Again

It’s happened again.  Something inexplicable.  Something unthinkable.  Something that’s not supposed to happen in a place where daffodils come up in the spring and butterflies crawl out of cocoons.

Kindergartners are not supposed to die.  Not at gunpoint.  Not in the chair they were learning their ABC’s in.

The news channels aren’t getting any sleep these days.  They’re too busy talking.  I’m listening to them now.

Harsher gun laws.  Arrest them if they won’t comply!  Where are the psychologists?  Isn’t there a drug that could have stopped this?  Where’s the security?  Why don’t we have an armed cop in every classroom?

The discussions go on . . . and on . . . and on . . .

While the parents weep and the pastors are unusually busy.  While flags go to half-mast and moments of silence abound.  While other kindergartners go to school in the morning, wondering if they’ll be shot.  While everyone asks why?

And we’re so caught up in the drama, we miss the point again.

How do 20 murdered kindergartners compare to 10,000 Ugandan abducted kids?  How does a day of terror stand next to a year of one million American abortion victims?  How does one classroom of death stack up against the hundreds of bombed churches across the Arab world?

It’s not really the worst tragedy of the century.  It’s not something we’ve never seen before.  It hasn’t even surprised our worst nightmares.  And, unfortunately, it is going to happen again.  And it won’t be fixed.  And we will forget.

But if God was good when Cain killed Abel in a field, then maybe He’s still good when Jimmy kills Tommy in a classroom.  And if God was personally interested in Job’s answer when he lost his crops, his herds, his house, and his kids all in one day, then maybe He’s still personally interested in our answer today.  And if God said that even the Pharisees with all their good works weren’t blameless enough to enter Heaven, then maybe He doesn’t see blameless when He looks at us.  And if God “didn’t spare His own Son but graciously gave Him up for us all,” then maybe He’s not obligated to spare us.  And if God could take His dead Son and raise Him back to life, then maybe He can do the same with us.

And maybe that’s where we need to fix our eyes.  Whether corn prices are skyrocketing or the government’s in debt or the Christmas tree is perfect or a man with a gun walks into a classroom.

^"Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior."

The Cast of The Thorn Princess

Here we all are!!  Princes, sound techs, ruffians, wise women, spotlight-ers, and all!  Ready to take the stage next weekend, November 17-19.  As you can see, we're very, very excited!

A Link to a Link to a Link?

Wow.

Keeping up two blogs is exhausting.

Well, maybe it's not just the two blogs.  It might also have something to do with the directing and the nephews and the dog and the cardboard boxes and the cold I've been fighting (or not fighting...) for the last week and a half.

Does this sound familiar?  Am I repeating myself?

The good news is, the Internet has made it really easy to communicate without actually talking.

I've learned a trick.  It's all summed up in one word: Links.

This is my link for today: Click here

If you click on those little words, the Internet will somehow magically do whatever it does to send you over to my OTHER blog.  The Thorn Princess blog.  Where I'll probably be doing most of my writing over the next 6 weeks.  Or until the most epic fairytale of all time hits the stage in mid-November.

Just in case you were missing my voice.  My white on black, computer-screened, non-audible voice.

Welcome to the Age of the Virtual.

Pictures, Not Words

I’ve discovered something about life.

Something I’m sure my two married sisters and two sisters-in-law (all four with kids) discovered long, long ago.

It’s hard to keep up a blog when you’re busy.

Now, I’m only baby-sitting at present.  My two New Orleans nephews whose parents are flying to Thailand to look into the possibility of moving there as missionaries.  Apparently, traveling and missions runs in my family.  And, actually, I’m only half-baby-sitting.  My mom’s doing most of the work.

But I’m also directing a play.  And making jewelry to sell at two shops and online.  And writing a book.  And waitressing part time.  And walking my dog and burning broccoli on purpose and checking emails and riding my horse and brushing my teeth and all the other little daily things that I have to do in order to not keel over and die.

All of which means that at present I talk a lot and write a little.  A very little.  Which is completely backwards from how things usually are.

So, to make up for it, I’m sharing a collage of photos so they can say a thousand words.

(I’d write the thousand words myself, but I don’t have the time.)

The Hunt for a Prince

I’m going to throw out titles like I Kissed Dating Goodbye and Captivating to start this particular blog post off with this sentence: Two years ago I went on the hunt for a prince.  We were putting on a play with an evil duke, a warm princess, and a Golux.  We had all those.  But we were missing a prince.  I only needed one.  Just one single solitary prince.  Surely, he couldn’t be that hard to find.  Surely, they make those still in Nebraska . . . Three yes’s turned to no’s later, I wasn’t so sure.  On performance day, we ended up with a girl playing the part of the prince in place of an actual guy.

She did a great job.

But it wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson.  Don’t look for princes in Nebraska.  Try California or Russia maybe.  Only traipse through the cornfields if you’re casting parts for “Gone with the Wind.”

Apparently, I like tackling impossible situations.

Several weeks ago, I mentioned something about a musical drama called The Thorn Princess.  You may have seen a cast photo on facebook.  You may have heard the noise from the E-Free church where we’re currently holding practices.  We may even have knocked on your door.  But what I didn’t tell you is that I was going on the hunt for princes again.  Only this time I needed five.

(If you haven’t visited Nebraska recently, you should know that asking for five princes here is like asking for five cows in downtown New York City.)

Watch out for cows next time you visit New York.

I’ve got my five princes.  Through threats, extortion, bribery, and getting down on my knees. (I only did that once . . . Okay, not really.) But that’s not all I got.  I’ve also found three very wise women, a handful of ruffians, a couple street kids, and a Witch of What.

Who knew such jewels existed hidden amongst hundred-year-old farm houses?  Who knew you could find talent like this so far from Broadway?  It’s like a treasure hunt involving facebook stalking, free pizza, a couple school teachers, and endless rows of corn.  I’m pretty proud of my cast.

I’m not quite sure what they think of me.

I tell jokes sometimes that nobody laughs at.

I’d like to introduce you to the cast of The Thorn Princess.  I’d like you to know their names and see what it’s like when they take the stage.  I want you to see what happens when God is in charge of a play performance.

. . . Unfortunately, you’re going to have to wait till November to actually see most of that.  In the meantime, you’re welcome to join us and pray.  We don’t want the spotlight on us.  We want it on Him.

Unofficially

I’m three weeks into directing my fourth theatrical performance.  I think I might finally be getting the hang of this.

Unofficially.

My life hasn’t been very official yet.  I can make it sound like it has been, if I try hard enough.  But, really, I’ve been ducking under quite a bit of red tape for the last three decades.  Teaching in a classroom without a college degree.  Running Quickbooks without taking a single finance class.  Directing plays without having studied . . . well, anything, really.  The only opera I know is “Phantom of the Opera.” (. . . Does that even count?)

Most of what I’ve done the last ten years, I wasn’t qualified to do.  No training, no diploma, no title.

Thankfully, God doesn’t seem to care.

Thankfully, the cast we’ve gotten together to fill all the roles in The Thorn Princess doesn’t seem to care either.

(. . . Although it might be best if you don’t tell them I have no real training for this.)

We practiced just last night.  Complete with Cockney accents, flailing canes, and a flying cardboard box or two.  Apparently, our rehearsals are a little dangerous.

But it’s not just the I-can-tell-you-to-say-that-line-again-for-the-fifth-time-because-I’m-the-director role that I love.  I also love that when I watch our cast rehearse, I see brilliant possibilities.  I see a play that would look good on Broadway.  I see a backdrop that’s going to drop jaws.  I see a cast that could stand unabashed with Sean Connery.

. . . Well, maybe.

I see a God who has a place for an unofficial Bohemian like me.  Without the title.  Without the degree.  Without the training.

