds with special affection. Perhaps that is why one of His Son’s most well-known stories is a simple tale of a shepherd’s unwavering search for his one lost lamb. David would have understood; the shepherds who heard of the Messiah’s birth would have understood. The Son of the Most High King came as a Savior to the simple, the poor, the common, the outcast. He came into the heart of the hills, hills flecked by little families of lambs and their leaders, hills written of in poems and songs, hills that have witnessed events the wonder of which the world has not dreamed.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Away
Well, the months have been passing rather quietly here. After the inspiration of the African countryside and the dearness of a hundred dark little faces beaming up at me, the Nebraskan life may not be exactly boring, but it’s not much to write about. The most exciting thing that happened this last month was Thanksgiving. Which is something I think almost every American would say in the month of November. If it had been Africa, I might have been able to say, “The most exciting thing that happened this month was our flat tire on safari in the midst of a herd of stampeding elephants.” But this is a waiting time.
I used to think I was really a very patient person. If you had asked me in highschool, I probably would have written that virtue in boldly confident letters right at the top of my “I’ve got this down” list. But that was before I was sent to teach kindergarten, tutor two children whose first language was not English, work one-on-one with a special need’s child . . . and, after three amazing journeys to the far reaches of the world, come back . . . to Nebraska. I no longer consider myself patient; I now consider myself a person whom God is very patiently teaching to be patient.
I’ve been sitting here, not writing, waiting for (well, besides a one-way plane ticket back to Africa) something amazing, I guess. Some incredible story reminiscent of the incredible things God did in Africa - or, better yet, a story about kids from Africa who come to visit Nebraska. Sort of like when the Matsiko choir delighted us with their presence. I was all prepared for God to send a choir a month. It was going to be grand - we’d have scavenger hunts and bonfires until it got too cold; then we’d switch to indoor games of hide-and-seek and singing around the piano . . . Only that wasn’t what God had planned.
Instead, I have found myself waiting here. And then every so often, I get an invitation, not to join an upcoming sojourn to the Dark Continent, but to drive an hour or two away to sing at a small-town church in Nebraska. Normally, the audience includes all of thirty people. Now don’t get me wrong - I love to sing, regardless of the size of the audience. These invitations have just been in a direction other than what I’ve really been hoping for - you know, an assignment to Africa.
Well, just before Thanksgiving week, I was on my way to sing at a church two hours from here. I was driving along at 62 mph, through the empty cornfields and Nebraska’s meandering little creeks as the sun was beginning to set, and I suddenly had an irrepressible urge to sneeze. What do you do? I sneezed. My third-grade music teacher once informed the class that it was absolutely impossible to sneeze with your eyes open. I didn’t believe him, so I tested it out. Turns out he was right. There’s some sort of reflex that forces your eyes shut in order for you to actually sneeze.
Anyway, I had just reopened my eyes after this random sneeze, and there, right in front of me, was a deer racing across the road. I’m not very good with distances, but if I had to make an estimate, I’d say the thing was somewhere between four and ten inches in front of my car. Inches. Driver’s side and everything. I could have told you the color of his teeth if he’d had his mouth open. There wasn’t anything I could do. Sixty-two miles an hour right after a sneeze isn’t a very simple thing to modify in the half-second it takes to not hit a deer. But that was okay. I didn’t have to do anything; the deer did it all for me. There he was, sprinting for all he was worth, and I’ve really never seen a deer run that hard before. I could have told him he wouldn’t have had to run at all if he’d have stayed on the side of the road, but it was a little late by the time I saw him. But he missed me. By inches, I’m sure, but it was a clean miss. I didn’t even have time to touch the brakes. I sped past as the frantic deer - we’ll call him Bambi - sped past, and then three more deer bounded across the road right behind me. If I had slammed on my brakes, I’m almost sure they would have slammed into my car. But there we were, one rather suddenly breathless driver, Bambi and his three friends - and not a single one of us had as much as a scratch to show for the encounter.
“A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.” I’d never thought of that verse out of Psalms in terms of deer before, but it lodged itself quite unshakably in my head now. I felt safe. Carefully looked out for and utterly safe. I made it to the church all in one piece, sang the songs I’d come with, and ate a delicious early-Thanksgiving meal with the people who’d come. We had turkey, not venison. And then one of the ladies at the church took me aside and said that, as she was preparing for me to come, she was suddenly impressed with the urge to pray for me. More specifically, to pray for my safety in traveling.
Seeing what I have seen from God, I cannot look at all this and call it coincidence. Obviously, He wanted me there at that church on that specific night. Why? I don’t know. Do I need to know? No. But God has a plan. Here, even in Nebraska, even when I’d much rather more than anywhere else be in Africa, God has a plan. And, even in the waiting, He is working. Even in the seeming silence, He speaks and moves. Even when He calls me away from what my heart really wants to do, He is calling me towards Him. That is good. And so I wait.
I used to think I was really a very patient person. If you had asked me in highschool, I probably would have written that virtue in boldly confident letters right at the top of my “I’ve got this down” list. But that was before I was sent to teach kindergarten, tutor two children whose first language was not English, work one-on-one with a special need’s child . . . and, after three amazing journeys to the far reaches of the world, come back . . . to Nebraska. I no longer consider myself patient; I now consider myself a person whom God is very patiently teaching to be patient.
I’ve been sitting here, not writing, waiting for (well, besides a one-way plane ticket back to Africa) something amazing, I guess. Some incredible story reminiscent of the incredible things God did in Africa - or, better yet, a story about kids from Africa who come to visit Nebraska. Sort of like when the Matsiko choir delighted us with their presence. I was all prepared for God to send a choir a month. It was going to be grand - we’d have scavenger hunts and bonfires until it got too cold; then we’d switch to indoor games of hide-and-seek and singing around the piano . . . Only that wasn’t what God had planned.
Instead, I have found myself waiting here. And then every so often, I get an invitation, not to join an upcoming sojourn to the Dark Continent, but to drive an hour or two away to sing at a small-town church in Nebraska. Normally, the audience includes all of thirty people. Now don’t get me wrong - I love to sing, regardless of the size of the audience. These invitations have just been in a direction other than what I’ve really been hoping for - you know, an assignment to Africa.
Well, just before Thanksgiving week, I was on my way to sing at a church two hours from here. I was driving along at 62 mph, through the empty cornfields and Nebraska’s meandering little creeks as the sun was beginning to set, and I suddenly had an irrepressible urge to sneeze. What do you do? I sneezed. My third-grade music teacher once informed the class that it was absolutely impossible to sneeze with your eyes open. I didn’t believe him, so I tested it out. Turns out he was right. There’s some sort of reflex that forces your eyes shut in order for you to actually sneeze.
Anyway, I had just reopened my eyes after this random sneeze, and there, right in front of me, was a deer racing across the road. I’m not very good with distances, but if I had to make an estimate, I’d say the thing was somewhere between four and ten inches in front of my car. Inches. Driver’s side and everything. I could have told you the color of his teeth if he’d had his mouth open. There wasn’t anything I could do. Sixty-two miles an hour right after a sneeze isn’t a very simple thing to modify in the half-second it takes to not hit a deer. But that was okay. I didn’t have to do anything; the deer did it all for me. There he was, sprinting for all he was worth, and I’ve really never seen a deer run that hard before. I could have told him he wouldn’t have had to run at all if he’d have stayed on the side of the road, but it was a little late by the time I saw him. But he missed me. By inches, I’m sure, but it was a clean miss. I didn’t even have time to touch the brakes. I sped past as the frantic deer - we’ll call him Bambi - sped past, and then three more deer bounded across the road right behind me. If I had slammed on my brakes, I’m almost sure they would have slammed into my car. But there we were, one rather suddenly breathless driver, Bambi and his three friends - and not a single one of us had as much as a scratch to show for the encounter.
“A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.” I’d never thought of that verse out of Psalms in terms of deer before, but it lodged itself quite unshakably in my head now. I felt safe. Carefully looked out for and utterly safe. I made it to the church all in one piece, sang the songs I’d come with, and ate a delicious early-Thanksgiving meal with the people who’d come. We had turkey, not venison. And then one of the ladies at the church took me aside and said that, as she was preparing for me to come, she was suddenly impressed with the urge to pray for me. More specifically, to pray for my safety in traveling.
Seeing what I have seen from God, I cannot look at all this and call it coincidence. Obviously, He wanted me there at that church on that specific night. Why? I don’t know. Do I need to know? No. But God has a plan. Here, even in Nebraska, even when I’d much rather more than anywhere else be in Africa, God has a plan. And, even in the waiting, He is working. Even in the seeming silence, He speaks and moves. Even when He calls me away from what my heart really wants to do, He is calling me towards Him. That is good. And so I wait.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Scavenging with the Matsiko Choir
I spent the entire preceding week in preparations, but it all came to a head on Friday. There were just so many last-minute things, and none of them could be done until the last minute, that Friday turned into a rather frantic Last Minute Day. I had a horse to move, a couple grills to pick up in town, a truck to fill up with gas, a few buckets of water balloons to fill, and a couple necessities to pick up at the store. And I haven’t yet mentioned the checking and printing and sorting and placing of the clues for the scavenger hunt. At one point, I was waiting to be able to go into the store, standing by the truck, filling it up with gas and talking on the phone at the same time (something you’re not actually supposed to do), when I received a second incoming call just as another person walked up, wanting to talk to me. It was quite funny! Is that the way the President feels, I wonder?
With the preparations all finished, and just barely on time, my fearless helpers from our church’s youth group were late and the Matsiko kids were early. Of course. So, they all converged upon our surprised little farm at the same time, and my jaw dropped. But only for a moment. Then, clipboard held firmly in hand (I feel lost without a clipboard), I charged out to meet the bedlam.
We gathered the kids on the cement slab, very impromptly and with not much order to speak of. It’s amazing what you can get across with a very loud voice. But they all quieted, wide-eyed, when they heard the word “horse.” Yes, we gave pony rides to the dear African children - and, I made sure to ask while I was in Uganda, most of these kids hadn’t seen a real, live horse before coming to America. The best part was when Kristi, who was leading around the pony while I commanded the larger horse, asked in passing if she could, “let them go.” Well, I was only half listening, as my charge had me a bit preoccupied, and I thought she was meaning, should she take the pony back to the barn to be unsaddled. Giving my okay, I was quite surprised when, glancing up a few moments later, I saw my sometimes sweet, well-mannered pony placidly walking about the pen with an unsupervised little African boy on her back! He was so intently concentrating on steering his newly commandeered pony that I hated to interrupt him.
Then it was time for the scavenger hunt. I don’t like to brag, but . . . it was pretty much the best scavenger hunt of all time. :-) We divided into teams, and each team got possession of their very own zealously-guarded traveling bag, treasure map, and first clue. And off they went! To the apple bobbing station . . . the brave-the-gigantic-Nebraskan-bred-chickens-and-find-the-clue-inside-the-Easter-egg station . . . the create your own “Fred,” who might, it is true, have possessed astounding similarities to a homegrown butternut squash (examples below)
. . . or, my personal favorite, the cowboy picture station, complete with Western gear and faithful rusty red pickup parked in the background (that was one of our Last Minute Friday additions!) - and Indians hiding discreetly in the trees. Did I forget to mention that I had armed the Indians with water balloons? (And, yes, I realize that Indians and rusty red pickups weren’t exactly in the same era, and water balloons were nowhere close. We were enacting a rather abbreviated version of American history).
It took a good hour or so to thoroughly soak, confuse, tire, and delight each one of the teams, and I had the distinct privilege of wandering aimlessly around (much like during the scavenger hunt we hosted in Uganda at our last camp), answering frantically sputtered questions, and watching the different groups sprint laughingly from place to place. It was quite the joy.
In the end, after their very last clue had led them to the buried treasure of some key s’more ingredients, the kids gathered around the fire for a delicious and well-earned dinner of hamburgers, hotdogs, chips, and watermelon. We instructed the goggle-eyed children as to the precise preparation of an American s’more, judged their adorably decorated Fred’s, and presented two happy birthday cakes to a pair of pleasantly surprised children whose birthdays had been that week.
And then we broke out the guitars and sang a few songs . . . and, my, but those dear children can sing! Per request, they heard the Lugandan song written specially in their language one last time. And then it was time for the Matsiko choir to load up the bus and head out. But, oh, what a time we had! I thank God.
With the preparations all finished, and just barely on time, my fearless helpers from our church’s youth group were late and the Matsiko kids were early. Of course. So, they all converged upon our surprised little farm at the same time, and my jaw dropped. But only for a moment. Then, clipboard held firmly in hand (I feel lost without a clipboard), I charged out to meet the bedlam.
We gathered the kids on the cement slab, very impromptly and with not much order to speak of. It’s amazing what you can get across with a very loud voice. But they all quieted, wide-eyed, when they heard the word “horse.” Yes, we gave pony rides to the dear African children - and, I made sure to ask while I was in Uganda, most of these kids hadn’t seen a real, live horse before coming to America. The best part was when Kristi, who was leading around the pony while I commanded the larger horse, asked in passing if she could, “let them go.” Well, I was only half listening, as my charge had me a bit preoccupied, and I thought she was meaning, should she take the pony back to the barn to be unsaddled. Giving my okay, I was quite surprised when, glancing up a few moments later, I saw my sometimes sweet, well-mannered pony placidly walking about the pen with an unsupervised little African boy on her back! He was so intently concentrating on steering his newly commandeered pony that I hated to interrupt him.
Then it was time for the scavenger hunt. I don’t like to brag, but . . . it was pretty much the best scavenger hunt of all time. :-) We divided into teams, and each team got possession of their very own zealously-guarded traveling bag, treasure map, and first clue. And off they went! To the apple bobbing station . . . the brave-the-gigantic-Nebraskan-bred-chickens-and-find-the-clue-inside-the-Easter-egg station . . . the create your own “Fred,” who might, it is true, have possessed astounding similarities to a homegrown butternut squash (examples below)
. . . or, my personal favorite, the cowboy picture station, complete with Western gear and faithful rusty red pickup parked in the background (that was one of our Last Minute Friday additions!) - and Indians hiding discreetly in the trees. Did I forget to mention that I had armed the Indians with water balloons? (And, yes, I realize that Indians and rusty red pickups weren’t exactly in the same era, and water balloons were nowhere close. We were enacting a rather abbreviated version of American history).
