It is the pitch black of the late evening and our engine hums as we roll
towards our locked gate. As we pull up we are even with the houses grouped
next door to us, the “compound” of our clan neighbors, the Akolimpes.
Wesaio!” I call into the darkness and a dozen murmered “eh”’s come back to
me. Then as we come to a stop at the gate, from out of the blackness
children materialize, like enkike drawn to a light. “wesaio, wesaio!” they
call, so happy to see us, so excited to see the van. We don’t drive it
often, each time there is great joy for all observing. Some run to help us
open the gate. Somme gather in front of the headlights suddenly singing a
beautiful African song and dancing together. It is magic. Then laughter,
as David too jumps into the dance in the headlights . . . . .

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Not thirty minutes later, we are all four together in bed, hands and faces
washed, helping the kids fall to sleep. It is again so very dark, with the
strange lightening interspersing the blackness, our usual bed time lighting.
I lay still, waiting for the kids breathing to slow, for their bodies to
relax. I listen to the sounds of bats, many insects, frogs, the sound of
the fan cooling our sweating bodies under the net.

I hear a noise sounding very much like our screen door banging and am
suddenly wide awake and alert. Waiting, wondering what else could have made
a noise like that, knowing that it is nothing when suddenly there is much
more noise. It sounds like someone or something is trying to break down our
door, I hear an incredible pounding, hammering noise . . . . I have my body
down over Naomi and Quinn’s bodies and am shaking hard to wake David up,
“something’s wrong, something’s wrong!!” My body has been invaded by fear.
I think Monday is here. (Monday is a local schizophenic man who has been in
really bad mental health recently and carries around a spear and a machete,
he attacked one of the other missionaries homes last week)

By the time David has woken, just a few seconds later, I am realizing that
what must have started as hail is turning to rain, the noise I heard
magnified many times by our tin roof . . . . I am abashed, but still
shaking. I had no idea I was that ready to be afraid.

Perhaps this is why God allowed me to see an angel passing by the window of
our house the other day, allowing me to know that He is surely guarding this
house, that nothing can happen that He doesn’t know about. Reminding me,
even as I scratched my head thinking surely I had imagined it that His
angels will be watchmen around us, guarding us night and day.

Some pictures from our party on Saturday. It went well!! We had listed for
guests, about 50 kids on the yellow card we passed around one afternoon
when the kids were here playing. This was to prevent the whole of
Bundimilenga from showing up!! The list eventually swelled to about 70 as
we added on children that I really wanted to invite.

When it came time for the party, Daniel (our worker/translator) seemed to
think it would be rude to check names at the gate, and so we ended up with
over 100 kids. (still trying to figure out exactly what the point of the
list was . . . .)

The kids had a great time playing mopera (football) for about an hour,
bukalli vs busassa (girls vs boys), boys won easily which is because girls
are usually never allowed to play.

It started to rain just as mopera was wrapping up, and we collected under
some big trees in the yard to hear the “choir” ( a group of kids who had
been practicing some worship songs in English) perform. David and I greeted
the kids and I did a devotional, telling the children how much Jesus loves
children, that they are His precious treasures and that I have been sent
here by Him to capture their hearts with His love. I told the story of the
prodigal son and focused on the truth that God loves us not for what we do
but for who Jesus is for us.

Then came food. The two women I had hired to cook said there would never be
enough but as we prayed over the food, somehow there was . . . About 110
plates heaped HIGH with rice and beans. Good food and amazing quantities,
unlike what you’d see even adults eating in America! It was fascinating to
watch those kids go at it, and see their bellies swell to twice the normal
size. What a blessing to be able to provide it.

We then showed the Jesus film in Lubwisi, by using a projector hooked to a
generator and projected onto a white sheet hung on our back shutters. I
have always thought that film to be too poorly made to be much use, but the
people who watched proved otherwise. Some adults wandered in as well and
they were all captivated by the story. I was so encouraged. It it truly
amazing for them to see a film and one in their own language.

We passed out banana pancakes for dessert and off they went. The whole
thing lasted about 5 hours . . .

I (David) have alluded here before to some of the frustration I’ve felt at
what I see as the tendency of the people here to keep asking over and over
again for financial assistance in one form or another without giving
anything in return. Well, today I experienced a significant gift from a
friend who I’ve helped out repeatedly in the past.

He gave me a live chicken. Brought it to our house.