“But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong . . . so that no one may boast before Him.” (I Corinthians 1:27,29)

And then it goes on to say, “Therefore, as it is written: “ ‘Let him who boasts boast in the Lord.’ ”

Death and God

If you’re in Nebraska, you’ve probably heard at least a little bit about the Blue Hill tragedy.  A bus taking kids home after school collided with a semi-truck carrying hay.  It affected some very good friends of mine in the area.

As Christians, how do we respond?  What happens in our hearts?  What happens to our prayers?  How do we approach a God who, being omnipotent, held the power in His hand to stop this from ever happening?

“Day and night they never stop saying: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.’ ” (Revelation 4:8)

It happened after school on Wednesday.  The bus was on a gravel road bordering cornfields when it collided with a semi-truck.  Both drivers were killed.

“He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart.” (Isaiah 40:11)

The bus burst into flames.  All passengers on the bus were trapped inside.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are Mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” (Isaiah 43:1,2)

Two farmers working in a nearby field saw the flames.  They rushed to the scene, pulling several kids from the burning bus.  But they couldn’t get them all.  Two of the children inside the bus died.

“Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?  The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God!  He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (I Corinthians 15:55-57)

I don’t know how the parents of those children were told.  I don’t know when the rest of the school heard the news.  I don’t know what they told the students.  I don’t know how the kids on the bus who survived felt.

“At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head.  Then he fell to the ground in worship and said: ‘. . . The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.’ ” (Job 1:21)

How do we live in this tension between the heart-wrenching shocks of reality and the truths of God’s Word?  Do we turn a blind eye to one?  Do we forget the other?  How could a holy, just, loving God possibly let innocent children die?  Did He stop being holy for just one second there?  In that instant, was He not love?  Did His justice falter?  Did He blink at the wrong time?

Where is God when a 10-year old girl is trapped in a bus that’s on fire?

“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)

Where is God when the child dies?

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.  Trust in God; trust also in Me.  In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you.  I am going there to prepare a place for you.” (John 14:1,2)

Go stand in the throne room of Heaven.  Throw yourself at the feet of the King of kings.  You will hear a far different story than the one printed in the newspapers.  Does it mean answers for all the questions?  No.  Do we still mourn for the families and friends involved?  Yes.  But there is a much larger story than the one we hear with our ears and see with our eyes.

“BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.”

What Now?

So . . . What do we do now?

Isn’t that the question?  I’ve told you the stories of three boys I met in Lira.  But there are hundreds of boys in Lira.  And there are hundreds of towns like Lira in Uganda.  And there are hundreds of countries like Uganda in the world.

It can be a little overwhelming, can’t it?  I’ve just been talking about street kids.  But did you hear about Hurricane Isaac ripping apart all sorts of make-shift homes and tents in Haiti before hitting New Orleans (again)?  Did you hear about the churches being bombed in South Sudan, while the congregation hides in caves in the mountains just to survive?  Did you hear about the refugee camps in Kenya and Rwanda and Tanzania and the Congo where the homeless are dying of very preventable diseases every day?  Did you hear about the child prostitutes in India?  Or the child soldiers in Columbia?

And that’s only a drop in the bucket compared to the rest of the list that I’m not telling you.

There’s so much need.  What do we do now?

I’d like to share with you part of a conversation I had with God the other day about that subject.  I don’t know if you feel personally connected with the street kids in Lira in any way, but I know I certainly do.  So, I asked God, “What do You think about these street kids?”

I was outside on a gravel road surrounded by cornfields somewhere around midnight when I asked this question.  The stars were brilliant.  And as I looked up, my eye would catch one particular star, and it was like all the other stars in the sky - no matter how bright or near they were - would fade out into the corners.  And for as long as I looked at that one star, just that one star, it became the most important star in the sky.

And God said, “They are the apple of My eye.”

The apple of His eye.  The most important star.  Held in the palm of His hand.  His sheep.  His kids.  His beloved.

How do we treat the beloved of the Lord?

I’m reminded of a verse in I John.  A very simple verse that says in a plain, simple way: “If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?”

And my train of thought goes like this:

Q: Do I have material possessions?
A: Yes.
Q: Have I seen my brother (and sister) in need?
A: Yes.
Q: Do I have pity on them?

And if the answer to that last one is no - if my actions as well as my words do not show my “yes” - then “how can the love of God be in me?”

It’s so easy to get so overwhelmed by so much need.  It’s so easy to stand there, frozen, like the deer in the headlights my dad and my sister hit every once in awhile driving down our gravel roads.  It’s so easy to say, “Well, I can’t do what Billy Graham did.  And I can’t be like Mother Teresa.  And I can’t sell my house and move to Africa.  And I can’t . . . And I can’t . . .”

But I John doesn’t tell us to move to Africa.  First John doesn’t say we need to measure up to Billy Graham or Mother Teresa.  First John just says to look at that one - just one - and do something.

“And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is My disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.” (Matt. 10:42)

Or, if you read it from The Message:

“This is a large work I’ve called you into, but don’t be overwhelmed by it.  It’s best to start small.  Give a cool cup of water to someone who is thirsty, for instance.  The smallest act of giving or receiving makes you a true apprentice.  You won’t lose out on a thing.”

What does your cup of water look like?  Or is it time for you to switch from a cup to a bucket?

I don’t know what it looks like for you.  For me, it seems to change almost every day.  But I'd like to share with you one small way I have found, a small way for me to share a cold cup of water.  If you'll look up on the blue header at the top of this blog, click on the words "Lion Paw."  You'll find it there.

Their Stories: Daniel

Daniel was not one of the five boys hospitalized after the mob beating in Lira.  At least, not this time around.  But he admitted along with Solomon and Ronald that he’s been in jail before, and it sounds like beatings often accompany arrests when it comes to street kids.

Daniel went to live on the streets of Lira when he was 13 years old.  He was the most reserved of the three when he told me his story, and I didn’t get a lot of details.  But there is one very obvious fact.  If Ronald’s story is a story of violence, then Daniel’s is one of rejection.

Daniel’s parents divorced each other and remarried when he was a young boy.  He lived with his father after the divorce, but his new step-mom abused him.  Daniel finally got tired of it and left.  He went to find his mom.

But she had remarried as well, and the new step-dad didn’t want him either.  So, Daniel left again.

He went back to his dad.

Where he was rejected again.

He bounced back and forth a couple more times, hoping beyond hope for a place where he belonged.  A safe spot.  A home.

It never worked.

Daniel is now 15 years old.  He’s lived on the streets of Lira away from his parents for two years.  Apparently, his family agrees with him and thinks it’s better this way.  If he was in America, he would be in highschool, doing his homework and maybe playing on the football team.  But Daniel doesn’t go to school.  He doesn’t even know how to read.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes when I talked with him.  I wonder if he has a pair of shoes at all.  And his belt was synched up tight, like his pants might fall off without it because he’s so thin.

Daniel would like to learn how to be a mechanic.

(a view of the streets of Lira)

Their Stories: Ronald

This is Ronald.  I talked with him and Solomon and Daniel for an hour under the shade of a tree in the CRO compound in Lira.  They sat in small wooden chairs with metal legs.  They looked like the sort of chairs we would buy for our kindergartners, and they didn’t look very comfortable.  I asked the boys to tell me how they had gotten on the streets.  They had family still.  What had happened to make street life better than living at home?

The boys didn’t look me in the eye when they answered my question.  They stared at the ground and spoke in monotone.  This is Ronald’s story.

Ronald is one of the 791 boys in Lira who are abused each year.  Assistant inspector of police, Joseph, had a list of their names hanging on the wall in his office.  If I had a list of those names hanging on the wall in my office, I might not be able to sleep at night.

In Ronald’s case, the abuse he survived took a rather unusual and horrifying turn.