It took a good hour or so to thoroughly soak, confuse, tire, and delight each one of the teams, and I had the distinct privilege of wandering aimlessly around (much like during the scavenger hunt we hosted in Uganda at our last camp), answering frantically sputtered questions, and watching the different groups sprint laughingly from place to place. It was quite the joy.
In the end, after their very last clue had led them to the buried treasure of some key s’more ingredients, the kids gathered around the fire for a delicious and well-earned dinner of hamburgers, hotdogs, chips, and watermelon. We instructed the goggle-eyed children as to the precise preparation of an American s’more, judged their adorably decorated Fred’s, and presented two happy birthday cakes to a pair of pleasantly surprised children whose birthdays had been that week.
And then we broke out the guitars and sang a few songs . . . and, my, but those dear children can sing! Per request, they heard the Lugandan song written specially in their language one last time. And then it was time for the Matsiko choir to load up the bus and head out. But, oh, what a time we had! I thank God.
Monday, October 27, 2008
"Just So Happened"
My apologies. I didn’t intend to end my narrative of this summer’s Africa trip so abruptly. It’s only that I got caught up in reading several good books lately and in writing a rather long something that has nothing at all to do with this blog.
“Where there is no imagination there is no horror.” That is a quote from Sherlock Holmes I ran across yesterday, and I’m pretty sure, according to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, this makes me one of the most horrified people in the world.
But back to the point. So, obviously, I am now back in America. Living in Nebraska and - if I had written a few weeks ago, enjoying the gorgeous fall weather - but now I have to say faithfully turning up my electric blanket heater every night and bundling on the layers every morning. Back to the good life, I think they call it.
The God who blessed me so very richly in Africa has not left me empty-handed here. Within a week of my re-entry into the States, I learned that a choir of African children (the Matsiko choir: see www.matsiko.com) would be in our area and staying for nearly three weeks! Guess what country in Africa the kids were from? Uganda!! “Just so happened” they needed temporary homes for the dear little people to stay in, so it was my and my family’s privilege to house two Ugandan boys for 2 ½ weeks in September.
Also during this time, the choir scheduled with our church to come one Sunday evening and delight us with their music and dance. “Just so happened” they booked the very same night I was scheduled to share with my church about the trip. So, all the people who came to listen to the incredibly talented Matsiko choir got to listen to a half-hour’s very brief version of my time in Rwanda and Uganda first!
But more than that, because every one of those children was born in Uganda . . . and because every one of those children speaks Lugandan (although there are many different tribal dialects in Uganda), I had the privilege of sharing with the Matsiko kids the song I had written in Lugandan while I was in Uganda. I cannot tell you what a blessing it was to me to be up on that stage with a microphone and my guitar and look over into that one corner where all those dear African children were and see their faces grow absolutely silent, just like the kid’s faces had in Uganda, as I sang to them in their own heart language.
I have found more than enough to fill my time since returning from my trip, and a very large portion of it is work that I absolutely love. But my deepest passion remains with the African children, and I have seen so clearly again and again how God is beginning to pave the way for me to serve Him by serving them. I would greatly appreciate all your prayers as I continue to wait and work towards the incredible joy of the calling God has on my life. I am reminded every day how very deeply God has blessed me in the past - and how much He continues to bless me right now.
There is more to tell you about the Matsiko choir, of course. Like the night we invited them all out to the farm for a bonfire, hamburgers, horse back rides, and the best scavenger hunt of all times! . . . But you’ll have to wait till next time to hear about that.
“Where there is no imagination there is no horror.” That is a quote from Sherlock Holmes I ran across yesterday, and I’m pretty sure, according to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, this makes me one of the most horrified people in the world.
But back to the point. So, obviously, I am now back in America. Living in Nebraska and - if I had written a few weeks ago, enjoying the gorgeous fall weather - but now I have to say faithfully turning up my electric blanket heater every night and bundling on the layers every morning. Back to the good life, I think they call it.
The God who blessed me so very richly in Africa has not left me empty-handed here. Within a week of my re-entry into the States, I learned that a choir of African children (the Matsiko choir: see www.matsiko.com) would be in our area and staying for nearly three weeks! Guess what country in Africa the kids were from? Uganda!! “Just so happened” they needed temporary homes for the dear little people to stay in, so it was my and my family’s privilege to house two Ugandan boys for 2 ½ weeks in September.
Also during this time, the choir scheduled with our church to come one Sunday evening and delight us with their music and dance. “Just so happened” they booked the very same night I was scheduled to share with my church about the trip. So, all the people who came to listen to the incredibly talented Matsiko choir got to listen to a half-hour’s very brief version of my time in Rwanda and Uganda first!
But more than that, because every one of those children was born in Uganda . . . and because every one of those children speaks Lugandan (although there are many different tribal dialects in Uganda), I had the privilege of sharing with the Matsiko kids the song I had written in Lugandan while I was in Uganda. I cannot tell you what a blessing it was to me to be up on that stage with a microphone and my guitar and look over into that one corner where all those dear African children were and see their faces grow absolutely silent, just like the kid’s faces had in Uganda, as I sang to them in their own heart language.
I have found more than enough to fill my time since returning from my trip, and a very large portion of it is work that I absolutely love. But my deepest passion remains with the African children, and I have seen so clearly again and again how God is beginning to pave the way for me to serve Him by serving them. I would greatly appreciate all your prayers as I continue to wait and work towards the incredible joy of the calling God has on my life. I am reminded every day how very deeply God has blessed me in the past - and how much He continues to bless me right now.
There is more to tell you about the Matsiko choir, of course. Like the night we invited them all out to the farm for a bonfire, hamburgers, horse back rides, and the best scavenger hunt of all times! . . . But you’ll have to wait till next time to hear about that.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Day 40: August 15, 2008
I rather hopefully, hopelessly dreamed I’d catch some sudden, life-threatening illness. Not too life-threatening, of course, but just life-threatening enough for the doctors to order me not to dare step foot on a plane. Then I’d have to cancel my ticket and spend some more time in this place my heart adores. And perhaps it would take a long time for them to find me another ticket, and in the meantime I’d just be here, in glorious Africa . . . I was awfully upset when I woke up this morning in perfect health.
Yesterday evening our friendly little African gray parrot came swooping down to his tree to chat with me one last time. Of course, he didn’t know it was the last time, but I do like to imagine that he’ll miss us when we’ve gone. Hearing his whistle from inside, I rushed out to the front porch to reply, but I hadn’t been there long when John Paul came to drag me back to the table where everyone was waiting for dinner. That was in fun, but I feel dragged today - pulled against my will away from the one place I want to be more than anywhere else. Africa.
Jon, Eva, and I woke up early, and a rather bleary-eyed Candice and LeeAnn stumbled downstairs to see us off at 6:00 a.m. As the sun rose, Eva and I left Jon at the airport, lugging his African drums along behind him. Then we had some time on our hands. A lot of time. We were in Entebee, a good half-hour drive from Kampala, and my plane didn’t leave until 4:30 this afternoon. So, we got creative. We went to the zoo. Who would ever have thought I’d spend my last day in Africa at the zoo?
It was just like our African safari in Rwanda - only all the animals were in pens instead of out in the wild. The zebras that had stared at us so suspiciously as we exited our safari vehicle didn’t even look up from munching their hay as we ambled past their large square pen. Go figure. But I got some amazing photographs - of the Ugandan national bird, lots of monkeys (one of which jumped on the table and attempted to snitch our food at lunch), a majestically sleeping lion, and lots more - and I figure if I place them right, no one will know which ones I took on safari and which ones I took at the zoo! How’s that for exaggeration?! When we got tired from walking, we rested on a rather narrow picnic table bench on Lake Victoria while the sun burned down on us and made our eyes water. It was a beautiful day of blue skies and towering white clouds, and I thank You for that, my Lord.
There was one thing about this zoo that was very different from American zoos. In America, we believe in cement and pavement - which, if ugly, is at least comparatively clean. In Africa, they believe in dirt. Red dirt. And for some reason, those vicious little African fire ants love red dirt. So, we were walking past the zebras down the broad dirt path, when suddenly our taxi driver (who was walking a few steps ahead of us) stopped short. Eva and I stopped beside him, wondering what the problem was. Then we looked down. Hundreds upon hundreds, and thousands upon thousands of those little red ants had taken over the path before us, literally overflowing into the grass and trees and making the road seem like a live, seething thing for a good five yards. What now? There was no second path, and the trees on one side and fence on the other made skirting the issue absolutely impossible. We stood in wide-eyed contemplation for several moments, and then, without a word, our driver hiked up his pant legs and, high-stepping, dashed through the ants, shaking himself fiercely when he reached the other side. Eva and I looked at each other, hiked up our pant legs, and dashed after him! I do believe that was the most ferocious thing we saw at the zoo today.
After escaping from the fire ants and eating a nearly-stolen lunch (so, you see, it really was quite an exciting day), we were just in time to witness the 44th birthday celebration of Zakayo. The chimpanzee. It is quite a celebrity event, I’m told, and by the masses of school children, photographers, and random spectators like us, I think I believe them. We waited and waited while the zoo experts expounded loquaciously on the benefits and pitfalls of being a chimpanzee, and it was all fairly dull - except that they actually led us into the chimp’s cage. Not with the chimps present, of course. But I’ve never been inside one of the cages at the zoo before, and it was rather fun.
And then, after ushering all of us out, they ushered Zakayo in . . . We were hardly prepared for what happened next. They had set up this fancy cake, complete with a thick layer of frosting, on a one-legged flat board that served as a table, from which dangled an obviously hand-made happy birthday sign. (All this for a monkey!) Well, the birthday boy came racing out, sniffing furiously (probably because a bunch of humans had gone touring his house while he was away!), finally spotted his birthday surprise, went charging over, but . . . not bothering to take a second look, raised his arms and sent the whole thing flying through the air. The cake landed upside down, the table crumpled into a heap, and the birthday banner rolled down the hill. Zakayo just kept running. How’s that for gratitude?
He did finally come back though, mostly, I think, because they let the other chimpanzees out, and he began to think that maybe he shouldn’t be so finicky about the flavor of icing after all! So, he snatched up a slice or two, squatted down, his back to us, and began chewing away. He never did turn around. The newspaper photographers were rather frustrated with their uncooperative subject, but I thought it was hilarious. Oh, another thing they’d done was hide little containers of chocolate milk all over the place. So, as Zakayo pouted, all his friends romped around finding treats, then sat down to enjoy. Chocolate milk carton in one hand and slice of cake in the other. I must say, it’s the most interesting birthday party I’ve ever seen!
And then it was time to go. Eva - God, bless her - dropped me off at the airport. So, here we go again . . . I’m presently on a plane sitting in the Dubai airport, bound for London, and wishing I had never left Africa. Dear God, speed the day of my return! You work all things well.
As I was getting ready to leave the Entebbe airport in Uganda to board the plane, I looked out the huge windows and was overwhelmed by a strong sense of, “You will come back here again. I will bring you back to this place.” So, there You go. Here is the end; here is the beginning. I’ve never known five weeks of such incredible contentment and joy. I’ve never loved so easily, so deeply - never been so filled up with so many dear hearts to love. My Father and my God, I bow down at Your feet, and I thank You for this trip. I praise You, my God, for all the marvelous things You have done since I left Nebraska. May it be a beginning, Lord. This is my plea. You have begun something, Jesus, and it is good. Finish it. Amen.
So, would you believe me if I told you this is actually one of my safari shots?
The gracefully elegant - but still humorously chicken-like - Ugandan national bird.
Thieving little monkey
Zakayo's rich abode. I stood under the tall tree on the right.
Chocolate milk and cake.
Yesterday evening our friendly little African gray parrot came swooping down to his tree to chat with me one last time. Of course, he didn’t know it was the last time, but I do like to imagine that he’ll miss us when we’ve gone. Hearing his whistle from inside, I rushed out to the front porch to reply, but I hadn’t been there long when John Paul came to drag me back to the table where everyone was waiting for dinner. That was in fun, but I feel dragged today - pulled against my will away from the one place I want to be more than anywhere else. Africa.
Jon, Eva, and I woke up early, and a rather bleary-eyed Candice and LeeAnn stumbled downstairs to see us off at 6:00 a.m. As the sun rose, Eva and I left Jon at the airport, lugging his African drums along behind him. Then we had some time on our hands. A lot of time. We were in Entebee, a good half-hour drive from Kampala, and my plane didn’t leave until 4:30 this afternoon. So, we got creative. We went to the zoo. Who would ever have thought I’d spend my last day in Africa at the zoo?
It was just like our African safari in Rwanda - only all the animals were in pens instead of out in the wild. The zebras that had stared at us so suspiciously as we exited our safari vehicle didn’t even look up from munching their hay as we ambled past their large square pen. Go figure. But I got some amazing photographs - of the Ugandan national bird, lots of monkeys (one of which jumped on the table and attempted to snitch our food at lunch), a majestically sleeping lion, and lots more - and I figure if I place them right, no one will know which ones I took on safari and which ones I took at the zoo! How’s that for exaggeration?! When we got tired from walking, we rested on a rather narrow picnic table bench on Lake Victoria while the sun burned down on us and made our eyes water. It was a beautiful day of blue skies and towering white clouds, and I thank You for that, my Lord.
