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.
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.