Ronald, like Solomon, was born to parents who were not married.  For unknown reasons, his dad chased his mom away soon after he was born.  If you listen to the few facts I know of Ronald’s life and try to imagine the details, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that Ronald’s dad was a violent man.  I wonder if his father ever beat his mother?  I wonder if Ronald ever saw him do it?  I wonder if Ronald’s father ever beat him?

What I do know is that for several years, living with his father, Ronald got to attend school.  Until P5 (American fourth grade), that is.  Somewhere in the midst of that year, Ronald’s life erupted, and the chaos began.  It started with his mother’s death.  Then his father killed his grandfather.  Ronald didn’t telling me why.

After the murder, his dad abandoned the family.  Ronald and his younger brothers went to live with his oldest brother, who had married.  But this new wife must not have been happy to have so many mouths to feed.  So, she poisoned one of Ronald’s little brothers.  The boy died.

Ronald left.  He went to live on the street because at least there he didn’t have to worry about someone putting poison in his food.

Today, Ronald is in his third year of living on the street.

He dreams of being a mechanic.  At night when he goes to sleep, he finds a plastic sack to cover up with.  He can’t sleep in the same spot too often for fear that the police will find him and arrest him.  Again.  Or perhaps he fears being woken up by an angry gang wielding fists and sticks.

He’s also recovering from the last time an angry gang woke him up wielding fists and sticks.

What will happen to Ronald?  How will he eat?  Where will he spend his time?  What friends will he make?  What will he do with his life?  What sort of impact will he make in his world?

Does Jesus love Ronald? . . . Does Ronald know how much?

Their Stories: Solomon

I want to share with you a little more about Ronald and Solomon and the street boys in Lira.  Perhaps if you begin to see it through my eyes, we’ll all get a little closer to seeing it through their eyes . . . And the goal of that, of course, is that we would move even deeper into seeing it through His eyes.

The best way I know to do this is to tell you their stories.  A little more from the life stories they shared with me.  Some of the details are kind of vague.  Solomon didn’t even know how old he was.  Eighteen or nineteen, he said when I asked.  But these are their lives.  We’ll start with Solomon.

Solomon was born to an unmarried woman.  Because the child was out of wedlock, the new mother left her baby with her mother, Solomon’s grandma.  This is the woman who raised Solomon.  Or tried to.  Somehow, she managed to send Solomon to school up to P3 (American second grade).  Solomon told me he knows how to read and write.  He has two sisters and a brother.

But at the age of 13, Solomon lost the most important influence on his life.  His grandmother died.  Suddenly, he had no one to take care of him.  This would also be around the end of the worst of the LRA abductions of children.  Meaning: The northern half of the country was in shambles.  Schools were struggling to restart.  Many people still lived in IDP camps.  Structure, stability, and opportunities for a young unwanted teenage boy were nonexistent.

So, Solomon did the only thing he could think of.  He went to the streets.  While living homeless in Lira, he got connected with CRO (Child Restoration Outreach), the ministry Beatrice is a part of.  CRO works hard to reconnect street children with their biological parents.  So, they took Solomon to see his father.

But Solomon’s father had remarried.  In Ugandan culture, the family is very important.  But there is often also a lot of jealousy and animosity towards step-children when a parent remarries.  Solomon’s step-mother had no use for this teenage boy who wasn’t hers.  He wasn’t wanted.  She rejected him.  Solomon used the word “abused.”  This can mean anything from forcing a child to do all the work in the house to yelling matches to withholding necessities to physical beatings.  Whatever it was, Solomon decided it wasn’t worth it and left.

He’s lived on the streets now for six years.

He’s been arrested twice by police who come in on random nights and round up all the street kids they can find.  The children are left in prison for 2-4 weeks and then released.  No one in the community cares when they go in, and no one cares when they come back out.

All three of the boys I talked to had spent time in jail.

Where is Solomon today?  Today he is recovering from a beating he received from the Lira community.  I asked for an update from Beatrice, and she said this:

“Thank you so much for your humble prayers you always [pray] for to God for CRO (Child Restoration Outreach) children and for me and my family dear, I greatly appreciate you. Well the boys have been dis- charged from the hospital though still very week and they don't have proper homes/ place to stay in as they fully recover and no one take responsibility of taking care of them dear. That's a very great challenge . . . maybe there should be a home for them that can keep them for time being as their home [biological families] are being traced.

However, those boys are still in pain although dis- charged from the hospital, no food, medical care, clothing among others while on the streets . . .”

So far, this is all that has happened in Solomon’s story.

Can that change?

The Crossroads

There are two different paths of thought going on in my head.  One is scampering around here in Central City, making phone calls, looking at calendars, stalking facebook friends, typing up lists, going through the frantic is-the-engine-going-to-turn-over spluttering that’s the only way to turn the vision of a play into an actual theater production.

The other path is wondering why I’m not already in Africa.

I used to think I was just random.  First, I’m making jewelry, then I’m walking my dog, then I’m riding a plane to Africa, then I’m waitressing at the Saddle Club, then I’m learning how to make hollandaise sauce, then I’m talking to a kid who lives in a tent city in Haiti.

Hi.  What’s my name again?

I used to think the randomness was just . . . well, random.

But if I believe in a God who is a God of order not chaos, design not chance, purpose not nonsense, then He has an order and a design and a purpose even in my randomness.

(Hollandaise sauce included.)

Which means somewhere there is a place where the creative side of me and the Africa side of me meet.  A crossroads.

I haven’t quite got up to it yet.  But I’ve seen a glimpse.

It went like this: In the midst of all these talks about casting, rehearsals, costumes, backdrops (etc. etc. etc.), I got an email from my friend Beatrice in Lira.  A month ago, she told me about some street boys in Lira getting beat up by community members who accused them of stealing car parts.  Five of the boys were beaten so badly, they had to be taken to the hospital.

I asked Beatrice to tell me their names.

I mean, not that it could be anyone I know.

Out of the hundreds of street kids, I only met a few dozen.  And out of those dozens, I only remember a handful of actual faces and names.

Still, I wanted to know.  And Beatrice sent me the list. (In Uganda, they put the African name first, followed by their “Christian” first name.)

Ogwal Issa.

Owiny Steven.

Adea Bonny.

Otuk Solomon.

Ecel Ronald.

Solomon and Ronald?  Not the same Solomon and Ronald I sat under the tree with in the CRO compound?  Not the same Solomon and Ronald who talked with me about life on the street and what happened with their families to put them there?  Not the same Solomon who told me street life wasn’t so bad cause you got used to it after six years?  Not the same Ronald who wouldn’t even look at me while he told me how his dad killed his grandpa and his step-sister poisoned his brother?

There are lots of street boys in Lira.  Surely, two of the boys in a hospital in northern Uganda are not two of the boys I met.

So, I asked.  Just to make sure.  Maybe Solomon and Ronald are really popular names in Uganda.

And Beatrice wrote back.

“Solomon and Ronald are the same boys you talked too.”

(Ronald - far left; Solomon - far right)

The sentence that could change everything.

Cause I’m not okay with that.  Could you be?  After you sat down and talked with these boys?  After you looked them in the eye and shook their hands?  After you heard about their families?  After you had your picture taken with them?  After they smiled at you?

And now they’re lying in a hospital bed in Lira because their community thinks they’re worthless, and no one’s doing anything to change that.

And that’s where the creative side of me kicks in.  I see a problem here.  A problem that I just can’t live with, can’t ignore, can’t turn a blind eye to, can’t walk on past on the other side of the road.

And I believe God’s going to take me up to the crossroads where I get to do something about it.

The Invitation

I’d like to invite you to something.

It’s not a graduation, a dinner, a wedding, a funeral, or a concert.