There was one thing about this zoo that was very different from American zoos. In America, we believe in cement and pavement - which, if ugly, is at least comparatively clean. In Africa, they believe in dirt. Red dirt. And for some reason, those vicious little African fire ants love red dirt. So, we were walking past the zebras down the broad dirt path, when suddenly our taxi driver (who was walking a few steps ahead of us) stopped short. Eva and I stopped beside him, wondering what the problem was. Then we looked down. Hundreds upon hundreds, and thousands upon thousands of those little red ants had taken over the path before us, literally overflowing into the grass and trees and making the road seem like a live, seething thing for a good five yards. What now? There was no second path, and the trees on one side and fence on the other made skirting the issue absolutely impossible. We stood in wide-eyed contemplation for several moments, and then, without a word, our driver hiked up his pant legs and, high-stepping, dashed through the ants, shaking himself fiercely when he reached the other side. Eva and I looked at each other, hiked up our pant legs, and dashed after him! I do believe that was the most ferocious thing we saw at the zoo today.
After escaping from the fire ants and eating a nearly-stolen lunch (so, you see, it really was quite an exciting day), we were just in time to witness the 44th birthday celebration of Zakayo. The chimpanzee. It is quite a celebrity event, I’m told, and by the masses of school children, photographers, and random spectators like us, I think I believe them. We waited and waited while the zoo experts expounded loquaciously on the benefits and pitfalls of being a chimpanzee, and it was all fairly dull - except that they actually led us into the chimp’s cage. Not with the chimps present, of course. But I’ve never been inside one of the cages at the zoo before, and it was rather fun.
And then, after ushering all of us out, they ushered Zakayo in . . . We were hardly prepared for what happened next. They had set up this fancy cake, complete with a thick layer of frosting, on a one-legged flat board that served as a table, from which dangled an obviously hand-made happy birthday sign. (All this for a monkey!) Well, the birthday boy came racing out, sniffing furiously (probably because a bunch of humans had gone touring his house while he was away!), finally spotted his birthday surprise, went charging over, but . . . not bothering to take a second look, raised his arms and sent the whole thing flying through the air. The cake landed upside down, the table crumpled into a heap, and the birthday banner rolled down the hill. Zakayo just kept running. How’s that for gratitude?
He did finally come back though, mostly, I think, because they let the other chimpanzees out, and he began to think that maybe he shouldn’t be so finicky about the flavor of icing after all! So, he snatched up a slice or two, squatted down, his back to us, and began chewing away. He never did turn around. The newspaper photographers were rather frustrated with their uncooperative subject, but I thought it was hilarious. Oh, another thing they’d done was hide little containers of chocolate milk all over the place. So, as Zakayo pouted, all his friends romped around finding treats, then sat down to enjoy. Chocolate milk carton in one hand and slice of cake in the other. I must say, it’s the most interesting birthday party I’ve ever seen!
And then it was time to go. Eva - God, bless her - dropped me off at the airport. So, here we go again . . . I’m presently on a plane sitting in the Dubai airport, bound for London, and wishing I had never left Africa. Dear God, speed the day of my return! You work all things well.
As I was getting ready to leave the Entebbe airport in Uganda to board the plane, I looked out the huge windows and was overwhelmed by a strong sense of, “You will come back here again. I will bring you back to this place.” So, there You go. Here is the end; here is the beginning. I’ve never known five weeks of such incredible contentment and joy. I’ve never loved so easily, so deeply - never been so filled up with so many dear hearts to love. My Father and my God, I bow down at Your feet, and I thank You for this trip. I praise You, my God, for all the marvelous things You have done since I left Nebraska. May it be a beginning, Lord. This is my plea. You have begun something, Jesus, and it is good. Finish it. Amen.
So, would you believe me if I told you this is actually one of my safari shots?
The gracefully elegant - but still humorously chicken-like - Ugandan national bird.
Thieving little monkey
Zakayo's rich abode. I stood under the tall tree on the right.
Chocolate milk and cake.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Day 39: August 14, 2008
My Savior and my God, teach me to meet every opportunity in the fullness of You - to face every joy and sorrow in the fullness of You - to begin and end every day in the fullness of You - to live wherever I am in the fullness of You. Amen.
Today was my last full day in Africa, oh dearest God, and already I am heartsick to have left. I should very much like to live the rest of my life and not have to say another goodbye. Sounds rather like a slightly pathetic country song, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I have an entire castle-full of people - Americans, Africans, Canadians, Brits, and so many more - that I’d like to have about me the entire time. And, so, again my thoughts turn towards Home. Some day . . .
In the meantime . . . We spent a large part of this, our last day in Africa, in solitary boredom. What a horrid feeling, but it’s true. Without the slightest hint of an agenda to occupy our otherwise sadly somber minds, we sat and wished for people who couldn’t be there. Is this what people do in nursing homes and jails? To make matters worse, LeeAnn, our sole remaining fearless leader (Miriam, our other fearless leader, flew out a couple days ago), left for several hours on a visit to see her sponsor child. She was understandably thrilled about the opportunity, and, to be sure, we tried our very sincerest to be thrilled with her. Only, we couldn’t all of us fit in the car, so she left, and we were left.
And that’s how a late breakfast and a couple long hours of nothingness found us. Finally, in utter desperation, Jon, Candice, and I escaped the compound to take a walk down the hill, around to the left in a big arc, and then back up the hill again. When we discovered that no lunch had been prepared for us at the guest house, we had another adventure eating at a local restaurant. One hour killed; an eternity to go. Each step and every breath is the breathtaking Africa that has captured my heart, but I am counting down the moments now, and it is not a very happy process.
Then John Paul came late this afternoon, and it was like the sun suddenly sprang out from behind glowering clouds. For a precious, too-short time this evening, he added some much-needed laughter to a group full of frowning Westerners, cross with having to say goodbye. I look at where I am right now, and I think the best thing in all the world would be if I could simply rip up my plane ticket and remain right here where I am. In Africa. This joy denied is hard for me to accept. But, dear God, are You not in control? Do You not know the plans You have for me, and are they not good plans? Father, change my sore heart into a spring of praise to You - for all You’ve done, for all You are, for all You’ve been to me. I have been refreshed here by my African brothers and sisters in Christ, and You have brought overflowing effortlessly out of me a deep compassion and devotion for the dear children.
I thank You, God, that even if today I had to say goodbye, it was not a final goodbye. I thank You that I never have to say a final goodbye to my family in Christ. God, these dear people are the joy of my heart, the light of my eyes. If it were not for You, I could not leave them. As it is, Jesus, hold my heart. As You hold their hands and guide them, as You guide me . . . “Here I am, lay me down/ All my tears at Your feet/ Take it all, every breath/ Every single heartbeat . . . Wrap me up in Your arms/ You are my only Home/ So secure here with You/ I am never alone.” Dear God, take all my dreams - all I am - and use them for the glory of Your Name. Above all else, my Lord, this is my desire. Be glorified in me. Lead me on in the light . . . in this path, where the sun shines golden, though there may be tears of dew on the roses . . . My heart belongs ever first and foremost to You, King of kings. Love of my life, lead on.
Today was my last full day in Africa, oh dearest God, and already I am heartsick to have left. I should very much like to live the rest of my life and not have to say another goodbye. Sounds rather like a slightly pathetic country song, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I have an entire castle-full of people - Americans, Africans, Canadians, Brits, and so many more - that I’d like to have about me the entire time. And, so, again my thoughts turn towards Home. Some day . . .
In the meantime . . . We spent a large part of this, our last day in Africa, in solitary boredom. What a horrid feeling, but it’s true. Without the slightest hint of an agenda to occupy our otherwise sadly somber minds, we sat and wished for people who couldn’t be there. Is this what people do in nursing homes and jails? To make matters worse, LeeAnn, our sole remaining fearless leader (Miriam, our other fearless leader, flew out a couple days ago), left for several hours on a visit to see her sponsor child. She was understandably thrilled about the opportunity, and, to be sure, we tried our very sincerest to be thrilled with her. Only, we couldn’t all of us fit in the car, so she left, and we were left.
And that’s how a late breakfast and a couple long hours of nothingness found us. Finally, in utter desperation, Jon, Candice, and I escaped the compound to take a walk down the hill, around to the left in a big arc, and then back up the hill again. When we discovered that no lunch had been prepared for us at the guest house, we had another adventure eating at a local restaurant. One hour killed; an eternity to go. Each step and every breath is the breathtaking Africa that has captured my heart, but I am counting down the moments now, and it is not a very happy process.
Then John Paul came late this afternoon, and it was like the sun suddenly sprang out from behind glowering clouds. For a precious, too-short time this evening, he added some much-needed laughter to a group full of frowning Westerners, cross with having to say goodbye. I look at where I am right now, and I think the best thing in all the world would be if I could simply rip up my plane ticket and remain right here where I am. In Africa. This joy denied is hard for me to accept. But, dear God, are You not in control? Do You not know the plans You have for me, and are they not good plans? Father, change my sore heart into a spring of praise to You - for all You’ve done, for all You are, for all You’ve been to me. I have been refreshed here by my African brothers and sisters in Christ, and You have brought overflowing effortlessly out of me a deep compassion and devotion for the dear children.
I thank You, God, that even if today I had to say goodbye, it was not a final goodbye. I thank You that I never have to say a final goodbye to my family in Christ. God, these dear people are the joy of my heart, the light of my eyes. If it were not for You, I could not leave them. As it is, Jesus, hold my heart. As You hold their hands and guide them, as You guide me . . . “Here I am, lay me down/ All my tears at Your feet/ Take it all, every breath/ Every single heartbeat . . . Wrap me up in Your arms/ You are my only Home/ So secure here with You/ I am never alone.” Dear God, take all my dreams - all I am - and use them for the glory of Your Name. Above all else, my Lord, this is my desire. Be glorified in me. Lead me on in the light . . . in this path, where the sun shines golden, though there may be tears of dew on the roses . . . My heart belongs ever first and foremost to You, King of kings. Love of my life, lead on.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Day 38: August 13, 2008
John Paul took those of us who are left (Candice, Jon, LeeAnn, and me) on an excursion through downtown Kampala today. “Those of us who are left.” Sounds rather morose, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve been feeling more and more solemn these days, having said goodbye to all the dear children and most of my favorite people that I’ve been privileged to meet here. We are in the dreaded winding-down process, and we wish it would all go backwards, but . . . “Time marches on.”
However, regardless of our dwindled numbers and the awful overhanging knowledge that we all must leave soon, today was a very good day. Instead of our normal private hire, they allowed us to be adventurous and take the public transportation (matatu) for the first time in Uganda. I was, of course, remembering all the shaggy-carpeted walls and crammed seating inside many a matatu in Rwanda with my team there. John Paul was with us, and so we survived. The money transactions and banging on the roof confused me to no end, but a typical conversation attempting enlightenment on my part never got very far. They sounded a bit like this:
“But how do you know when you want out?” (There’s no sort of loudspeaker announcement of any sort as to where in the large city of Kampala the matatu is presently located, much less a posted notice of which stops are coming up next.) “How do you know when you’ve got to where you want to be?”
“Well, you bang on the roof, and they let you out.”
(Different approach) “So, how do you know how much it’s going to cost?”
“Well, from here to downtown, it’s 100 shillings.”
“Yes, but how do you know it’s going to cost 100 shillings?”
“Because that’s how much it costs to get from here to downtown.”
Needless to say, I never felt very enlightened. Alighting from the matatu because John Paul told us to get out (and we would otherwise have had no idea where we were!), we ambled our way through downtown. This lovely day, we visited the not-so-touristy places, with their wares colorfully overstocked on every available shelf, wall, and improvised table. The streets were crowded, even though it wasn’t the weekend, and at times we had to scrunch up our shoulders and squeeze through the crowd or risk losing each other. It reminded me of Hong Kong, and I loved it. When we were all tired and sweaty, we stopped for a cold drink at a small, fan-cooled “café.” Complete with American Country music playing in the background. “I hope you daaaaaaance . . .” It made me laugh.
We stopped for a short, impromptu visit of the children and adults at the Machindi choir training center. We literally just “happened to be in the neighborhood” and used that as a fun excuse to drop by. Then it was up the hill a short walk, past a lady with a monkey on her shoulder, to Mark and Sarah’s house. Mark is the principal at the MFL school, and he and his wife have been a help and blessing to us as much as time permitted them these last several weeks. We have appreciated them immensely - both for their hearts to serve You and their “Western-ness!” We sat down to a mouth-watering dinner of fried chicken, potatoes, and fresh salad with sunflower seeds and Ranch dressing (you cannot know how good that tastes until you’ve gone more than a month without them). And, as if that wasn’t enough, we later gathered around the living room coffee table for plates of still-steaming chocolate chip cookies and ice-cold milk. I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that many chocolate chip cookies all in one sitting before.
We talked on and on about our experience, gaining helpful insights from two white people who have lived in Africa three years now. They told us more about the school and what exactly it is Music for Life does here. And all the while, Seth, their two-year-old son, cavorted and giggled and interrupted and entertained like two year olds do. I walked away from the conversation with a clearer sense - I hope! - of what sort of struggles these dear children face on a day-to-day basis. It was both encouraging and heart-breaking at the same time. Rather like my time here in Africa. Deliriously happy and achingly wretched. But I thank You, God, for bringing here. I wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else in all the world.
However, regardless of our dwindled numbers and the awful overhanging knowledge that we all must leave soon, today was a very good day. Instead of our normal private hire, they allowed us to be adventurous and take the public transportation (matatu) for the first time in Uganda. I was, of course, remembering all the shaggy-carpeted walls and crammed seating inside many a matatu in Rwanda with my team there. John Paul was with us, and so we survived. The money transactions and banging on the roof confused me to no end, but a typical conversation attempting enlightenment on my part never got very far. They sounded a bit like this:
“But how do you know when you want out?” (There’s no sort of loudspeaker announcement of any sort as to where in the large city of Kampala the matatu is presently located, much less a posted notice of which stops are coming up next.) “How do you know when you’ve got to where you want to be?”
“Well, you bang on the roof, and they let you out.”