I don’t know about you, but I get a little uncomfortable when I see a future
meal in its original living, breathing, form. I think most Americans
strongly prefer to have their food look as little as possible like a part of
an animal; no doubt this is one reason for the popularity of things like
boneless, skinless chicken breasts. We also seem to prefer to think as
little as possible about what’s involved in getting our food into the form
in which we buy it. I remember reading a book some time ago about the modern
meat processing industry — I was so appalled that I immediately became a
vegetarian for the next couple of years.

So anyway, it was a little hard for me to feel very appreciative for the
gift itself. On the other hand, I certainly was appreciative for the
sacrifice that it represented. This chicken is one of only 4 owned by this
particular family, and I’m guessing they would eat chicken only about once a
year. So I knew this was a big deal for them, and I thanked my friend
profusely and invited him in.

So there we were, this friend and I in my front room, chatting away while
the chicken made repeated and fruitless attempts to escape my friend’s grip.
But as it came time for him to leave, I guess he had somehow picked up on
the fact that we were not prepared to deal with the chicken right then, so
he started to take it home with him again.

I said ” You can just leave it in our yard; we’ll have Mary (our Ugandan
part-time cook) take care of it tomorrow.” (No chance that either Annelise
or I would deal with slaughtering and cleaning it unless we were on the
verge of starvation!).

He said, “You can’t leave it outside; it might get rained on or killed by a
snake.” (Snakes?? In our yard??? I don’t want to think about that!)

So I asked, “Where do you keep it? Do you have a house for it?” (thinking
that perhaps they would have a chicken coop like the ones used in the U.S.).

“Yes,” he said, “they stay in the house with us.”

“They live IN YOUR HOUSE?!?” I replied in horror. “Where do they poop?” (the
reason I thought of this question is that I had just then noticed a small
“present” that the chicken had left on our floor.)

“We put up a cord along the wall for them to roost on and paper underneath
for them to defecate on”.

“Hmm,” I said. So I let him take the chicken away and told him that I would
let him know when we would be ready to prepare it. A cultural faux pas, but
I couldn’t think of any reasonable alternative at the time. Annelise told me
later that she thought it would have been a fun adventure to have a chicken
live inside our house. Easy for her to say: she’s not the one who has to
clean up the “presents”. Although I think she’d change her tune once the
chicken started roosting and pooping on the only line we have inside our
house — it’s where she hangs her lingerie to dry after washing.

Gorgeous foods at the Bundibugyo town market ( located a thirty minute drive
from our village). Village market etiquette requires bending down to the
level of the seller (usually sitting behind a mat on the ground) and asking
“sanga?”  (how much?)  Rice, beans, flour sugar are sold by the “kuppa” (a
standardized plastic cup which is used here for everything,  it’s about
equal to two cups), items such as sweet potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant are
sold by the heap. Heaps are artistically piled in a way that I have never
seen before but seems to be standard throughout Uganda and probably other
parts of Africa as well. You use your fingers held up with your palm facing
your body to state how many heaps or kuppas you wish to buy.  Five is a
closed fist.  Rice is sold for about 600 ugandan shillings per kuppa -
approximately 45 cents.  One half kuppa more than satisfies our family for
dinner when served with beans. Beans are sold for about 500 shillings.  A
beautiful ripe pineapple costs 1,000 shillings (about 55 cents), and aren’t
usually available right in our market.  Some days I have bought tiny golden
creamy eggplants, about the size of small tomatoes for 100 shillings a heap
- a whopping 12 cents American. Right now we have a big bundle of about 30
vanilla bean pods which cost about 5,000 ush, can you believe it?  The
locals use them to make chai tea, we turn ours into vanilla extract with the
help of hard liquor bought in the city.  Most of ours will be given away as
gifts locally. It only takes a few to make a nice big supply of vanilla
extract!

Every kind of food here has to be processed somehow before being used.  All
the fruits and vegetables have to be scrubbed with soapy water and a little
Jek (bleach) to rid them of potential fecal contamination, etc.  Rice and
beans have to be picked clean of stones, twigs, grasses. Even the pasta I
have bought from Kamapala comes with dead bugs in the sealed bag.

We got a kick out of the local cooking oil we picked up the other day.  Our
goal was to find oil that came sealed.  Most oil used locally is palm oil
which you see being poured from gerri cans into old soda bottles, etc. when
being bought.  We were successful in finding a a nice sealed can of oil
which we bought and brought home.  It’s a simple metal canister with no
label but stamped with the words “USA food distribution, NOT TO BE SOLD OR
EXCHANGED”  - clearly (sadly) American food aid has found it’s way to us.