It most definitely is a performance.

It’s been a couple years, but we’re doing another play.  Because I have armloads of costumes hanging upstairs in my closet, and it would be a shame for them to go to waste.  Because we finally have a real performing arts center with a gorgeous stage, amazing lighting, and plush blue audience chairs right here in Central City.

Because we can.

Because my little sister Kristi has worked four years (or something like that) to become a nurse so she could move to Africa, and now God’s given her the opportunity to go.  One of those wide open doors with the angels singing.

And Africa is always a good excuse to do a play.

So, I am inviting you.  To be a part of something epic.

Trust me.

It’s going to be epic.

Unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.  Really.  You’ve never seen this.  No one has.  It just got written this past summer.  It’s a musical drama called The Thorn Princess, and it’s coming proudly to our theater sometime this Fall. (This is where all of you out-of-staters check your calendars and road maps and figure out a way to come join us for the performances.) Actually, you might have to give us a few weeks for the exact dates.  We’re shooting for late October - early November, but we haven’t ironed out the details yet.

What did you expect, putting a lost Bohemian in charge of this thing?

At present, we’re searching for talent.  Artists, actors, set builders, advertising pros, musicians, hairdressers, costume makers, sound system runners.

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

If you’re interested, contact me.  If you’re not interested but know someone who might be, contact them and then contact me.

This is the beginning of something amazing.

The Perfect Husband

So, if I had my way, I probably wouldn’t post a single sentence on the web not related to Africa.  You may have noticed I talk about it a lot.  If you could read my thoughts, you’d know I think about it a lot more.

However, in leu of growing repetitive . . . After a talk with my profoundly wise older sister, I decided maybe just once I should write about what y’all are really thinking about me.

Hence the post title.

Once you turn 30, people start to sort of give up on trying to set you up.  Instead, they go to the local mall and pick out your size in nun’s habit.  And send you quotes that sound a lot like Hamlet’s, “Get thee to a nunnery!”  Not that I’m complaining.  You are completely welcome to send me any nun outfit you find.  And I rather enjoyed reading Hamlet.

But my profoundly wise older sister and I did finally pinpoint the characteristics of the perfect husband.  Just wait till you hear about him.  You’ll be impressed.

He follows me everywhere I go.

He sits at my feet while I read a book on the couch.

He looks at me with big brown eyes that spell absolute a-d-o-r-a-t-i-o-n.

He’s so upset when I leave, he sleeps on the floor in the living room.

He never wants to drive my car or complains if I make him sit in the back. (This is written in fond memory of all the LIFE games we played growing up where I would always shove the little blue man in the farthest corner in the back of my little plastic car.  Did anyone else do that?)

He’s always thrilled to see me, even if I just went outside to get the mail.

He’s disappointed if he doesn’t get to go on a walk with me every day.

He loves anything I give him to eat.  Doesn’t matter if it’s burnt . . . fell on the floor . . . a week old.

Oh, and just in case you’re starting to get sort of freaked out by these rather specific details, he also looks like this:

Apparently, the perfect husband doesn’t really exist.  But I do love my dog. :-)

Now That I'm Older . . .

I turned 30 last week.  I feel like a piece of history now.  Like I’ve finally been around long enough for them to put me in a museum right next to Pocahontas and Kermit the Frog.

I think I’d like to be in the Ice Age section.  Definitely not ceramics.

Other than that, 30 feels about the same as 29.

I’d give you an update on what’s happening with my future, but I’m afraid there’s not much to say.  Just imagine us having a conversation and you asking me all the questions you have, and my answer always being “I don’t know.”  That’s a pretty fair summation of things.

I have one more story to tell from northern Uganda (and if I’m allowed to have favorites, this is definitely it), but I’m waiting for the picture that goes with the story, and I’m not sure how long that will take.

Patience.

It seems to be an overarching theme these days.

In the meantime, I’m receiving updates from my friends in Lira.

They send you their greetings and wish they could meet you and hope you are all doing well.  They ask you to pray for the people of northern Uganda.

They tell me of a fatherless teenage boy who had to drop out of school last year because he had no money for school fees.  A month ago, someone picked up the cost, and now he can go back to school.  God is faithful.

They tell me of a daughter who fell sick at school and had to come home, and now with hospital expenses, there is no money to send her back to school.  God is still faithful.

They tell me of street boys who were accused of stealing car parts.  Eight of them were beaten, four so severely that they were put in the hospital.  Two are still in critical condition.  God is always faithful . . . but what is He doing?

And the echo comes back: What am I doing?

See, I know the faces of the street kids now.  I know their names.  I watched them play football and sat under the tree outside where they go to church and talked with them about God and family and life.  I wonder if one of the kids laying in a hospital bed now is someone I know.  I wonder if his name is Solomon or Daniel or Ronald or Jared or Dogo.

I’m not okay with the idea of any of them getting woken up in the middle of the night by sticks and machetes wielded by enraged adults.

As though anyone could be okay with that.

It makes me want to know how to pray.

It makes me want to better understand God and my place in this world.

It makes me want to write less and do more.

Sisi: The Result of Pain

I haven’t told you much about where I spent the bulk of my time in northern Uganda.  It is a resort . . . hotel . . . center . . . place . . . called Alpha Resort Hotel.  Which really makes me laugh, cause the first time I heard it, I imagined a big stone mansion in the Swiss Alps.

My imagination isn’t always the most accurate description of things.

Alpha Resort Hotel was started by Pastor Johnson and his wife when they saw a need for a building to hold conferences and conduct training sessions for Ugandan pastors, teachers, and other community leaders.  It’s grown from one meeting hall to a kitchen, a dining room, something like twenty guest rooms, and a second meeting hall being built right now.  During my two-week stay, there was a conference for area pastors, an AIM group visiting, and another conference for clean water programs.

Alpha Resort Hotel is a good place.

Strangely enough, it reminded me of the Christian retreat center I worked at in Hong Kong ten years ago.  Only Africanized.  With a family breaking up a cornfield with an ox and a plow across the road.  And motorcycles and bikes meandering by at all times of the day and night.  And a mango tree in the middle of the parking lot.

I’m afraid you’ll have to make up the picture in your head.  I wasn’t very good at taking photos at Alpha.

The thing I most enjoyed about my stay there was the staff.  When I remember them, I think of one word: Service.  It’s what they did; it’s who they were.  Whether I sat down to breakfast or ran out of drinking water or locked myself out of my room (again), they were always available and, oh, so ready to help.  And in the process, they made me feel like their favorite guest ever.  I actually got a picture of one of them, so I can introduce you to her.  Meet Sisi.

Sisi and I sat under the mango tree one morning and talked.  She is currently finishing her college education in business.  After graduation, Sisi hopes to get a good-paying job so she can care for her mom who broke her arm and can no longer work in her garden.

But Sisi didn’t just tell me about her future hopes.  She also told me about her past.  When she was 13 years old, her father fell sick with a strange disease.  He went to the hospital, but the doctors didn’t know what to do.  So, her dad died.  When fathers die in Africa, life gets very hard for the rest of the family.  Most women don’t have jobs.  Sometimes if the mom can’t find a way to earn money, the children must work instead.

Sisi told me she often wondered why God let her father die when she was so young.  Wouldn’t it be better to grow up with a dad?  Couldn’t God have healed him, even if the doctors didn’t know what to do?  Wasn’t there a better story that should have been written?

But Sisi has found good even in the midst of her father’s death.  She told me she wouldn’t know the value of hard work if her father had lived.  He would have paid for her schooling if he had been alive, but because of his death, she had to work for it.  And get this . . . She really said that like it was a good thing.

But that wasn’t all.  She also told me this: “I want to help at least one orphan because I know what it feels like to grow up without a father.”