(Different approach) “So, how do you know how much it’s going to cost?”
“Well, from here to downtown, it’s 100 shillings.”
“Yes, but how do you know it’s going to cost 100 shillings?”
“Because that’s how much it costs to get from here to downtown.”
Needless to say, I never felt very enlightened. Alighting from the matatu because John Paul told us to get out (and we would otherwise have had no idea where we were!), we ambled our way through downtown. This lovely day, we visited the not-so-touristy places, with their wares colorfully overstocked on every available shelf, wall, and improvised table. The streets were crowded, even though it wasn’t the weekend, and at times we had to scrunch up our shoulders and squeeze through the crowd or risk losing each other. It reminded me of Hong Kong, and I loved it. When we were all tired and sweaty, we stopped for a cold drink at a small, fan-cooled “café.” Complete with American Country music playing in the background. “I hope you daaaaaaance . . .” It made me laugh.
We stopped for a short, impromptu visit of the children and adults at the Machindi choir training center. We literally just “happened to be in the neighborhood” and used that as a fun excuse to drop by. Then it was up the hill a short walk, past a lady with a monkey on her shoulder, to Mark and Sarah’s house. Mark is the principal at the MFL school, and he and his wife have been a help and blessing to us as much as time permitted them these last several weeks. We have appreciated them immensely - both for their hearts to serve You and their “Western-ness!” We sat down to a mouth-watering dinner of fried chicken, potatoes, and fresh salad with sunflower seeds and Ranch dressing (you cannot know how good that tastes until you’ve gone more than a month without them). And, as if that wasn’t enough, we later gathered around the living room coffee table for plates of still-steaming chocolate chip cookies and ice-cold milk. I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that many chocolate chip cookies all in one sitting before.
We talked on and on about our experience, gaining helpful insights from two white people who have lived in Africa three years now. They told us more about the school and what exactly it is Music for Life does here. And all the while, Seth, their two-year-old son, cavorted and giggled and interrupted and entertained like two year olds do. I walked away from the conversation with a clearer sense - I hope! - of what sort of struggles these dear children face on a day-to-day basis. It was both encouraging and heart-breaking at the same time. Rather like my time here in Africa. Deliriously happy and achingly wretched. But I thank You, God, for bringing here. I wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else in all the world.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Day 37: August 12, 2008
Things are winding down here - God, help us! I feel like a biker furiously, futilely backpedaling those couple breathless moments before ramming head-on into a brick wall. I can see what’s coming, and while a return to America might not be quite as shocking as a brick wall, I can’t help but face it with the same sort of dry-throated dread. Simply put, I don’t want to leave. To say, “I don’t want to go home,” doesn’t even sound right, as the United States simply doesn’t feel like home anymore.
I’m going to go through this day backwards because that is the way it is in my head right now. The last thing we did before returning to our guest house this evening was go swimming - in a pool, because they say the lakes here have all sorts of fascinating little viruses that are just waiting for a chance to get into your bloodstream and wreak some rather nasty kinds of havoc. So, we stuck with a pool. At a hotel. On top of a hill. Overlooking Lake Victoria. The view itself was priceless. The chance to swim with dear friends in clear blue water under a windy blue sky was even better. Although, I must say, when Candice and I decided it would be a good idea to swim ten laps, we weren’t functioning at our most brilliant level. I do believe I’m going to be a bit sore for the next couple days . . .
But as I stood there on top of that hill, looking across the dazzling cascade of peaks and valleys falling away to the horizon, I was awe-struck. I’m sure, God, that You don’t hold anything personal against Nebraska, for You’ve painted some of the most brilliant sunsets I’ve ever seen there. But when it comes to that live, pulsing color of green - and hills that roll away like ocean waves to where earth meets sky - and flowers that fall like fountains over tree and bush alike - well, Africa has us beat by a long shot. This country captivates me - its animals no less than its plants, its music no less than its animals, and its people more than them all. I shall be sorry to go, but I thank You, God, that You have brought me here now.
Before our swimming excursion, we had gone into downtown Kampala for a delicious lunch at a rather elegant restaurant. A Chinese restaurant actually. Which made me laugh because here we were, in Eastern Africa, of all places, sitting down with chop sticks and soy sauce. And before lunch, we’d toured the present MFL school, which is, just as they told us, much smaller of a space than they need it to be. We toured the facilities and saw classrooms for thirty children the size of my parent’s living room and dorm rooms barely as large as my bedroom with nine bunk-beds crammed in there. And the children consider themselves fortunate to be able to attend here. Most African children do not get to go to school at all. But MFL is working on a new site (see Day 31) which they hope to have completed early next year. Lord, bless their efforts.
Our dear translators were with us all day long and were a constant source of joy to us, as indeed they have been all these weeks here in Uganda. Has it been only three? It seems so much longer than that. I will miss these Africans, my Lord. There is a simplicity to their happiness and honesty that I fear I will desperately miss in America. Our team also is saying goodbye tomorrow. Molly, Miriam, and Kathy must catch their flight early in the morning, and in a few days, Jon and I will be following them. After that, Candice and LeeAnn are staying a bit longer, and then they will go their separate ways too. Back to the “real world,” eh? My home is in You, dear Lord. When all around me is changing - changing yet again - my home is in You. Lead on, gentle Savior.
I’m going to go through this day backwards because that is the way it is in my head right now. The last thing we did before returning to our guest house this evening was go swimming - in a pool, because they say the lakes here have all sorts of fascinating little viruses that are just waiting for a chance to get into your bloodstream and wreak some rather nasty kinds of havoc. So, we stuck with a pool. At a hotel. On top of a hill. Overlooking Lake Victoria. The view itself was priceless. The chance to swim with dear friends in clear blue water under a windy blue sky was even better. Although, I must say, when Candice and I decided it would be a good idea to swim ten laps, we weren’t functioning at our most brilliant level. I do believe I’m going to be a bit sore for the next couple days . . .
But as I stood there on top of that hill, looking across the dazzling cascade of peaks and valleys falling away to the horizon, I was awe-struck. I’m sure, God, that You don’t hold anything personal against Nebraska, for You’ve painted some of the most brilliant sunsets I’ve ever seen there. But when it comes to that live, pulsing color of green - and hills that roll away like ocean waves to where earth meets sky - and flowers that fall like fountains over tree and bush alike - well, Africa has us beat by a long shot. This country captivates me - its animals no less than its plants, its music no less than its animals, and its people more than them all. I shall be sorry to go, but I thank You, God, that You have brought me here now.
Before our swimming excursion, we had gone into downtown Kampala for a delicious lunch at a rather elegant restaurant. A Chinese restaurant actually. Which made me laugh because here we were, in Eastern Africa, of all places, sitting down with chop sticks and soy sauce. And before lunch, we’d toured the present MFL school, which is, just as they told us, much smaller of a space than they need it to be. We toured the facilities and saw classrooms for thirty children the size of my parent’s living room and dorm rooms barely as large as my bedroom with nine bunk-beds crammed in there. And the children consider themselves fortunate to be able to attend here. Most African children do not get to go to school at all. But MFL is working on a new site (see Day 31) which they hope to have completed early next year. Lord, bless their efforts.
Our dear translators were with us all day long and were a constant source of joy to us, as indeed they have been all these weeks here in Uganda. Has it been only three? It seems so much longer than that. I will miss these Africans, my Lord. There is a simplicity to their happiness and honesty that I fear I will desperately miss in America. Our team also is saying goodbye tomorrow. Molly, Miriam, and Kathy must catch their flight early in the morning, and in a few days, Jon and I will be following them. After that, Candice and LeeAnn are staying a bit longer, and then they will go their separate ways too. Back to the “real world,” eh? My home is in You, dear Lord. When all around me is changing - changing yet again - my home is in You. Lead on, gentle Savior.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Day 36: August 11, 2008
Today was our first and only work day in Uganda. We woke up bright and early and loaded into our van to go to Eden School to paint. At least that’s what they told us. What they didn’t tell us about is the affect of the red dirt here in Africa. During the dry season, it billows and blows on everything, and during the rainy season, it forms muddy puddles and lakes that splatter on everything. And all year round, it is in the habit of converging on positively anything wishing to be white and turning it into a rusty blush color.
The walls at Eden School are white. Were white, I should say. When we saw them, the first three feet up from the gray cement floor were already well into that rusting blush stage. So, instead of the anticipated paint brushes, they first handed us sandpaper. No power tools of any sort. Just a little square of rough paper, and away we went! Fifteen minutes into the work we were starting to look like some pretty severe cases of dandruff . . . Three hours later, we had become albinos, white hair and all!
The work itself, though a bit hard on the hands and arms (If anyone is looking for a work-out to tone arm muscles, I have a tested and proven suggestion for you.) was enjoyable because of the company. Our team and the African helpers are simply a joy. But we did find one thing rather discouraging. Scrubbing so furiously at wall after wall, watching the dust float up off the wall and plaster itself onto us, we wondered just how long these walls could manage to keep the pristine coat of white we were about to bestow upon them. I think we came up with three months as the optimist’s answer.
The students were actually in class during our work time. We had commandeered the first floor, so they moved into the two above us. But whenever the bell rang for break, dozens of children would come scampering down the stairs. At first, they only stared and shyly smiled, but then they did the unthinkable. Spotting the extra sandpaper on the table, they silently distributed the pieces among themselves and actually, without anyone asking them, began helping us! Can you imagine kids in an American school voluntarily giving up their recess to scrub walls? We were very impressed . . . Though I’m pretty sure it had less to do with a love of hard work and more to do with their fascination of us. They ended up every bit as grubby as we were - almost worse, for they found great hilarity in taking the white powdery stuff and rubbing it all over their faces and arms - but they grinned no less the widely for it!
The dear, helpful children.
The looks of light-headed nauseousness might have had something to do with the fact that we didn't actually get our masks till about an hour after we'd started scrubbing.
And so the work continued well past noon, until finally at 2:00, they announced a greatly appreciated lunch. We left a mere hour later, the walls looking a bit less grimy for our efforts, but by no means entirely white. The Brits are coming tomorrow to do their best to finish the job we started.
Back at the guest house to wash away our albino-ness with warm showers - oh, and the feel of clean! - and then to the hospital to check a strange rash on Jon’s arm. It is the most serious thing that happened to any of us during our trip, other than a few days of uncomfortableness that never turned into any grave illness, and it actually proved rather humorous. You see, this morning, Jon had emailed his mother saying he had something the matter with him, wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he was going to the hospital to have it checked out. That’s all he said. Well, you can imagine what effect that had on his poor mother back in Canada! A bit frantically, I’m sure, she called MFL (Music for Life), trying to figure out what was wrong with her probably dying son. MFL then contacted us via text message on LeeAnn’s phone, trying to figure out what was wrong with our probably dying Jon. At that point, we were nearly at the hospital, so we waited until we had the diagnosis. It was: an allergic reaction to the fuzz off a hairy caterpillar that had ostentatiously crawled across the grass that Jon had then sat on. Seriously. I’m not making this up. Try texting that one back to your mother back home who is busy trying not to imagine all the horrible ways there are for her dear son to die in Africa!
After informing Jon’s mother of his narrow escape from death, we traveled to a rather elegant guest house (not ours) for a farewell dinner with the Brits and all our beloved African helpers. We had an amazing time . . . Really, all that was missing was the darling children. Sitting down to a delicious feast under a dusky sky with birds and blossoms abounding, it really felt like a taste of Heaven. I sat at a table with some of my dearest friends from this trip, and we simply enjoyed each other. Then came a time of sharing, thanksgiving, and laughter. We never do get too far from laughter here. It is a good thing.
After listening to our beloved Africans sing some songs for us - and, oh, the harmony of those voices! - and having a quick run at one of our favorite games (Whossa? Messa? Not messa.), we were the speechless recipients of gifts from MFL. As if we hadn’t already received so much more than we could ever repay, they generously gave us all bags with CDs and coffee inside. And, later, they gave us freshly-printed shirts to memorialize our time here in Africa. Then it was time for hugs and goodbyes all around - but we will meet again, praise God!
One more taxi ride back “home,” and it was a weary, happy goodnight for us all. Dear God, as You have blessed me - as You have rained down torrents of such blessings as I am too full to describe - so make my life into such a blessing. For the glory of Your Name, my dear God. Tonight again someone encouraged me to go back to the States and record the African songs You gave me to write here. Father God, lead me on, and I will follow. I run after You with great joy as You have filled me up so abundantly. We are blessed. We are so incredibly blessed.
The walls at Eden School are white. Were white, I should say. When we saw them, the first three feet up from the gray cement floor were already well into that rusting blush stage. So, instead of the anticipated paint brushes, they first handed us sandpaper. No power tools of any sort. Just a little square of rough paper, and away we went! Fifteen minutes into the work we were starting to look like some pretty severe cases of dandruff . . . Three hours later, we had become albinos, white hair and all!
The work itself, though a bit hard on the hands and arms (If anyone is looking for a work-out to tone arm muscles, I have a tested and proven suggestion for you.) was enjoyable because of the company. Our team and the African helpers are simply a joy. But we did find one thing rather discouraging. Scrubbing so furiously at wall after wall, watching the dust float up off the wall and plaster itself onto us, we wondered just how long these walls could manage to keep the pristine coat of white we were about to bestow upon them. I think we came up with three months as the optimist’s answer.
The students were actually in class during our work time. We had commandeered the first floor, so they moved into the two above us. But whenever the bell rang for break, dozens of children would come scampering down the stairs. At first, they only stared and shyly smiled, but then they did the unthinkable. Spotting the extra sandpaper on the table, they silently distributed the pieces among themselves and actually, without anyone asking them, began helping us! Can you imagine kids in an American school voluntarily giving up their recess to scrub walls? We were very impressed . . . Though I’m pretty sure it had less to do with a love of hard work and more to do with their fascination of us. They ended up every bit as grubby as we were - almost worse, for they found great hilarity in taking the white powdery stuff and rubbing it all over their faces and arms - but they grinned no less the widely for it!