Naomi’s first day at Rwenzori Mission School - there are a total of nine
kids in the school . . . . Which is for the team, by the team. Miss Kim is
her awesome teacher!!

Our Nile tributary, as seen from our backyard edge, yes, it’s a long way
down a steep hill . . .

This one is a picture from Bundibugyo town, which is about a 30 minute drive
away. We go there about once a week to use the bank and buy some foods we
can’t get in the village. It’s pretty rustic but less so than the village.
Note the beautiful mountains that surround us!!

Hunger Pangs.
I do not mean hunger pains, or labor pangs,
I am trying to get to what’s in my heart which is a kind of laboring over
hunger.
Food is taking a lot of my time.
I am hungry right now.
I have just looked at a picture of a little boy in the Sudanese desert,
searching for ants on the dry ground because he is starving.
And I myself am losing a battle to ants, who seem to be in need of my food.
I live in the midst of a needy African people, yet store nuts, dried fruit,
and crackers in trunks, because they taste like home.

I bring an egg a day to Boy, who is one year old, who lives next door and
is not eating as much as he should.

Living here, I make more sense of the Bible passages that speak of God
giving us each day’s bread, that remind us not to worry about the next day
and what we shall eat.
Believing and acting on these scriptures is a real challenge here, for me.
And I have access to resources.
Think of our neighbors, who don’t have many resources but live in one of the
most fertile parts of Africa.
Think of the Sudanese, facing famine and drought.
God, we ask for your mercy.

I am doing some reading right now, to help find foods to prepare,
from a book called the More with Less cookbook.
Great for here, because it is centered around the use of staple goods such
as beans, rice, flour.
It is full of pithy notes.
Such as this one:

“The bright sun shines
Unblinkingly. Wind sweeps the land.
No rain. Old people shake their heads.
Little children and women move to the food camps.
Already
There are more than 200,000 in camps. We all
Pray for rain.

In the towns and cities
People stand in line. As sugar,
Cornmeal, flour, and oil decrease,
tensions in the lines increase.
Lean years are upon us.

Teach us to care, O God,
In the Somali-Muslim way
Which does not hoard food
Nor store for the future
But shares gladly
Regardless of how little.”

From More with Less Cookbook, a poem by a missionary to Somalia

I hoard food,
I store for the future.
If I have only a little, I save it for my children.
I crave chocolate,
I dream of protein.
I feel small and ashamed to be complaining of the ants who come after my
saved and hoarded food, when I see the children next door eating each small
piece of food right off the dirt, as do the ants.
No wonder they don’t have so many bugs, nothing left.

“One who is full tramples on
Virgin honey
But to the man who is hungry,
Any bitter thing is sweet”

Proverbs 27:7

“O God, we’ve wasted
We’ve complained
We’ve grumbled.
We’ve misused our resources
We’ve confused our needs
With our wants.

For these sins
Father, forgive us.
Help us to reset our priorities
According to your will.”

From More with Less Cookbook, from a missionary to Botswana

I used to think that a cheeseburger to stabilize my low blood sugar was a
need.
I still want it.
Sometimes I think about complaining that I don’t have it.
Now I think that drinking filtered water and fruit that’s been washed are
necessities.
My neighbors have consistently proven otherwise.

It doesn’t get any easier to face these issues when you live in the thick of
things,
when you have the chance to give away eggs that save lives.
Because you are only closer to the many lives you are not saving.
Only closer to my own inadequacy to meet the need or even feel the
compassion I should in the face of the problem.

But there is Jesus, somehow, even in my grumbling, complaining and misusing
of resources, Always Enough. Even in my sorrow and compassion and
heartache, Always Enough for this hurting world.

Just Give Me Jesus. How can this helplessly flawed life of mine ever point
to the one who loves without restraint, who knows us with an ultimate
compassion. God, somehow let others see You in me, and in seeing You find
Strength, Hope, and Joy even in the midst of pain. Let my life point sure
and straight to all you have to give. Because surely I have nothing to
offer, I see it more clearly each day. And hope and pray that others won’t
see through my inabilities, any less of You.

Our brand new (to us, ten years old, really) and super safari–ized Hiace
van.  What a gift!!

Quinn is ecstatic that the new vehicle comes with a ladder, what could be
better?!