Are you seeing a pattern here?  All these people with really hard pasts.  Dying parents, violent soldiers, burnt houses, no education, not enough money.  Yet now because of their pasts (not in spite of their pasts), God is shaping their hearts to look more like His heart.  He is giving the former street boys a heart for the current street boys.  He is giving the widowed a heart for the widows.  He is giving the orphaned a heart for the orphans.

It makes me wonder if maybe pain isn’t such a bad thing after all.  If God can turn anything - really, anything - into good.  If He’s doing it in Uganda, if maybe He wants to do it in America too.  If maybe He wants to do it in me.

Jared

This is Jared.

Jared is one of the street boys I met at the football game in Lira.  He and I had one of those moments you see when you’re at a conference sometimes, and the speaker points out someone in the audience and yells at them.

I didn’t do it on purpose.

(And relax.  It didn’t really involve that much yelling.)

We were nearing the end of the conversation I told you about last time.  The boys wanted to know when I was coming back to Lira, and I was trying to figure out the best way to say, “I don’t know,” to a group of kids who don’t have phones, home addresses, or Internet access.

I finally hit on prayer.

It’s a lesson God’s been pounding into me this last year or so, and it seemed like an appropriate answer.  “I don’t know when I’ll be coming back,” I said to the boys.  “Maybe a month from now.  Maybe ten months.  Maybe ten years.”

“Ten years!” they groaned.

And then one of the boys in the back started rattling off something in Luo that I didn’t understand at all.

“What’d he say?” I asked Washington.

“He says ten years is too long.  He says if you wait ten years, they’ll all be dead.”

That’s when I took my cue from the few conference speakers I’ve seen and locked eyes with Jared.  “Ten years is too long?” I challenged.

Well, yeah.

“Okay, then you pray.  You pray every day, and I’ll pray every day, and it won’t be ten years.  Okay?”

And then he nodded, and the moment passed, and we wrapped up the conversation.

I would love to know today if Jared remembers that conversation.  I would love to know what he thinks about Jesus.  I would love to know if he’s praying.

All I know is, I most certainly am.

Starting with Me

These are the street boys of northern Uganda.  Five of them.  Five out of a hundred.  Two hundred.  A thousand.  Ten thousand.

Only God knows.

The boy in the black shirt is called Dogo.  His name is the only name I remember.  God knows the rest.  He knows their ages, their dreams, their favorite food.  He knows where their parents are.  He knows why they’re living on the street.  He knows how many times they’ve cried.

I think of how much God knows and how little I know, and I tell Him that I would like to know more.

I met these five boys and about fifty more at a street boys football (That’s African for soccer.) game in Lira.  It was all very unscheduled.  No one knew I was coming.  Saturday morning, I conquered a mountain, and at noon I was sitting down on a wooden bench to watch a football game between boys I’d never met before.

I talked to the coach for a few minutes.  He’s been coaching the boys for several years, they’re very good, and they’ve nicknamed him after some famous football player whose name I’ve forgotten. (It wasn’t David Beckham.)

Then about three minutes into the conversation, the coach said, “Okay, I’m going to call the boys in now, and you can have a word with them.”

He blew his whistle.

And I’m sitting there thinking, “You mean now?  Hold up a sec.  You just met me.  How do you know I have anything good to say?”

Meanwhile, all the boys were sitting down in a semi-circle in front of me, peering curiously at this strange white woman who showed up by herself and doesn’t know how to keep her Chacos on.  So, I started talking.  “Uh, hi.  My name is Rebecca.”

Miraculously, they listened.  I told them why I was there.  I said I’d lived in Africa with my whole family when I was little.  I said I’d read a lot of stories.  I didn’t say it, but I was thinking, “I can’t believe I’m really sitting here, looking all those stories straight in the eye.”

I’d heard three stories of abandonment, abuse, and neglect from Solomon, Daniel, and Ronald.  And suddenly here I was, staring into the face of fifty more.

I asked if they had questions, and they were a little shy, but then they decided they might have a few.  And then, before I knew quite what had happened, they started telling me all the things they need.

“We need a school we can go to.”

“We need clothes without holes.”

“We need food.”

“We’d really like football uniforms for our team.”

“It would be nice to live in a house.”

On and on.  List after list.  It was all good, not really what you’d call superfluous, and completely overwhelming.  I have a hard enough time taking care of myself, never mind fifty homeless street boys.

I finally raised a hand.  Whoah.  Hold up for a minute.  And then I said . . . Sorry, I can’t help you.  I realize you’ve got a lot of need, but there’s not a thing I can do about it.  No school fees.  No clothes.  No food.  No football uniforms.  I got nothing.  Sorry.

And even if I actually had the resources to help all of you, what about the other kids in Lira?  What about the other kids in northern Uganda?  The kids in Central Africa?  The kids in all the world?  What about them?

And then, “But I’ve got something better,” I said.

I reached into my backpack, and they all got excited, cause they thought maybe I’d brought candy.

Ouch.

I pulled out my Bible.  They suppressed their groans.  I don’t actually remember what verse I read to them or what exactly I said.  I hardly even remember vaguely what I said.  But I know what I believe.  I believe that Jesus is more important than education.  Jesus is more important than a safe environment.  Jesus is more important than family.  Jesus is more important than medicine.  Jesus is more important than food.  And if I really believe that, then I believe that I can share Jesus with street boys on a football field when the only thing I have in my backpack is a Bible.

I also know that at the end of our conversation, they weren’t asking me for things anymore.  They were sitting up straighter and asking, “How can we know when you come back to Uganda so we can all sit down with you and talk again?”

See, I’d love to be able to give every one of those street boys a home.  I’d love to see them wearing school uniforms and shoes and shirts without holes in them.  I’d love to know they were eating three decent meals every day.  I’d love to get them matching football jerseys.  But the thing I most want is to see them follow Jesus.  And if I want to see it in them, I have to model it first.  So, if I want to see them trust and obey and hope and pray, then . . . I have to start with me.

Stories

I have discovered something about myself.  It should have been pretty obvious.  Most of you will probably say, “Well, duh.”  So, maybe I haven’t really discovered it so much as defined it.

I love stories.

Last night, I sat next to the swimming pool in Holland’s Holiday Inn Express and talked with a man from Kentucky.  Last week I sat at a table with my great aunts and uncles who graduated whole decades before I was born.  Last month I sat in a plastic chair under a tree in Africa with three street boys from Lira.

I didn’t really do much.  I just sat there and listened.  They told me their stories.

And their stories fascinate me.

“My aunt did some research and figured out we’re directly related to Pocahontas.” (That’s from Kentucky.)

“We left the football game and drove to Kentucky to get married, cause in Ohio you had to be 18 to elope.  My mom said later she was wondering why I’d showed up to the game in my suit.” (That’s my grandpa telling about how he and Grandma got married.)

“My step-dad didn’t want me in the house, so I left my mom and went to live with my dad.  But his new wife beat me and yelled at me all the time, so I left again.  I tried to go back to my mom, but it didn’t work.  That’s why I live on the street.”

This is Ronald’s story.

Ronald (left side) is one of the street boys I talked to in Lira.  He and Solomon (black shirt) and Daniel (red shirt) sat with me for more than an hour and told me why they were on the streets.  They were very polite and very patient with all the translating.  None of them would look me in the eye while they told me their stories.

These boys have lived a life that I can only imagine.

They know what it feels like to pull a garbage sack up to your chin as a blanket.  What’s it’s like to get woken up by an angry mob, wielding machetes.  What it’s like to spend a night in jail with no one caring whether or not you come out in the morning.  How much arm space it takes to hold a kilo of plastic. (They collect plastic on the street and take it in to recycle.  They get paid 12 cents per kilo.) The message in the eyes of the adults who pass you every day on the street.  How your heart feels when you see other kids your age in their starched, ironed uniforms, marching off to school.