The dear, helpful children.
The looks of light-headed nauseousness might have had something to do with the fact that we didn't actually get our masks till about an hour after we'd started scrubbing.
And so the work continued well past noon, until finally at 2:00, they announced a greatly appreciated lunch. We left a mere hour later, the walls looking a bit less grimy for our efforts, but by no means entirely white. The Brits are coming tomorrow to do their best to finish the job we started.
Back at the guest house to wash away our albino-ness with warm showers - oh, and the feel of clean! - and then to the hospital to check a strange rash on Jon’s arm. It is the most serious thing that happened to any of us during our trip, other than a few days of uncomfortableness that never turned into any grave illness, and it actually proved rather humorous. You see, this morning, Jon had emailed his mother saying he had something the matter with him, wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he was going to the hospital to have it checked out. That’s all he said. Well, you can imagine what effect that had on his poor mother back in Canada! A bit frantically, I’m sure, she called MFL (Music for Life), trying to figure out what was wrong with her probably dying son. MFL then contacted us via text message on LeeAnn’s phone, trying to figure out what was wrong with our probably dying Jon. At that point, we were nearly at the hospital, so we waited until we had the diagnosis. It was: an allergic reaction to the fuzz off a hairy caterpillar that had ostentatiously crawled across the grass that Jon had then sat on. Seriously. I’m not making this up. Try texting that one back to your mother back home who is busy trying not to imagine all the horrible ways there are for her dear son to die in Africa!
After informing Jon’s mother of his narrow escape from death, we traveled to a rather elegant guest house (not ours) for a farewell dinner with the Brits and all our beloved African helpers. We had an amazing time . . . Really, all that was missing was the darling children. Sitting down to a delicious feast under a dusky sky with birds and blossoms abounding, it really felt like a taste of Heaven. I sat at a table with some of my dearest friends from this trip, and we simply enjoyed each other. Then came a time of sharing, thanksgiving, and laughter. We never do get too far from laughter here. It is a good thing.
After listening to our beloved Africans sing some songs for us - and, oh, the harmony of those voices! - and having a quick run at one of our favorite games (Whossa? Messa? Not messa.), we were the speechless recipients of gifts from MFL. As if we hadn’t already received so much more than we could ever repay, they generously gave us all bags with CDs and coffee inside. And, later, they gave us freshly-printed shirts to memorialize our time here in Africa. Then it was time for hugs and goodbyes all around - but we will meet again, praise God!
One more taxi ride back “home,” and it was a weary, happy goodnight for us all. Dear God, as You have blessed me - as You have rained down torrents of such blessings as I am too full to describe - so make my life into such a blessing. For the glory of Your Name, my dear God. Tonight again someone encouraged me to go back to the States and record the African songs You gave me to write here. Father God, lead me on, and I will follow. I run after You with great joy as You have filled me up so abundantly. We are blessed. We are so incredibly blessed.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Day 35: August 10, 2008
Dear God, my heart is so very full. Before You what do I say? Will I ever be able to actually understand all these things? Or am I to be simply overwhelmed for the rest of my life? We went to church this morning at Full Gospel (the same church we went to our first Sunday here in Uganda). I hold a great appreciation for that church. Walking through the sun-drenched open doors into the large, echoing sanctuary, there is an almost tangible feeling of Your Spirit in that place. It is a powerful presence, and it seems to be sadly rare in America and so all the more uplifting here. Today during worship, You gave me yet another picture. (I have yet to walk into that church and not hear from You, something else I am deeply blessed by.) It was a simple silhouette of a young woman, her right hand raised to Heaven, her left firmly grasped by the hand of a small child. Both standing still, faces lifted, silenced and amazed in the presence of God Almighty. It was like You were saying to me that You will use me to overflow Your love into the hearts of Your precious children - that You will flow through my outstretched hand to the hand of the dear child You let me hold. God in Heaven, I am overwhelmed.
The pastor told us a story today, a story of when he was younger. He grew up in the Catholic church, and near twenty years ago, he was attending the Catholic school just up the hill from where this church stands. In Uganda’s history, twenty years ago, the then-president, Idi Amin, ordered what amounted, in part, to a nation-wide persecution of Christians. As our pastor (who was only a student at the time) was in school one day, he happened to look down to this church when a group of soldiers pulled into the driveway. They began sorting through the congregation gathered there, asking who was a Christian. Some of the people said, “Oh, I do not belong to this church. I was just resting my feet on my way home.” Or, “I am only a visitor today. I do not really know what they believe here.” These people the soldiers let go. But there were others - people who stood up and said, “I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ.” These people the soldiers loaded up into a truck and drove them away. I do not know what happened to them.
The man who witnessed this went to his room that night, wondering what it was that had been so important to those people that they had put their lives on the line rather than deny it. That day began a domino effect that eventually led to this man’s salvation. And, as we witnessed, he is now the pastor of the very same church where he watched the soldiers come and take away those who professed Christ. God is amazing.
After church, we spent a lovely time at our guest house with the guitars on the front porch. Jon Paul added the rich music of the African drums. Then there was lunch and a long afternoon, followed this evening by a special trip to a place called Ndere. That’s pretty much all I knew about it when we got on the bus. Something about dancing . . .
Ndere, it turns out, is quite a professional little spot situated on lovely, tree-crowned grounds. A team of very talented Africans trains there and, once a week, they give a special performance. A traditional African dance performance. Dinner and drinks included. From the first beat of the drum, I (in my jealously-held front-row seat) was captivated. I’m sorry, but the camera just will not do it justice, though I have added a few pictures. But there were a few things that I simply could not catch on film. Such as . . .
Our MC for the evening, an outgoing African man in a funny cow-skin hat who never stopped smiling and cracking jokes, called up all the children mid-way through the performance. After rather shy introductions, the man grouped the kids into a circle and instructed them to do whatever he did. He started simply: raising his hand, stomping his foot; then progressed to more difficult moves, like spinning in circles. He soon had them all quite comfortable, giggling hysterically, and extravagantly imitating his every move. I believe they even did the butt-shaking dance at one point. We in the audience really couldn’t stop laughing, but we had no idea what the children’s sense of ease on stage foreboded for later. It was a good half-hour after the “dance” from the children when a little boy (near ten years of age, I should think) walked quite randomly across stage. And I shouldn’t say “walked.” It was strutting rather. Only every third step or so, he’d add this little spin and slide on his heels, then look out at the audience with an enormous grin, anticipating our applause. And that wasn’t all. A bit later, a tiny little girl - barely old enough to walk - wandered across stage, looking rather lost, like she might have misplaced her mother, but not at all shy. Unfortunately for her, she had left behind on the ground a rather important piece of underclothing, but was nonetheless toddling about with her dress held quite up over her head. It was hilarious!
And so they danced and beat on their drums till the sweat poured down their faces, and we cheered and laughed until our sides ached and our hands buzzed. The sun set over the hazy hills, the stars came out, and the ladies kept up with their butt-shaking dance that I am still completely in awe of. I don’t know how you manage it for three minutes, much less three hours! But the Africans possess a unique and thrilling grace in dance and music that I think I am more than a little jealous of. Their entire bodies respond with unstudied ease to the voice of the drums, and the shining excitement on their dark faces is a sight to behold. They own the heart of music, I think, more truly than I ever shall. But it is such a pleasure and privilege to watch them.
They danced for us some Rwandan dances, with the costumes of blue and green and the long head-dresses that I have seen before. It made me heartsick for all my dear friends back in the blue mountains of that country. The girls also performed one dance while balancing clay jars on their heads. They started off with one, and we were awed. They floated about with apparent nonchalance, stepping and bending as if there were no breakable containers on their heads. But then they advanced beyond that to two jars, one on top of the other, and we were floored again. But did they stop there? Oh, no. Three, then four, then five, and on and on, until the very last, an enormously talented 16-year-old girl had eight jars perfectly balanced on her head. Did I forget to mention that she was still dancing? With a microphone. And singing. And then she decided that wasn’t quite enough and took a little walk up a flight up steps. With eight jars on her head. I think we all had our mouths hung open by this time. I know what it means now to hold another person truly in awe.
Those are the highlights. How do I find words for everything? There is simply not time enough or room. It is now late. The dance went almost to 10:00 p.m., and we still had the ride back to the guest house afterwards. I am exhausted. Dear God, hold me in Your strength. Amen.
The pastor told us a story today, a story of when he was younger. He grew up in the Catholic church, and near twenty years ago, he was attending the Catholic school just up the hill from where this church stands. In Uganda’s history, twenty years ago, the then-president, Idi Amin, ordered what amounted, in part, to a nation-wide persecution of Christians. As our pastor (who was only a student at the time) was in school one day, he happened to look down to this church when a group of soldiers pulled into the driveway. They began sorting through the congregation gathered there, asking who was a Christian. Some of the people said, “Oh, I do not belong to this church. I was just resting my feet on my way home.” Or, “I am only a visitor today. I do not really know what they believe here.” These people the soldiers let go. But there were others - people who stood up and said, “I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ.” These people the soldiers loaded up into a truck and drove them away. I do not know what happened to them.
The man who witnessed this went to his room that night, wondering what it was that had been so important to those people that they had put their lives on the line rather than deny it. That day began a domino effect that eventually led to this man’s salvation. And, as we witnessed, he is now the pastor of the very same church where he watched the soldiers come and take away those who professed Christ. God is amazing.
After church, we spent a lovely time at our guest house with the guitars on the front porch. Jon Paul added the rich music of the African drums. Then there was lunch and a long afternoon, followed this evening by a special trip to a place called Ndere. That’s pretty much all I knew about it when we got on the bus. Something about dancing . . .
Ndere, it turns out, is quite a professional little spot situated on lovely, tree-crowned grounds. A team of very talented Africans trains there and, once a week, they give a special performance. A traditional African dance performance. Dinner and drinks included. From the first beat of the drum, I (in my jealously-held front-row seat) was captivated. I’m sorry, but the camera just will not do it justice, though I have added a few pictures. But there were a few things that I simply could not catch on film. Such as . . .
Our MC for the evening, an outgoing African man in a funny cow-skin hat who never stopped smiling and cracking jokes, called up all the children mid-way through the performance. After rather shy introductions, the man grouped the kids into a circle and instructed them to do whatever he did. He started simply: raising his hand, stomping his foot; then progressed to more difficult moves, like spinning in circles. He soon had them all quite comfortable, giggling hysterically, and extravagantly imitating his every move. I believe they even did the butt-shaking dance at one point. We in the audience really couldn’t stop laughing, but we had no idea what the children’s sense of ease on stage foreboded for later. It was a good half-hour after the “dance” from the children when a little boy (near ten years of age, I should think) walked quite randomly across stage. And I shouldn’t say “walked.” It was strutting rather. Only every third step or so, he’d add this little spin and slide on his heels, then look out at the audience with an enormous grin, anticipating our applause. And that wasn’t all. A bit later, a tiny little girl - barely old enough to walk - wandered across stage, looking rather lost, like she might have misplaced her mother, but not at all shy. Unfortunately for her, she had left behind on the ground a rather important piece of underclothing, but was nonetheless toddling about with her dress held quite up over her head. It was hilarious!
And so they danced and beat on their drums till the sweat poured down their faces, and we cheered and laughed until our sides ached and our hands buzzed. The sun set over the hazy hills, the stars came out, and the ladies kept up with their butt-shaking dance that I am still completely in awe of. I don’t know how you manage it for three minutes, much less three hours! But the Africans possess a unique and thrilling grace in dance and music that I think I am more than a little jealous of. Their entire bodies respond with unstudied ease to the voice of the drums, and the shining excitement on their dark faces is a sight to behold. They own the heart of music, I think, more truly than I ever shall. But it is such a pleasure and privilege to watch them.
They danced for us some Rwandan dances, with the costumes of blue and green and the long head-dresses that I have seen before. It made me heartsick for all my dear friends back in the blue mountains of that country. The girls also performed one dance while balancing clay jars on their heads. They started off with one, and we were awed. They floated about with apparent nonchalance, stepping and bending as if there were no breakable containers on their heads. But then they advanced beyond that to two jars, one on top of the other, and we were floored again. But did they stop there? Oh, no. Three, then four, then five, and on and on, until the very last, an enormously talented 16-year-old girl had eight jars perfectly balanced on her head. Did I forget to mention that she was still dancing? With a microphone. And singing. And then she decided that wasn’t quite enough and took a little walk up a flight up steps. With eight jars on her head. I think we all had our mouths hung open by this time. I know what it means now to hold another person truly in awe.
Those are the highlights. How do I find words for everything? There is simply not time enough or room. It is now late. The dance went almost to 10:00 p.m., and we still had the ride back to the guest house afterwards. I am exhausted. Dear God, hold me in Your strength. Amen.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Day 34: August 9, 2008
Saturday . . . a day of rest and relaxation. So much so that I have found almost nothing to write about today. Just before noon, we had team debriefing for a couple hours, which did seem to drag on a bit. But I suppose that is due more to my lack of interest in meetings than any detriment in the actual structured conversations. One of the things I did appreciate about the debriefing was our time of affirming one another. Jon is amazing at music; Molly never lacks crazy ideas to share with kids; Candice is tirelessly helpful. Etc, etc, etc. It was soothing to hear words of encouragement at the end of a trip that has been at times rather discouraging. I must admit, God, there were moments when I simply disliked being a part of this particular team. Fresh from the unforced cheerfulness of Rwanda, it was hard to adjust at first to a team that gave me the initial feeling of, “Oh, great - I’m back in America again!” But, my Lord, I have seen You bless others through our struggling selves. I have seen the children grin widely because of something we as a team gave them. I have heard Your Name glorified again and again. Here is the positive. You led us all here, Father, so very blatantly, and You have done well to bring us here.