Here we are, loaded up for the road, this is just after arriving in Uganda.

The road

Home at last, and new friends to greet us . . . (in actuality we arrived
late late at night, but we were still warmly greeted by the clan next door.)
This picture was taken a few days later.  The kids love to see their
reflections in the shiny van sides and “draw” in the thick layer of dust
too!

I (David) thought I’d share with you some things I’ve been meaning to write
about for a while, namely, some of my experiences of culture shock here. The
first one relates to:

DRIVING
We went for a ride through Uganda’s capital and only “real” city, Kampala,
(in someone else’s car fortunately) on our first full day in Uganda. I
couldn’t believe what I saw: traffic as dense as in an American city, but
with no freeways, no working traffic lights, no stop signs, no speed limits,
and no visible lane markers! And to top it off, roads — often unpaved –
with potholes like swiss cheese! And it seems like every other car is a
mutatu (the primary form of public transport — a minivan that is sort of a
cross between a cab and a bus). Let me assure you, the mutatu drivers are
not known for their courtesy or restraint. And weaving in and out around the
cars at terrifyingly small distances are boda-bodas (mopeds for hire) and
pedestrians — not to mention the occasional farm animal. A typical American
driver — cell phone in one hand and latte in the other — wouldn’t last a
minute here. As you can imagine, I was not especially looking forward to my
first day of driving. That day — the day of our roughly 250 mile, 8-hour
trip to Bundibugyo — came all too soon and there I was, in our new car
(full size van), driving on the left side of the road with the steering
wheel on the right, manual transmission, more than a little concerned that I
was going to plow into a pedestrian or boda-boda or cow. Thankfully, I
managed not to hit anything, and we were soon out of Kampala. Unfortunately,
what came next was, if possible, even worse. It was not so much driving as
high-speed pothole and vehicle evasion for about the next 90 minutes on an
unbelievably bad 2-lane road. I came to see the truth in the Ugandan joke
that goes like this: “How can you spot a Ugandan drunk driver?” “He’s the
one that’s driving straight.” I marveled as the more experienced drivers
around me swooped back and forth across the full width of the road like
Olympic slalom skiiers, maintaining highway speed yet not hitting any of the
innumerable and deep potholes (or other vehicles). I on the other hand found
myself slowing to a crawl multiple times to avoid what I imagined would be
certain death for our car’s suspension. I experienced more than one
heart-stopping moment as other cars chose to pass me without warning at the
precise moment I was swerving to avoid a pothole. Definitely a white-knuckle
experience. Then, incredibly, came a section of road (stil 2-lane) that
would be good by anyone’s standards. This section lasted all the way to the
town of Fort Portal (last town before the mountains near where we live). A
blessed respite before the final challenge: a 40-mile, 2 1/2 hour drive on a
mountain dirt road to our new home. I still recall my reaction at the first
sight of that road: “You’ve got to be kidding me! They drive cars on this
road?!?!” Little did I imagine that an hour later I would be longing for a
road as good as that one: all too quickly, the relatively straight and
smooth dirt road gave way to a much more bumpy and rocky one, laced with
blind hairpin turns, enormous potholes, and beautiful but terrifying
dropoffs to the side (Guardrails? Ha!). We survived this too, and finally
reached the home stretch, an unbelievably rocky dirt road. You know those
groupings of smallish speed bumps they sometimes have before toll plazas on
highways? The ones that cause your tires to create a deafening noise to wake
you up before you plow into a toll booth? Well, the whole road was like
that. Only probably twice as bumpy. I was appalled at the speed maintained
by the lead car over this road. We were doing 25 mph over a road that felt
like it was designed for about 5 mph. Somehow we and our car survived all
this, although I feel like the trip took several years off of our lives.

The second big area of culture shock for me relates to:

VISITORS
Did you ever have a day at work when you couldn’t get anything done because
people kept stopping by to talk or to ask you for things? Well, guess what
– EVERY DAY is like that here. Definitely a drain on productivity. And can
you remember a day when every time you tried to do something, a million
things went wrong to prevent you from succeeding? Every day is like that
here too! Only worse because Home Depot is 8000 miles away. I experienced
major frustration from this at first, but I’m starting to get used to it.
Partly because fewer visitors are showing up (most were wannabe workers and
I think word has gotten out that we have all we need) and partly because
I’ve started to see value in the way things are done here. I’ve come to
realize how much of an idol productivity is in American culture and how
relationships often suffer as a result. In Bundi, relationships come first
and productivity is second (in my mind, maybe a too distant second). For
example, here, if two days pass without some friend of yours having greeted
you (probably at your home), you should assume that you have DEEPLY offended
him. Can you imagine?