Listening to their stories, I didn’t laugh as much or smile as much as I do when I’m listening to stories here in the States.  The stories in Africa are often more somber, more complicated.  They don’t have happy endings.  They’re different.

It makes me wonder what it would take to bring the laughter and smiles back into the stories in Africa.  What does that look like?  How does it sound?  What does it do to your heart?  I want to know.  Will Solomon, Daniel, and Ronald look me in the eye when they tell me their stories then?

Meeting History

I am writing from Ohio.  A beautiful brown house outside London (...Ohio) where I’m listening to a lot of conversations that start with, “You remember when...” and, “There was one time we...”

I’m here with my grandpa, and we’re staying with my grandpa’s sister.  Which makes her my great aunt, I think.  I’m hearing all about the truck Grandpa flipped driving across a bridge too fast, the one-room school house that used to be right where that tree is now, the house where my mom learned to ride a bike, the river Bud almost drowned in, and the barn that started on fire from a spark in the hay.

The concrete’s turning back to gravel, the telephone poles are reverting to their original state as trees, the sound of car engines is giving way to the clip-clop of horse hooves, and everyone’s hair is getting curlier as I listen.  There’s more time in this world.  There’s more black and white pictures.  There’s more radios and less televisions.  There’s more ice cream.  McDonald’s hasn’t taken over the world yet.

I’m learning more of my family history.

It’s an amazing thing.

Today the world seems older than it did yesterday.  Today I laugh at the people building their fancy houses, polishing their shiny cars, mowing their expansive lawns, because fifty years from now, all people will say about them as they drive past is, “Oh, yeah, so-and-so’s used to live here, but then they died.”

I talk with all these white- and gray-haired folks, and I am in awe.  They’ve eaten so many more meals than I have, seen so many more sunrises, drunk so many more cups of water, sneezed so many more sneezes.  I am not very old.

And that reminds me of Africa. (They don’t really have to be related.  Everything reminds me of Africa.) I look out at the cornfields here, I think about the cornfields at home, and I remember the cornfields in Africa.  I think about our farmers and their farmers.  Our great aunts and their great aunts.  Our school houses and their school houses.  Our history and their history.

And I wonder what people will say fifty years from now.

What stories the kids who call me their great aunt will hear.  Which river I will almost drown in.  Which truck I will flip.  Which spot of land they will have to drive past to be able to say, “Oh, yes, Rebecca lived here, but then she died.”

I wonder about my history.

I wonder about us being so small, about us being so many, about our lives being so short - and I wonder how God keeps track all of us.  I wonder how it’s possible that we don’t all look alike to Him, sort of like when I look in the dirt at the ants.  I wonder how He keeps us apart.  How He never confuses me with some curly-haired chick named Rebecca who lived 1,387 years ago.

The more I learn, the more in awe I am.

And then a couple nights ago, Grandpa told me about a video he’d seen of NASA pictures.

The Earth from the top of a mountain.

The Earth from the height you have to reach to be an astronaut.

The Earth from the moon.

The Earth as a dot in the solar system.

The sun as a dot in the galaxy.

The galaxy as a dot in a thousand galaxies.

History.  Ages.  Millennia.

Eternity.

And I am grateful for my family.  My history, my heritage, all the who’s I came from.  However insignificant it might be in the grand scheme of things.  I am blessed, and I am grateful.  I’m even glad it started in is-that-a-part-of-Kansas Nebraska . . . And I’m hoping there’s a lot more red African dirt involved before I die.

A Lesson from the Bar . . . Literally

I haven’t run out of Africa stories yet, but I’d like to take a short break (commercial interruption?) to stop telling you what’s happened in the past and let you know what’s happening right now in the present.

I am a waitress.

It’s the word I write in the blank under “job description” on official forms.  It’s easier than trying to explain anything else.

It’s not the sort of word you hear a lot when you ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

But I’ve been a waitress for the past three years.

It was never really supposed to be this long.  Believe me.  I’ve had all sorts of conversations with God about the subject.  Still, for every time I leave the States, my waitressing job is waiting for me when I come back.  Somewhere in the middle of all those plane rides, I stopped telling God I needed a different job and starting asking Him why He still had me in this one.

Waitressing isn’t exactly a dream come true.

Surprised?

It’s actually quite frustrating.  You may not hear the swear words out in the dining room, but - believe me - we get a whole lot of them back in the kitchen.  It’s high stress.  People treat you like dirt, all for the sake of an over-cooked steak or a salad that’s too small.  And your fellow workers might always smile for the customers, but that doesn’t mean they’re always smiling for you.

Last week, I was reading some verses while driving to work.  I Corinthians 4:8-13 to be exact.  Emphasis on verse 12: “We work hard with our hands.  When we are cursed, we bless; when we are persecuted, we endure it.”

I thought about the apostles and how many enemies they had to bless and wondered if I had any enemies cursing me that I could bless.  I couldn’t think of any off the top of my head.

Then I got to work.

You know how some people are easy to like, and other people are a lot harder to like?  I have a hard time liking one of the bartenders at work.  I don’t know drinks very well, and he’s a genius at it.  So, I mess up a lot.  I ask stupid questions.  And every time I make a mistake, this particular bartender is sure to let me know about it.

“Why didn’t you ask what kind of gin they wanted?"  "Your drinks have been here for ten minutes.  Why'd it take you so long?"  "Don’t you know how to open a bottle of wine without breaking the cork?”

It’s hard to bless someone when he’s talking to you like this.  Especially when, meanwhile, two tables are waiting for you to take their order, the cooks are yelling at you to pick up your food for the third table, and a fourth table is wanting to pay their bill right now.

When life’s like that, it’s hard to hear criticism from the bartender.

When life’s like that, it’s even harder to bless the bartender who’s criticizing you.

And yet Paul clearly says in I Corinthians, “When we are cursed, we bless.”

This is one of the lessons God’s teaching me these days.  A lesson He figures gets hashed out pretty well in the waitressing world. (I’m inclined to agree with Him.) It doesn’t mean He’s ignoring me or forgotten about me or stuck me on a top shelf because He got tired of looking at me.  It means He is my teacher whether I’m a missionary or a waitress.  It means He wants me to obey whether we’re talking about a plane ticket or a strawberry daiquiri.  It means the God who was good when I was singing for kids in a brick church in Africa is still good while I’m rushing drinks to an impatient table in Nebraska.

"Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.  Consider Him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart."

Uncle Fred: Saving Grace

This is Uncle Fred.  He’s the man in the white shirt standing in the doorway of what will soon be a house for street boys. (Sorry I didn't get a closer shot!) I don’t call him Uncle Fred, but that’s what the kids on the street call him.

Uncle Fred heads an organization called Saving Grace.  It’s another one of the missions in Lira that’s working to bring children out of the hopelessness of the streets and into a brighter future.  Education.  Discipleship.  Family.

We sat in Fred’s office and talked for more than an hour about what it’s like working with kids who don’t have any authority figure in their lives.  Fred told me how he got started.  He didn’t build anything to begin with.  He didn’t start an organization.  He simply went out into the streets and started making friends.  “When they were sick, I took them to the hospital.  When they couldn’t eat, I brought them food.  When it was a holiday, I gave them sodas.”

For nine months, every day that’s all Fred did.

I think there’s a reason why the kids call him “Uncle.”

Then he started inviting kids into his house.  To get them off the streets.  To model a family setting for them.  To put them under authority.  Psychologists would call this “rehabilitation.”  After a couple months there, the kids go to the center outside of Lira.  Here they get to attend school.  They learn how to take care of themselves, how to take care of a house.  They remain with Fred and Saving Grace until they are able to support themselves.