We did get to enjoy one brief shopping adventure this afternoon at a local craft market. I really felt very immensely rich. Although I didn’t want to buy many of the things up for sale, I could have with the money I had with me, and that was the point. I think that is the thing, regardless of how much actual cash you are carrying, that makes you feel wealthy: the ability, with or without the desire, to buy whatever is in front of you. In Africa, they are firm supporters of the bargaining system, which is something I have greatly missed in America and greatly enjoyed today!
Eva and John Paul (two of our favorite translators) spent the afternoon with us. They had been away from camp this last week except for one evening, and it was good to see them again. But, dear God, I feel an ache in my chest when I remember that I have to leave this place - these people. I’ve already said too many goodbyes; must there soon be more? I do not want to say them. These people have filled my days with such radiant smiles and glorious outpourings of deeply sincere love. It is hard to accept leaving them, especially not knowing when we might meet again. But, Father God, I thank You all the more for Home - for the family we shall be when we reach those dear golden shores, for the sweetness of knowing all Eternity awaits us. I have been asked many times how I have stood to say goodbye to so many friends. “Doesn’t it break your heart?” is what they are asking. My unshakable hope in the reality of Your Heaven is my only answer. This world is really only a very short goodbye, if goodbye it must be, and we’ve all of forever to more than make up for that.
For now, Jesus, I ask You to hold my hand. You, my Breath, my Life, You are sufficient. Again and again You have proven Yourself, my Lord. I lack nothing because You are with me. There is nothing in You that I do not have - nothing in You that is incomplete. Jesus, You have my heart. I fall at Your feet and surrender to You my everything. Holy God, take all of me. I am Yours completely. Lead me on, dearest Savior. Amen.
We did get to enjoy one brief shopping adventure this afternoon at a local craft market. I really felt very immensely rich. Although I didn’t want to buy many of the things up for sale, I could have with the money I had with me, and that was the point. I think that is the thing, regardless of how much actual cash you are carrying, that makes you feel wealthy: the ability, with or without the desire, to buy whatever is in front of you. In Africa, they are firm supporters of the bargaining system, which is something I have greatly missed in America and greatly enjoyed today!
Eva and John Paul (two of our favorite translators) spent the afternoon with us. They had been away from camp this last week except for one evening, and it was good to see them again. But, dear God, I feel an ache in my chest when I remember that I have to leave this place - these people. I’ve already said too many goodbyes; must there soon be more? I do not want to say them. These people have filled my days with such radiant smiles and glorious outpourings of deeply sincere love. It is hard to accept leaving them, especially not knowing when we might meet again. But, Father God, I thank You all the more for Home - for the family we shall be when we reach those dear golden shores, for the sweetness of knowing all Eternity awaits us. I have been asked many times how I have stood to say goodbye to so many friends. “Doesn’t it break your heart?” is what they are asking. My unshakable hope in the reality of Your Heaven is my only answer. This world is really only a very short goodbye, if goodbye it must be, and we’ve all of forever to more than make up for that.
For now, Jesus, I ask You to hold my hand. You, my Breath, my Life, You are sufficient. Again and again You have proven Yourself, my Lord. I lack nothing because You are with me. There is nothing in You that I do not have - nothing in You that is incomplete. Jesus, You have my heart. I fall at Your feet and surrender to You my everything. Holy God, take all of me. I am Yours completely. Lead me on, dearest Savior. Amen.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Day 33: August 8, 2008
My precious Heavenly Father, I think I am the richest person in all the world. I do not see how anyone, even with whole bank-fulls of money, could possibly know themselves to be more blessed, more content, more loved than I am. My God, from the depths of my heart, I thank You.
Today was our last day of camp at Nabinoonya. We woke early and tired after last night - but You have blessed us with good health and rest, and we are grateful. This morning just before lunch You granted us sunshine and a nice little breeze that made perfect weather for the treasure hunt we had planned. Molly, Candice, Jon, and I scurried about for half an hour, hiding clues and double checking map coordinates, while the others distracted the kids (I think they were doing some art project). We very nearly lost a clue to an over-zealous camp worker, but after some rather worried searching, we recovered it. Then we lined up all the kids (they had no idea what was coming) and announced our surprise. Their faces pulsed excitement like the beat of their drums, but they listened very intently, albeit fidgeting, while I explained the rules. But the moment I passed the teams their map and first clue, the silence was gone!
As the “genius mastermind” (note: this title may be debatable) behind the idea, it was my solemn duty to dart aimlessly about the camp, trying to be in the right place at the right time to help whatever team was presently in a quandary utterly beyond their skill. I also got to take pictures. Which was a bit difficult in the midst of all that running and laughing and shouting exhortations and giving out hints without being too obvious or too vague. But I did manage a few snapshots - some of them even made it to the camera; the rest are in my mind:
. . . The frenzied way they’d dash from clue to clue, some in each team inevitably lagging behind, panting, but all laughing . . .
The boys leaping on top of the stone elephant (wild and potentially dangerous according to the clue!) . . .
Inside the hut next to the lake, a little girl, in dire straights to find a quality she was thankful for for the little boy sitting next to her, finally blurting out, “I thank God for you . . . because you are handsome” . . .
The girls on the yellow team stretching their arms to the utmost (you could tell by the happy little grimaces they were making) to complete the circle and hug one of the round huts that serve as cabins . . .
. . . The grimaces on the faces of the girls when, for the human pyramid, the boys made them make the first row, so they could climb up on the second! I don’t think they’d ever actually made a human pyramid before . . .
Another team down amongst the grand trees, singing, “Jesus is my King.” (Remember the hated theme song?) I wasn’t anywhere near them, but I heard their voices from across camp . . .
The teams, one and all, launching themselves off the wall, arms flailing, mouths wide open (Because, really, why would you jump off a wall without your mouth wide open?).
Dear God, it was truly marvelous.
After the grand finish of the best scavenger hunt ever (we gave everyone suckers), we enjoyed another delicious lunch of rice and some sort of stew. Although, I do have to admit, the meat was a little iffy. When it takes more than five minutes to chew it, you start wondering . . . At 2:30, we attended a rather long awards ceremony for the academic semester, since, after all, this was a school of children we had camp with. It was quite interesting to hear some of the awards they gave out though. There were the standard, “Best Student in Math,” “Most Improved,” “Best Athlete.” That sort of thing. Then came the “Cleanliness Award.” We decided it was because when you’re working with a school of children who are coming out of, really, very poor homes, you can’t take cleanliness as a guaranteed habit. As the ceremony drew to a close, they invited us all up so we could tell each other thank you for the incredible week at camp. To express their gratitude, the entire group of children sang “Friends Are Friends Forever.” Nothing against Michael W. Smith, but I’d rather hear the African kids sing that song than him any day. Every day of camp, they would start the morning with devotions that included singing. The treasure of hearing truly gifted children join their sweet, clear voices together in sincere worship moved me every time. I do not think I can ever forget the music those children made as they sang in such angelic, effortless harmony.
At the close of the ceremony (and time for us to say goodbye), the entire crowd of children rushed on stage and overwhelmed us with hugs. They are such little darlings. There was one little boy (I think he had been one of the naughtier ones in our music sessions) who was counting the number of hugs he could give Uncle Jon. “One,” he started, then let a few other kids in line have a turn before he snuck back in and counted, “Two . . . three . . .” and so on. Oh, how we will miss them!
We said goodbye to the Brits (though not for the last time!), abandoned our peaceful nunnery, and, with bags packed yet again and hearts running over, returned to Adonai Guest House in Kampala. I am writing this from “home sweet home,” but I think the silence, though restful, is also a bit sad. Our camps are over, it is hard to believe! It seems years ago, and yet only a handful of days, that I left the States. You, Father, have filled my heart with such joy, such love, such dreams, such hope, such gratefulness. I praise You. I told the children today that my favorite thing at camp was their smiles. I love to see them smile, and I thank You, Jesus, for the multitude of grins You have sent my way.
I pray for the children, Lord. I thank You for their dear hearts before You and Your overflowing heart for them. Father God, carry Your children. Wrap them up in Your arms, hold them as the apple of Your eyes, guard them in the shadow of Your wings, keep them close to Your heart every day of their lives. They go tomorrow to their homes for a three-week holiday before returning to school for the next semester. Some of their home situations are not good, and my heart bleeds for the things these children must face. Immanuel, God with us, pour out Your love upon Your children. Amen.
Today was our last day of camp at Nabinoonya. We woke early and tired after last night - but You have blessed us with good health and rest, and we are grateful. This morning just before lunch You granted us sunshine and a nice little breeze that made perfect weather for the treasure hunt we had planned. Molly, Candice, Jon, and I scurried about for half an hour, hiding clues and double checking map coordinates, while the others distracted the kids (I think they were doing some art project). We very nearly lost a clue to an over-zealous camp worker, but after some rather worried searching, we recovered it. Then we lined up all the kids (they had no idea what was coming) and announced our surprise. Their faces pulsed excitement like the beat of their drums, but they listened very intently, albeit fidgeting, while I explained the rules. But the moment I passed the teams their map and first clue, the silence was gone!
As the “genius mastermind” (note: this title may be debatable) behind the idea, it was my solemn duty to dart aimlessly about the camp, trying to be in the right place at the right time to help whatever team was presently in a quandary utterly beyond their skill. I also got to take pictures. Which was a bit difficult in the midst of all that running and laughing and shouting exhortations and giving out hints without being too obvious or too vague. But I did manage a few snapshots - some of them even made it to the camera; the rest are in my mind:
. . . The frenzied way they’d dash from clue to clue, some in each team inevitably lagging behind, panting, but all laughing . . .
The boys leaping on top of the stone elephant (wild and potentially dangerous according to the clue!) . . .
Inside the hut next to the lake, a little girl, in dire straights to find a quality she was thankful for for the little boy sitting next to her, finally blurting out, “I thank God for you . . . because you are handsome” . . .
The girls on the yellow team stretching their arms to the utmost (you could tell by the happy little grimaces they were making) to complete the circle and hug one of the round huts that serve as cabins . . .
. . . The grimaces on the faces of the girls when, for the human pyramid, the boys made them make the first row, so they could climb up on the second! I don’t think they’d ever actually made a human pyramid before . . .
Another team down amongst the grand trees, singing, “Jesus is my King.” (Remember the hated theme song?) I wasn’t anywhere near them, but I heard their voices from across camp . . .
The teams, one and all, launching themselves off the wall, arms flailing, mouths wide open (Because, really, why would you jump off a wall without your mouth wide open?).
Dear God, it was truly marvelous.
After the grand finish of the best scavenger hunt ever (we gave everyone suckers), we enjoyed another delicious lunch of rice and some sort of stew. Although, I do have to admit, the meat was a little iffy. When it takes more than five minutes to chew it, you start wondering . . . At 2:30, we attended a rather long awards ceremony for the academic semester, since, after all, this was a school of children we had camp with. It was quite interesting to hear some of the awards they gave out though. There were the standard, “Best Student in Math,” “Most Improved,” “Best Athlete.” That sort of thing. Then came the “Cleanliness Award.” We decided it was because when you’re working with a school of children who are coming out of, really, very poor homes, you can’t take cleanliness as a guaranteed habit. As the ceremony drew to a close, they invited us all up so we could tell each other thank you for the incredible week at camp. To express their gratitude, the entire group of children sang “Friends Are Friends Forever.” Nothing against Michael W. Smith, but I’d rather hear the African kids sing that song than him any day. Every day of camp, they would start the morning with devotions that included singing. The treasure of hearing truly gifted children join their sweet, clear voices together in sincere worship moved me every time. I do not think I can ever forget the music those children made as they sang in such angelic, effortless harmony.
At the close of the ceremony (and time for us to say goodbye), the entire crowd of children rushed on stage and overwhelmed us with hugs. They are such little darlings. There was one little boy (I think he had been one of the naughtier ones in our music sessions) who was counting the number of hugs he could give Uncle Jon. “One,” he started, then let a few other kids in line have a turn before he snuck back in and counted, “Two . . . three . . .” and so on. Oh, how we will miss them!
We said goodbye to the Brits (though not for the last time!), abandoned our peaceful nunnery, and, with bags packed yet again and hearts running over, returned to Adonai Guest House in Kampala. I am writing this from “home sweet home,” but I think the silence, though restful, is also a bit sad. Our camps are over, it is hard to believe! It seems years ago, and yet only a handful of days, that I left the States. You, Father, have filled my heart with such joy, such love, such dreams, such hope, such gratefulness. I praise You. I told the children today that my favorite thing at camp was their smiles. I love to see them smile, and I thank You, Jesus, for the multitude of grins You have sent my way.
I pray for the children, Lord. I thank You for their dear hearts before You and Your overflowing heart for them. Father God, carry Your children. Wrap them up in Your arms, hold them as the apple of Your eyes, guard them in the shadow of Your wings, keep them close to Your heart every day of their lives. They go tomorrow to their homes for a three-week holiday before returning to school for the next semester. Some of their home situations are not good, and my heart bleeds for the things these children must face. Immanuel, God with us, pour out Your love upon Your children. Amen.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Day 32: August 7, 2008
I am so immensely loved. Jesus, Your love, Your life, Your joy - You amaze me, my Savior. I praise You.
It rained on us this morning towards the end of the first session. A fistful of chilliness came rushing down on us through the tops of the trees, and when we looked up, we saw the low, gray sky moving in. So, we gathered up our drums, guitars, and ourselves, and headed across camp towards the only empty shelter, a slightly leaky hut on a hill beside the lake. From there, we held a magnificent view of the rainy masses thundering steadily towards us, like an army sweeping battalion by battalion onto the battle field. The children huddled close together in jackets and sweatshirts quickly pulled from empty cabin rooms and watched in silent awe the power of creation, all the while doing their best to evade the dripping spots as much as possible. When the silence grew tiresome, they requested a repeat of the story of the princess and the frog. It was the girls who first asked, and I wasn’t quite sure what the boys would think of the idea, so I turned to them with the question, “Do you want to hear a story about a princess?” American boys might have hesitated, thinking it would seem unmanly to be interested in such a tale, but not these boys! “Yes, Auntie!” they enthusiastically replied. So, I told the story. I have never had a better setting or a more rapt audience.
