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 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.”
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.