About a year ago, Fred was driving his motorcycle through downtown Lira when he came across a girl lying on the side of the streets.  She was five years old.  She was nearly dead.  Fred picked her up and rushed her to the hospital where doctors diagnosed her with AIDS.  They said there was no hope.  She was too far gone.  But Fred didn't give up.  Today that little girl is enrolled in school and healthy.  Her parents are both dead from AIDS, but this girl has a hope.  She has a future.  This is what Fred does.  This is how he lives.

But the most important thing, Fred says?  “Pray.  Step up your prayer life.  If now you are praying once a day, start praying five times a day.”  He repeated this a couple different times.  He couldn’t stress it enough.  “Out of everything, never forget to pray.”

Fred has good cause to remind me to pray.  When he was 14 years old, he started praying for street children.  He said he would help that group later in life.  I look at him today, and I see that God answers prayer.

Not only does Fred pray.  He is also a visionary.  After our office talk, we walked outside to tour the grounds.  These particular grounds happen to be about five acres of land that right now have an office building, a house, a little shack for a kitchen, and two gardens.  But Fred showed me much more than that.  “This here will be the school, and over there we will build a real kitchen.  There will be three more houses for the kids.  We will put the visitor parking lot right here, and the staff will park over there.”

The five mostly empty acres came to life as he talked.

And somewhere in the middle of our discussion, Fred told me the most surprising thing of all.  Remember Christopher from the last post?  That’s Fred’s brother.

Fred is the younger brother who moved to Lira with Christopher and spent the next six months living on the street.  God has taken two abandoned fatherless street boys, and He has made a good thing.  A very good thing indeed.

Christopher: The Passion I Have for Christ

Meet Christopher Odongo (on the left).

I met Christopher in a square, tall-ceilinged office at the Children of the Nations compound in Lira.  Children of the Nations (COTN) is an international organization that works to bring hope to orphans and abandoned children through education.  When I talked to Christopher, COTN had 61 orphans in Lira that they were taking care of.

Christopher was getting ready for the arrival of a western team that was coming in the next day, and he joked with us that he needed to print his own business cards.

But life for him didn’t always look so promising.

When he was 8 years old, Christopher lived in Gulu with his mom and dad and little brothers.  But that was before the LRA attacked.  The day the rebel army came, they caught Christopher’s father and chopped him into pieces with a panga.  Do you remember what a panga is?

Just like that, Christopher was fatherless.

His mother immediately moved the family out of Gulu, walking, trying to find a different place to live.  A place where they would be safe.  They walked 60 miles to an IDP camp.  But the LRA attacked again.  So the family moved again.  Only to be attacked again.

After the third attack, Christopher decided he might be safer in a town instead of in an IDP camp.  So he and his younger brother moved to Lira.  Where they spent the next six months living on the streets.

A pastor heard about the boys and began sponsoring them so they could go to school.  While he was studying at the age of 16, Christopher had a vision.  A vision of himself surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of street kids.  Abandoned.  Neglected.  Orphans like himself.  And in the vision, Christopher was taking care of them all.

Christopher’s friends began to tell him that through his time on the streets, God had prepared him to help children who are where he once was.  Christopher himself said this: “Why did I stay on the street?  I think it was a training ground.”

A bad circumstance.  A trial.  An ugly part of his life . . . that God made good.

Today Christopher and his wife Joy (he calls her meta charis because it means “with joy” in Greek, and she brings him joy, and he likes studying Greek) have twins, a boy and a girl, who are a few months old.  Joy heard on the news one night about a baby who had been found in the trash on the side of the road, abandoned.  The infant was dead.  The news made Joy cry.  After having children of her own, she couldn’t understand how someone could just leave a baby to die like that.  About his own life, Christopher says this: “If there is any passion I have for Christ, it is to see the faithfulness of Christ as I obey Him.  God told us to take care of the orphans and widows, and this is what I want to do.”

(If this page starts singing to you, don't freak out!  I told it to do that.  It's playing from the white box - I think they call it a widget - on the left-hand side of the screen.  I wanted to share with you the songs I got to record about a year ago now, and I finally figured out how to do it!)

Faces of the Orphans

I met five other children at the house where I met Sarah.

They were all staying with Sarah at Rebecca’s (a police woman in Lira) house.  The police had gotten calls concerning these children and had the option to:
a) Put the children in jail (for lack of a better facility).
b) Take the children into their own homes.
c) Ignore them.

Rebecca as a single African woman who makes under 80US$/month has chosen option b.

When I met these children, they were all hanging around the house, sitting on the front porch, cleaning inside, waiting for something to happen.  Rebecca is gone at work all day, so these children must learn to take care of themselves.  They cannot go to school because Rebecca can’t afford to send them.

We sat on the front porch of Rebecca’s house, and these children told me their stories.  I would like you to hear them.

(Beginning at the top left and moving clockwise) First is Innocent.  Innocent is five years old.  When he was a baby, he was abandoned by his parents.  I don’t think he actually knows who his mother and father are.

Next is Gloria.  Her parents were killed by the LRA.  She couldn’t tell me one sentence about her mom and dad without big tears rolling down her cheeks.

On the top right is Dennis.  He is around the age of ten, and his father is in prison for killing his brother.  His mother is dead.  Dennis has an amazing smile.

On the bottom left is Moren.  Moren is four years old.  She was found abandoned on the streets when she was only a few months old.  She doesn’t know who her parents are.

Last is Irene.  Irene is 12 years old.  A mob killed her father for stealing.  Her mother couldn’t handle it and simply abandoned her kids.  Irene is the oldest of the six children, so I imagine she is more or less in charge of the others while Rebecca is gone.  Would you leave your 12-year old in charge of five other children all day while you went to work?

When we prayed together at the end of our visit, Irene prayed, and this is what she said.  “I thank You for keeping us alive not because we are good but because You are righteous.”  This is very close to a prayer Daniel prayed in Daniel 9.  Irene may be an orphan.  She may not be able to go to school.  She may be in charge of five other children, remembering all the while that her mother who ought to be there was in too much pain to care for her own children.  But Irene is thankful to God for His goodness.

Do you see the goodness of God in the faces of these children?

There ought to have been two more boys at this house when I came.  Moses and Bennett used to live at Rebecca’s house too, but they decided life was too difficult here and went back to living on the streets.

Both boys are six years old.

The Need No One Else Would Fill

I am out this week at Covenant Cedars for Royal Family Kids Camp (RFKC).  It’s a week of fried chicken, fruit snacks, and spaghetti.  A week of “Pharaoh, Pharaoh” and “Oh ma chey chey!”  A week of doing terrifying things for the sake of a nine-year old (things like the zip line and the 3-story-tall water slide).

The campers at RFKC are foster kids.  Kids between the ages of 5 and 11 who, for some reason or the other (and usually the reason isn’t a very nice one), have been involved or are still involved with Nebraska’s social services.

They’re pretty messed up kids.

Proof that it is possible to destroy a child’s character in a mere 5 years.

Living examples of the results of trying to raise a kid with something very opposed to the love of Jesus.

They remind me of the kids I met in northern Uganda.

Her mom abandoned her babies, and his mom was abducted by the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army; you might want to google it if you don’t know what I’m talking about).  His dad was on drugs, and her dad has AIDS.  His dad is in jail.  She never knew her mom.

Like Sarah.

I met Sarah at a police woman’s house.  Sarah lives at this house because she is a total orphan.  “Total orphan” is the term Ugandans use to explain that both a child’s parents are dead. (The word “orphan” can mean that one or both of the parents are actually alive, but are either unable or unwilling to care for their child.)  Sarah’s dad used to be a pastor.  But he was killed by the LRA.  They killed him with a panga.  Which is an African word for machete.  Sarah cried and cried when she told me what happened to her parents.  I wondered if she had been there and watched the day the LRA killed her father.