The downpour dissolved before lunch, and the sun burst out with a brilliance that seemed intent on making up for the grimness of before. The two made a lovely contrast. In the meantime, we’d happily found the time to finish preparations for a surprise treasure hunt planned for tomorrow. And, with the sun shining once more, we got to follow through with the water balloon fight we had prepared for everyone, younger kids, older kids, Brits, and Westerners all included! It was fantastic fun filled with cheerful screaming and laughingly-uttered threats, and I’m sure you can imagine we all ended a bit wetter than when we’d begun.
After drying off (ie: changing shirts, but the drenched jeans sadly didn’t have a substitute), we ate, then prepared for our evening of presentations. All the things the kids have been practicing they got to perform tonight in our main hall. It was filled to the brim with rather disorderly rows of plastic chairs, and at a word, the groups would tromp up on-stage to perform as quickly as possible before bashfully scampering back to their seats. And this from children who have sung and danced before hundreds! I found it quite amusing. Jon and I directed music again for our four groups, and they did a marvelous job. We also got to watch the older children (the Brit’s groups) perform short skits, songs, and dances, all of which they’ve created in the past four days. Very impressive! Abraham, Barnett, and Henry were even called up to do a short traditional dance - the, uh, “butt shaking” one actually. The kids positively howled with laughter.
To start off the performances, the Brits had showed a five-minute movie clip of pictures and verses made into a love letter from God to us. It provided the perfect intro to the songs I got a chance to share, once again, with the children. Into the hush of a large group of very silent children, I sang first the Kinyarwanda song (as some of these children hail from Rwanda), and then the Luganda song. It was so quiet, and then they just erupted in cheering and clapping all the way back to my seat. I was touched, my Lord - albeit, a bit embarrassed. To see their hearts so moved . . . moved me. I thank You, Jesus. I praise You for this opportunity to share.
The man who was filming for the evening (a man in his forties, I would guess, who I also learned later is the cook at the MFL school) came up to me afterwards and said, “God bless you,” with such a big smile on his face. He said the song made him cry. A group of older girls (one of which, if you remember, was Rachel, who “preached” at the bonfire) thanked me for the song, then quite energetically encouraged me to sing more in Luganda - to even learn the language - and to go back to America and record the song so I could send it back to them. My Lord, it was such a support for me to hear these children urging me to do exactly what You had already put in my heart to do once I return to the States.
But nothing moved me more - as Karim’s silently offered piece of candy had in Rwanda scant weeks ago - than when Douglas saw me. He is the same Douglas who wears a funny little black hat and who was sick not so many days ago. He looked over at me and said simply, “I’ve never heard a mzungu (“white person”) sing in my own language before.” It was as if all the children of Africa looked up at me with that one sentence and said, “We just want to be loved. Will you love us?” And, oh, God . . . that is why I sang. To be able to touch these precious children in the deepest way possible through music in words that they understand in their hearts. To give them this small gift that You have given me - and through the gift, to show them that they are most sincerely, most deeply adored. To be able to share with them in the language they know the truth of Your love and care for them . . . I thank You so very much, Jesus.
Dear Emma came to give me a big hug - and carry out my guitar again. He carries my guitar everywhere - he is not the first willing volunteer for this task - and it is a simple token of his appreciation, and I am touched. He came to sit by me at lunch earlier, while I was on the wall eating with a group of other mzungus. The dear child steered himself over and plopped down right next to me as if he couldn’t possibly belong so well in any other place at camp.
The children came for their goodnight hugs, and then we had to leave - and so hurriedly too! - as it was late and it had been rather a long day. So there you have it - a God-blessed day of moved hearts . . . of touched lives. May we be changed to become more like You. Your character, Jehovah, is magnificent. Your plans and the work You put into motion is so fascinating, so fantastic. I stand in awe of You tonight - of what You have done, what You are doing, what You will do.
* Note from today: Since returning to the States, God has given me the opportunity, not once, but twice, to share the Luganda song with children from Uganda who have come here to Nebraska with different choirs to sing and raise awareness for their brothers and sisters back home. Each time I sing for the children in their language, I am deeply blessed, and I praise God that He has allowed me to continue singing to the African children even back here in America. As of right now, I have not gone to the studio to record the song for the children, but I have complete confidence in God that He will provide the opportunity when His time is right.
It rained on us this morning towards the end of the first session. A fistful of chilliness came rushing down on us through the tops of the trees, and when we looked up, we saw the low, gray sky moving in. So, we gathered up our drums, guitars, and ourselves, and headed across camp towards the only empty shelter, a slightly leaky hut on a hill beside the lake. From there, we held a magnificent view of the rainy masses thundering steadily towards us, like an army sweeping battalion by battalion onto the battle field. The children huddled close together in jackets and sweatshirts quickly pulled from empty cabin rooms and watched in silent awe the power of creation, all the while doing their best to evade the dripping spots as much as possible. When the silence grew tiresome, they requested a repeat of the story of the princess and the frog. It was the girls who first asked, and I wasn’t quite sure what the boys would think of the idea, so I turned to them with the question, “Do you want to hear a story about a princess?” American boys might have hesitated, thinking it would seem unmanly to be interested in such a tale, but not these boys! “Yes, Auntie!” they enthusiastically replied. So, I told the story. I have never had a better setting or a more rapt audience.
The downpour dissolved before lunch, and the sun burst out with a brilliance that seemed intent on making up for the grimness of before. The two made a lovely contrast. In the meantime, we’d happily found the time to finish preparations for a surprise treasure hunt planned for tomorrow. And, with the sun shining once more, we got to follow through with the water balloon fight we had prepared for everyone, younger kids, older kids, Brits, and Westerners all included! It was fantastic fun filled with cheerful screaming and laughingly-uttered threats, and I’m sure you can imagine we all ended a bit wetter than when we’d begun.
After drying off (ie: changing shirts, but the drenched jeans sadly didn’t have a substitute), we ate, then prepared for our evening of presentations. All the things the kids have been practicing they got to perform tonight in our main hall. It was filled to the brim with rather disorderly rows of plastic chairs, and at a word, the groups would tromp up on-stage to perform as quickly as possible before bashfully scampering back to their seats. And this from children who have sung and danced before hundreds! I found it quite amusing. Jon and I directed music again for our four groups, and they did a marvelous job. We also got to watch the older children (the Brit’s groups) perform short skits, songs, and dances, all of which they’ve created in the past four days. Very impressive! Abraham, Barnett, and Henry were even called up to do a short traditional dance - the, uh, “butt shaking” one actually. The kids positively howled with laughter.
To start off the performances, the Brits had showed a five-minute movie clip of pictures and verses made into a love letter from God to us. It provided the perfect intro to the songs I got a chance to share, once again, with the children. Into the hush of a large group of very silent children, I sang first the Kinyarwanda song (as some of these children hail from Rwanda), and then the Luganda song. It was so quiet, and then they just erupted in cheering and clapping all the way back to my seat. I was touched, my Lord - albeit, a bit embarrassed. To see their hearts so moved . . . moved me. I thank You, Jesus. I praise You for this opportunity to share.
The man who was filming for the evening (a man in his forties, I would guess, who I also learned later is the cook at the MFL school) came up to me afterwards and said, “God bless you,” with such a big smile on his face. He said the song made him cry. A group of older girls (one of which, if you remember, was Rachel, who “preached” at the bonfire) thanked me for the song, then quite energetically encouraged me to sing more in Luganda - to even learn the language - and to go back to America and record the song so I could send it back to them. My Lord, it was such a support for me to hear these children urging me to do exactly what You had already put in my heart to do once I return to the States.
But nothing moved me more - as Karim’s silently offered piece of candy had in Rwanda scant weeks ago - than when Douglas saw me. He is the same Douglas who wears a funny little black hat and who was sick not so many days ago. He looked over at me and said simply, “I’ve never heard a mzungu (“white person”) sing in my own language before.” It was as if all the children of Africa looked up at me with that one sentence and said, “We just want to be loved. Will you love us?” And, oh, God . . . that is why I sang. To be able to touch these precious children in the deepest way possible through music in words that they understand in their hearts. To give them this small gift that You have given me - and through the gift, to show them that they are most sincerely, most deeply adored. To be able to share with them in the language they know the truth of Your love and care for them . . . I thank You so very much, Jesus.
Dear Emma came to give me a big hug - and carry out my guitar again. He carries my guitar everywhere - he is not the first willing volunteer for this task - and it is a simple token of his appreciation, and I am touched. He came to sit by me at lunch earlier, while I was on the wall eating with a group of other mzungus. The dear child steered himself over and plopped down right next to me as if he couldn’t possibly belong so well in any other place at camp.
The children came for their goodnight hugs, and then we had to leave - and so hurriedly too! - as it was late and it had been rather a long day. So there you have it - a God-blessed day of moved hearts . . . of touched lives. May we be changed to become more like You. Your character, Jehovah, is magnificent. Your plans and the work You put into motion is so fascinating, so fantastic. I stand in awe of You tonight - of what You have done, what You are doing, what You will do.
* Note from today: Since returning to the States, God has given me the opportunity, not once, but twice, to share the Luganda song with children from Uganda who have come here to Nebraska with different choirs to sing and raise awareness for their brothers and sisters back home. Each time I sing for the children in their language, I am deeply blessed, and I praise God that He has allowed me to continue singing to the African children even back here in America. As of right now, I have not gone to the studio to record the song for the children, but I have complete confidence in God that He will provide the opportunity when His time is right.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Day 31: August 6, 2008
You give us beautiful days, Jesus. I thank You from the bottom of my heart.
Today we tried the very American game of Capture the Flag with the kids. It sort of worked. They quickly caught on to the idea of pouncing on anyone who came over to their side from the other team. The idea of themselves racing across the line in search of their hidden flag was a bit more abstract. With such lopsidedly defensive philosophies in effect, it was rather humorous to see them standing there on either side of the line, trying to taunt and tease the other team into coming over, all the while themselves being too nervous to make the attempt! Nobody actually won in the end, but they all went to lunch afterwards smiling, so I think it’s fair to count it a success.
Jon and I practiced the songs with the kids in their groups again today . . . It is actually the nearest yet I’ve come to being annoyed with the children. There were an aggravating few in each group - in one group, practically the whole lot of them! - who were just so lazy. They would sing and dance so obviously half-heartedly, and I would encourage them to put some energy into it, and they would - for all of five seconds. But the moment I looked away, they were back to their lackadaisical half-efforts. They were being so . . . so American! And then I had to laugh at myself. Was it really possible that in only a few short weeks, I had accustomed myself so utterly to my almost-hero status with the dear little black children that when they responded to me like they might a normal, everyday teacher, I was offended?
In less serious news, the red team cut out the falsetto “washes, washes” part from their song today. We took a popular vote, and, with the duetist’s hearty approval, the measure passed to cut the improv. Their reasoning behind the decision they told me quite earnestly, “But, Auntie, we will lose the competition. We will lose!” I was more or less heartbroken, but we were in a democracy, and there wasn’t much I could do unless I had issued a presidential veto or rigged the votes. I didn’t think as a role model I should stoop to that.
At the close of our sessions this afternoon, we crowded into our bus with the Brits to go for a quick view of the MFL school-in-progress building site. You see, the school where they are now teaching the former choir children is so small, they are in desperate need of new facilities. They hope to have the project completed by January - but that will depend largely on finances. I love to walk through half-finished buildings, and it was very impressive to know that the hardworking Africans had done all this work with nothing but hand tools! I’m sure any construction workers back in America would be even more impressed than I was.
We returned to the camp with dusk settling in, and ourselves perhaps a bit sleepy - but what was coming next would be worth every hour we were going to miss of sleep! After enjoying a lovely dinner, we gathered our plastic chairs into a circle for another true African bonfire. The children danced and sang for us - clapping all the while and every so often letting out an ear-piercing chant/shriek of some sort that sounded very tribal and would take a lot of courage to do at a church in America. Those who had something special to sing to us, or say, all got a turn. I have to admit, when the two mid-teenage boys got up to sing and their voices cracked, the audience was not very kind to them. But our hearts were touched. A young lady, Rachel, stood up in the face of all her peers and preached something that sounded very like a sermon. We had our turn too, as they rather unexpectedly invited us up to try our best at copying a dance we had seen them do. We call it the “butt shaking” dance, and it’s rather self-explanatory. I should add also that I for one failed miserably in my imitation - and I’m sure I was not the only one! Judging from our audience’s laughter though, I’d say we were a huge hit!
So, the day - and the evening especially - was full of laughter and fun. But I do not think I ever had more fun today than I did with a little boy named Emma (yes, I know, it’s a girl’s name; we were confused at first too). This evening before the bonfire, he volunteered to help me get my guitar. As the sun had gone down already, the hall leading to the room with my guitar in it was quite dark. If there was a light switch, I never saw it, and neither of us had a flashlight. So, we decided to make a game of it. We’d creep halfway down the hall, whispering furiously to one another to, “Be quiet!” Then, at any moment the impulse took us, we’d pretend we saw some huge, terrifying monster, scream something unintelligible that meant, “Run for your lives!!” and tear back down the hall for all we were worth. It took all of ten minutes to actually gain the safety of the room, dive under the table, grab the guitar, and dash out again in one piece. It was hilarious!
I thank You for this day, my Lord. For all their quirks and irritations, these children are utterly precious. Lead me to love them as You love them. I cannot capture today in words. I am tired, and everything in this past month is starting to blur together. But I love You, and I love what You are doing. I will follow. My Good Shepherd, lead me on. Amen.
Oh, and Douglas said he was feeling better today. I praise You for that.
Our attempt at Capture the Flag.
At the end of the game . . . Pretty sure you could call this a good ending.
The school-in-progress building sight.