Sarah’s mom died of AIDS.

If Sarah didn’t live with this police woman in Lira, she would be on the streets instead.  There is nowhere else for her to go.  No one wants her.  No one cares whether she lives or dies.  No one is interested in what she wants to be when she grows up.

In Nebraska when we have kids like this, they get picked up by social services.  They get placed in foster homes.  They get sponsored by the government.

In Africa, the police who get the call about an abandoned kid are the only hope those kids have.  If the police don’t care, no one else cares either.  In Lira, at least some of the police saw the need no one else would fill.  They decided to do something about it.

How many Sarah's are there in northern Uganda?

How many Sarah's are there in Nebraska?

Olal Eric: Jesus Is Enough

So, I’ve finally gotten to the part I’ve been most excited for, the part I’ve been dying to tell you.  The stories I went to Uganda to find.  The faces God set in front of me - faces and names I now know - that I want to share with you.

And I can’t figure out what to say.

It’s not that I don’t have anything.  It’s that I have too much.  And it’s not words.  It’s faces.  Sparkling eyes and shy smiles.  Laughter.  Names.

Dogo.

Dennis.

Jarred.

Beatrice.

Kristopher.

Solomon.

People I know.  Children I’ve met.  Brothers and sisters in Christ.  Friends.

And I think: “Dude.  Blogging is really a pathetic way to meet a person.”  I wish I could take you on a plane, and we could walk the streets of northern Uganda together.  I wish we could sit at the little yellow restaurant that serves rice and g-nut (short for ground nut, or peanuts) sauce and Coke.  I wish you could hop on the back of Washington’s boda and experience the thrill of Africa on two wheels.  I wish we could stop at Dennis’s house and sit in the shade.  Or meet Solomon at CRO (Child Rehabilitation Outreach), a ministry for street kids.  Or talk with Jarred after a soccer game.

Maybe next year.

For now, this is going to have to do.

I’d like you to meet Olal Eric.

Olal is 23 years old.  I met him one day when I went to the Internet café near the church to check my email.  I was surprised by how young he looked because there was an ancient peace on his face that you usually only see in much older people.

Olal works with street kids.  Before the war, Lira didn’t have any street kids.  Now there are half a thousand - and that’s a low estimate.  Olal and a friend saw the need, and they decided to do something about it.  They didn’t have any money or any resources.  But they had feet and hands and hearts that loved Jesus.  So, they walked out onto the streets and started befriending the friendless.

Street kids in Lira aren’t exactly welcomed.  A week before I arrived, the police riled up the community against the street kids so that they attacked the kids where they were sleeping one night and beat them, killing a couple and arresting more than 20.  This is the attitude of the local community towards street children.

Except for Olal.  And other people like him whose hearts God has touched.  Softened.  Strengthened.  Moved.  So that when he sees a kid on the street - someone maybe only a few years younger than himself - he helps.  He may not have money to pay for their school fees or a roof to put over their heads or food to put in their mouths.  But he has Jesus.  And even in northern Uganda, Jesus is enough.

Olal says to tell my church and my family that “I LOVE THEM.” (That’s exactly the way he typed it - and he’s never even met you guys!)  He is praying for God's open doors in northern Uganda.

Knocking Off the Hinges

(A brief explanation in terms: Pastor Johnson is the Ugandan pastor who was my sole contact in Lira, Uganda, when I first arrived.  We are not related except that we have the same Father.  Alpha is the name of the hotel/guest house where I stayed during my two weeks in Lira, and it is run by Pastor Johnson and his family.  Victory Outreach Church [aka VOC] is a large church in Lira, of which Pastor Johnson is one of five pastors.)

Meet Washington:

      And Pat:

These two men are a large part of the reason my journey to Lira included more than me sitting in my room all day, wondering why I was there.  They were God’s answer to a prayer I didn’t know how to pray.  My side went something like this: “So, God, I’m up here in northern Uganda where I don’t know anyone, and no one’s really been waiting for me to come, and I’ve got no schedule and no organization in charge of me . . . So, what am I supposed to be doing again?”

God’s answer went like this: I was walking down the noisy, red-dirt streets of downtown Lira.  Population 119,323 (from Google).  I was trying not to get run over by any of the motorcycles, fall into the open sewer systems, trip into pedestrians, or knock over any small businesses on the side of the road.

Needless to say, I was a bit preoccupied.

The boda (Ugandan for motorcycle; remember this word as I probably won’t explain it again.) was stalled in front of me, and its two occupants were yelling my name before I even realized they were there.

How did two strange Ugandans get to know my name?  I didn’t know being white made me that big of a celebrity.  Then I made out what they were saying.  “Rebecca!  We have a meeting with you at 2:30.  We will be at Alpha.  Meet us there!”  And then they were gone.

Hm.

I’ve had strange men stop on the side of the road and ask me to go out with them before (see this post if you’d like to know the details), but never this!

At 2:30 I was faithfully sitting at Alpha, wondering if my two random friends/complete strangers would show.

They did.

The three of us sat down at a table under the shade of a tree, and I met Pat and Washington, VOC delegates sent to welcome this strange white woman who had come all by herself and didn’t seem to know what she was doing.

I love how they started the meeting.  Pat tried to ask some questions: “Pastor Johnson says you are here in Lira for two weeks.  We want to know what your schedule looks like, what you are expecting to do.  We want to hear why you -”

Washington waved a hand.  “No, no,” he said.  “First, we pray.”

I didn’t know that with that simple introduction, God had just knocked the hinges off every closed door I didn’t know how to open.

Tender Hearts Baby Home

Kampala, Uganda.

A twisted little red-dirt street so nondescript, we drove past it the first time.  But this little side road holds an important house.  A house for children whose biological parents have abandoned them.

It is called Tender Hearts Baby Home, and it is run by a man named Kenneth and his wife whose name I forgot to write down.  When I was visiting, Tender Hearts had seven children age five and under in their protection.  These are children thrown away on the side of the road.  Children born of rape.  Children too expensive to feed.  Whatever the reason, their parents do not want them, and so they are left.

Abandoned.  Forgotten.  Alone.

When the police find these children, they contact Tender Hearts.  The children (sometimes only weeks old!) are brought to the home, their families researched and recorded, and medical treatment given as needed.  If no relatives are willing to care for the child, they are made available for international adoption.

Kenneth and his wife have been running Tender Hearts for the past two years.  But Kenneth’s interest in orphans started long ago.  By the time he reached his early twenties, both Kenneth’s parents were dead.  He was an orphan.  At first, he became very angry with God.  Why would a loving God allow this?  Where was God anyway?  Was he all alone in the world now?  In his anger and confusion, he began searching the Bible.  And it was there, in the Word of God, that Kenneth learned, as he said “to accept God’s will.”  He began discipling orphan boys.  He married, and he and his wife continued together in their work with abandoned children.  Then God told them to start a baby home.

Tender Hearts is the result.

This is a very brief sketch of Kenneth and the work he heads.  But, even though my visit was only a couple hours, I learned something very important from Kenneth.  Something I would see over and over in my time in Uganda.

The people who are serving the children in the deepest pain, the rawest need - abandoned babies, street children, former child soldiers - these are the very people who once lived there themselves.

I see in this the power of God to bring beauty from ashes.  From our worst calamities, our deepest heartaches, we have a God who is very capable of bringing good.  So much good that we start to wonder if it wasn’t best that He wounded us in the first place.  Who better to father the orphans than a man who has known the sting of being orphaned himself?

This is what Kenneth taught me.  It wasn't the last time I would learn the lesson.

(If you would like more information about Tender Hearts Baby Home and Night Light, the heading adoption agency, please click here.)