Every brick made and laid by hand. Impressive, isn't it?
Today we tried the very American game of Capture the Flag with the kids. It sort of worked. They quickly caught on to the idea of pouncing on anyone who came over to their side from the other team. The idea of themselves racing across the line in search of their hidden flag was a bit more abstract. With such lopsidedly defensive philosophies in effect, it was rather humorous to see them standing there on either side of the line, trying to taunt and tease the other team into coming over, all the while themselves being too nervous to make the attempt! Nobody actually won in the end, but they all went to lunch afterwards smiling, so I think it’s fair to count it a success.
Jon and I practiced the songs with the kids in their groups again today . . . It is actually the nearest yet I’ve come to being annoyed with the children. There were an aggravating few in each group - in one group, practically the whole lot of them! - who were just so lazy. They would sing and dance so obviously half-heartedly, and I would encourage them to put some energy into it, and they would - for all of five seconds. But the moment I looked away, they were back to their lackadaisical half-efforts. They were being so . . . so American! And then I had to laugh at myself. Was it really possible that in only a few short weeks, I had accustomed myself so utterly to my almost-hero status with the dear little black children that when they responded to me like they might a normal, everyday teacher, I was offended?
In less serious news, the red team cut out the falsetto “washes, washes” part from their song today. We took a popular vote, and, with the duetist’s hearty approval, the measure passed to cut the improv. Their reasoning behind the decision they told me quite earnestly, “But, Auntie, we will lose the competition. We will lose!” I was more or less heartbroken, but we were in a democracy, and there wasn’t much I could do unless I had issued a presidential veto or rigged the votes. I didn’t think as a role model I should stoop to that.
At the close of our sessions this afternoon, we crowded into our bus with the Brits to go for a quick view of the MFL school-in-progress building site. You see, the school where they are now teaching the former choir children is so small, they are in desperate need of new facilities. They hope to have the project completed by January - but that will depend largely on finances. I love to walk through half-finished buildings, and it was very impressive to know that the hardworking Africans had done all this work with nothing but hand tools! I’m sure any construction workers back in America would be even more impressed than I was.
We returned to the camp with dusk settling in, and ourselves perhaps a bit sleepy - but what was coming next would be worth every hour we were going to miss of sleep! After enjoying a lovely dinner, we gathered our plastic chairs into a circle for another true African bonfire. The children danced and sang for us - clapping all the while and every so often letting out an ear-piercing chant/shriek of some sort that sounded very tribal and would take a lot of courage to do at a church in America. Those who had something special to sing to us, or say, all got a turn. I have to admit, when the two mid-teenage boys got up to sing and their voices cracked, the audience was not very kind to them. But our hearts were touched. A young lady, Rachel, stood up in the face of all her peers and preached something that sounded very like a sermon. We had our turn too, as they rather unexpectedly invited us up to try our best at copying a dance we had seen them do. We call it the “butt shaking” dance, and it’s rather self-explanatory. I should add also that I for one failed miserably in my imitation - and I’m sure I was not the only one! Judging from our audience’s laughter though, I’d say we were a huge hit!
So, the day - and the evening especially - was full of laughter and fun. But I do not think I ever had more fun today than I did with a little boy named Emma (yes, I know, it’s a girl’s name; we were confused at first too). This evening before the bonfire, he volunteered to help me get my guitar. As the sun had gone down already, the hall leading to the room with my guitar in it was quite dark. If there was a light switch, I never saw it, and neither of us had a flashlight. So, we decided to make a game of it. We’d creep halfway down the hall, whispering furiously to one another to, “Be quiet!” Then, at any moment the impulse took us, we’d pretend we saw some huge, terrifying monster, scream something unintelligible that meant, “Run for your lives!!” and tear back down the hall for all we were worth. It took all of ten minutes to actually gain the safety of the room, dive under the table, grab the guitar, and dash out again in one piece. It was hilarious!
I thank You for this day, my Lord. For all their quirks and irritations, these children are utterly precious. Lead me to love them as You love them. I cannot capture today in words. I am tired, and everything in this past month is starting to blur together. But I love You, and I love what You are doing. I will follow. My Good Shepherd, lead me on. Amen.
Oh, and Douglas said he was feeling better today. I praise You for that.
Our attempt at Capture the Flag.
At the end of the game . . . Pretty sure you could call this a good ending.
The school-in-progress building sight.
Every brick made and laid by hand. Impressive, isn't it?
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Day 30: August 5, 2008
We have a simple song we do with the kids that goes like this: “It’s a great day to praise the Lord/ It’s a great day to praise the Lord/ It’s a great day to praise the Lord/ Walking in the light of love.” It’s perfect for kids who don’t know English very well, cause they don’t really have to remember that many words - plus it’s upbeat with fun actions (I get a workout anyhow). Well, today was a great day to praise the Lord. I am so grateful, Father. You have given me a fascinating summer to play with Your precious children and reach out to them with Your amazing love. I am blessed.
Today the green, red, yellow, and brown teams began writing their own songs. Jon and I decided it worked so well at Bugolobi, we might as well do it again! The songs are to be sung on Thursday this week, and today is already Tuesday, so we felt a bit rushed to come up with ideas, but the children did well. No “I love my shirt because it is good,” but the kids are incredibly talented. We have a song about “kingdom safari” (our theme for camp), an upbeat praise tune, and an “It’s a happy day” song that sounds suspiciously like the original “Oh, happy day.” But my new favorite is a very serious song from the red team, our naughtiest bunch of them all. They sing with great gusto, “The blood of Jesus washes us clean,” and then two of the more mischievous boys came up with the echo, “Washes, washes” which they sing in hilarious falsetto.
Story-time with the girls commenced precisely on schedule (ie: I might have forgotten all about it, much to my chagrin, had not the girls come in search of me). This time we wisely forsook the ant-infested picnic blanket for a safer spot on the wall under the shade. After the fairytale (about a mouse named George who fearlessly - accidentally - vanquishes a fierce dragon), I sat with one of the girls for nearly an hour, listening to her tell various stories, riddles, and jokes. She went nearly page-by-page through the telling of Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. I don’t think I’ve ever known a child so avid about reading. In the midst of all the story-telling, I even forgot to get her name!
I also sat with a boy named Douglas, who had on, I think, the coolest hat I’ve seen in Africa. It made him look part gangster, part French artist, and it fit him perfectly. Douglas wasn’t feeling well today, so we skipped out on watermelon together and enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet away from the crowds. I promised him I would pray that You heal him tonight - as, really, we didn’t bring him all the way out to camp so he could be sick the entire time, and it would be a shame for him to miss out on things. So, dear Father, heal Douglas tonight; may he wake up tomorrow refreshed in body and spirit. You are God. Amen.
Today the green, red, yellow, and brown teams began writing their own songs. Jon and I decided it worked so well at Bugolobi, we might as well do it again! The songs are to be sung on Thursday this week, and today is already Tuesday, so we felt a bit rushed to come up with ideas, but the children did well. No “I love my shirt because it is good,” but the kids are incredibly talented. We have a song about “kingdom safari” (our theme for camp), an upbeat praise tune, and an “It’s a happy day” song that sounds suspiciously like the original “Oh, happy day.” But my new favorite is a very serious song from the red team, our naughtiest bunch of them all. They sing with great gusto, “The blood of Jesus washes us clean,” and then two of the more mischievous boys came up with the echo, “Washes, washes” which they sing in hilarious falsetto.
Story-time with the girls commenced precisely on schedule (ie: I might have forgotten all about it, much to my chagrin, had not the girls come in search of me). This time we wisely forsook the ant-infested picnic blanket for a safer spot on the wall under the shade. After the fairytale (about a mouse named George who fearlessly - accidentally - vanquishes a fierce dragon), I sat with one of the girls for nearly an hour, listening to her tell various stories, riddles, and jokes. She went nearly page-by-page through the telling of Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. I don’t think I’ve ever known a child so avid about reading. In the midst of all the story-telling, I even forgot to get her name!
I also sat with a boy named Douglas, who had on, I think, the coolest hat I’ve seen in Africa. It made him look part gangster, part French artist, and it fit him perfectly. Douglas wasn’t feeling well today, so we skipped out on watermelon together and enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet away from the crowds. I promised him I would pray that You heal him tonight - as, really, we didn’t bring him all the way out to camp so he could be sick the entire time, and it would be a shame for him to miss out on things. So, dear Father, heal Douglas tonight; may he wake up tomorrow refreshed in body and spirit. You are God. Amen.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Day 29: August 4, 2008
I thank You for this day, my Lord. You are so incredibly good. We are moved now, out in a nunnery near Nabinoonya (nab-in-own-yah), the camp where the children from the MFL (Music for Life) primary school are staying. Molly and I get to share the only American room on floor three, territory of the British team. We are enjoying their accents and our humorous cultural clashes immensely! We met them a couple times last weekend, but they spent the week at a different school in Kampala while we were at Bugolobi. Now for this week we are with them at Nabinoonya - only they will be working with the older kids, and we will be working with the younger kids. Lord, may we be a blessing to each other. Amen!
We started our second camp this afternoon, set in the gorgeous grounds on Lake Victoria. My Western team has charge of the younger children, P1 through P4, and we found them rather other than what we expected. I think we have gotten so accustomed to the immediate acceptance and thrilled responses (no matter how insignificant the act we had just performed!) from the African children that we forgot to prepare ourselves for Africans who have toured America. All the MFL kids at this camp are former choir children and have been to America, so they act a little more like Western kids (ie: harder to impress and less talkative initially). But, God, they are still dear, sweet children, and I ask that You bless them through us this coming week.
I spoke to a young boy, Hosea, today and discovered that he is from the blue mountains in Rwanda. He actually knows Minani and some of the others from Gisenyi that I met during our very first camp in Rwanda. Oh, how that gladdened my heart! My King, I lay myself down at Your feet, giving You all that I am. I ask, Father God, that You use me. These children have been abundantly blessed by so many people in so many ways already. They have recorded songs and sung before thousands and met famous people and been on TV. But they do not need to be loved any less than the rest. They are still children, dear children who are unsure of their place in life - unsure of who they are and what makes them beautiful - and most without a whole family behind them. Lead me on in Your heart, dearest God.
I think my very favorite part of the day was late this afternoon. We had run through our sessions and were now waiting an open hour to simply hang out with the kids before we packed ourselves into the bus and made our way back to the nunnery. The line from Shakespeare, “Get thee to a nunnery!” comes to mind, but that is beside the point . . . I was wandering a bit aimlessly past a group of young teenage girls sitting on a blanket under a tree when they called me over. “Auntie, tell us a story,” they immediately requested. I thank God that creativity is something my mind never lacks! The first tale I could come up with was “The Princess and the Frog,” so I began, flicking a continuous wave of curious little ants off my pant legs as I did so. I must say, you might have found the story slightly altered from the original version as I couldn’t quite remember exactly the way it was supposed to go. But when I had finished, they must have enjoyed it for they asked me for another one. I promised a second the following day.
You Whose love is better than life, I thank You for this day - for another day to be alive in Your life. I thank You for the moments, Jesus. May I live them all for the glory of Your name. Amen and amen.
The hill where we called our group of P1-P4's to introduce ourselves and start the day.
Barnett (one of our African team leaders) trying out for the part of Willy Wildman. :-)
A wall separating manicured lawn from a steep hill that dived its way down into Lake Victoria. It made an excellent seat.
Our first game with the children. "Hippos and rhinos." Basically the two sides would line up, march towards each other, then run away screaming.
We started our second camp this afternoon, set in the gorgeous grounds on Lake Victoria. My Western team has charge of the younger children, P1 through P4, and we found them rather other than what we expected. I think we have gotten so accustomed to the immediate acceptance and thrilled responses (no matter how insignificant the act we had just performed!) from the African children that we forgot to prepare ourselves for Africans who have toured America. All the MFL kids at this camp are former choir children and have been to America, so they act a little more like Western kids (ie: harder to impress and less talkative initially). But, God, they are still dear, sweet children, and I ask that You bless them through us this coming week.
I spoke to a young boy, Hosea, today and discovered that he is from the blue mountains in Rwanda. He actually knows Minani and some of the others from Gisenyi that I met during our very first camp in Rwanda. Oh, how that gladdened my heart! My King, I lay myself down at Your feet, giving You all that I am. I ask, Father God, that You use me. These children have been abundantly blessed by so many people in so many ways already. They have recorded songs and sung before thousands and met famous people and been on TV. But they do not need to be loved any less than the rest. They are still children, dear children who are unsure of their place in life - unsure of who they are and what makes them beautiful - and most without a whole family behind them. Lead me on in Your heart, dearest God.
I think my very favorite part of the day was late this afternoon. We had run through our sessions and were now waiting an open hour to simply hang out with the kids before we packed ourselves into the bus and made our way back to the nunnery. The line from Shakespeare, “Get thee to a nunnery!” comes to mind, but that is beside the point . . . I was wandering a bit aimlessly past a group of young teenage girls sitting on a blanket under a tree when they called me over. “Auntie, tell us a story,” they immediately requested. I thank God that creativity is something my mind never lacks! The first tale I could come up with was “The Princess and the Frog,” so I began, flicking a continuous wave of curious little ants off my pant legs as I did so. I must say, you might have found the story slightly altered from the original version as I couldn’t quite remember exactly the way it was supposed to go. But when I had finished, they must have enjoyed it for they asked me for another one. I promised a second the following day.
You Whose love is better than life, I thank You for this day - for another day to be alive in Your life. I thank You for the moments, Jesus. May I live them all for the glory of Your name. Amen and amen.
The hill where we called our group of P1-P4's to introduce ourselves and start the day.
Barnett (one of our African team leaders) trying out for the part of Willy Wildman. :-)
A wall separating manicured lawn from a steep hill that dived its way down into Lake Victoria. It made an excellent seat.
Our first game with the children. "Hippos and rhinos." Basically the two sides would line up, march towards each other, then run away screaming.
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