The third area relates to:

LANGUAGE
I’ve just begun to realize the extent of the challenge related to learning
the language here. Oddly enough though, my first significant area of
frustration actually relates to the use of English. You might think that in
a country where English is the official language and where teaching of
English is mandatory in all the schools that almost everyone would speak it
pretty well. If you are thinking this, you are severely confused. Due
primarily to problems with the educational system, hardly anyone here speaks
English at a level that will allow me to communicate with them on any
subject. On top of this, there seems to be a very different understanding in
this culture of the meaning of the word “maybe” and related concepts. For
example, let us say that you, a Ugandan, are speaking to me about the
possibility of employment with me. Here’s a table that gives potential
answers from me along with how these answers are interpreted by you:

Me (American)…………………..You (Ugandan)
——————————————–
Yes…………………………………Yes
Maybe in the future……………Yes
Not today…………………………Yes
I will get back to you………….Yes
I’m not sure………………………Yes
No………………………………….Probably in the future
Do not ever visit me again……Maybe

As the needs around us seem to increase daily ( not really, we’re just
becoming more aware) I have been thinking a lot about Jesus and the feeding
of the 5,000 with five loaves and two fishes.

Jesus saw an unbelievable number of people who were hungry, hungry for the
Bread of Life, but also for just plain bread! He had compassion on them and
He fed them. He took the small, meager inadequate food that was humanly
available, he broke it and he made it more than enough.

That’s a picture of what He can do with our lives too, isn’t it? Here we
are, like five small loaves and two dried fishes among so many many hurts
and heartbreaks. How can we begin to think that we will make any difference
at all? Yet, Jesus can take us and multiply us in ways that don’t humanly
make any sense. He can provide for the needs of the multitudes as we step
forward in faith to offer ourselves for these people.

I think of the Last Supper, Jesus again, breaking the bread. The bread that
symbolizes His body, broken for us. Just like those five loaves, Jesus was
broken and in the brokenness of that one body He has provided salvation for
all of us. He has done the impossible, the miraculous, the unthinkably
precious . . . For us.

I read a book this last year called Always Enough. Because Jesus died,
there will always be enough. That phrase became a theme for me over the
last year, as I was challenged so drastically by the call to this place.
Because Jesus died, there will always be enough. Enough to meet the needs I
have that I think can’t be met in rural Africa. Enough to meet the needs of
my children — yes I can trust Him even with them.

And now here we are, and I continue to repeat “always enough” as I seek to
meet the hearts of 70 children playing football in my front yard, of thirty
children each wanting a piece of the small cake I brought outside. At the
clinic, I sit beside a few weeks old baby who’s home will soon be heaven -
and ask God to spare him from suffering, not to make him better. At the
nutrition program I stand besides mats filled with thin and hungry babies
waiting for some food. Some will not live long - I wish to help them all.
I want to take them home, feed them, clean their wounds. I want to love
them with His love. I want to be His hands and His heart to each one of
them. I surely can’t do it.

I don’t have any explanation of how He is Always Enough - but I know He is.
I trust He is. I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that He is enough.
Maybe not enough in all the ways we wish Him to be. But enough in exactly
the ways He needs to be.

When I look at Jesus, I stand in awe.

I spent Monday at the Kwejuna Project food distribution, held just a few hundred yards from our home in the church/community center built by World Harvest Mission.

The Kwejuna Project is a local program begun by WHM missionary doctors, aiming to find ways to decrease the transmission of HIV/Aids from mothers to babies. There are three people on our team who work in various ways to assist the Kwejuna Project. Pamela, a public health P.H.D. Is in charge of the program these days.

The food distribution is when the moms and babies come, are tested, weighed, and interviewed. I got to help with weighing moms and babies (in kilos, boy did that throw me off!) - mostly I was there to get a better overview of the program and the needs. Someday I hope to involve Christ School female students with community ministry by interfacing with the Kwejuna Project.

Here are some photos from the day. All of the mothers you see are HIV positive, I know of one who is close to death from AIDS, but many appear healthy. Around here they go down quickly, though. The babies shown will not be tested for HIV until they are weaned from the breast, because breast feeding babies will show a false positive result. Many of these moms have HIV positive kids at home already. Culturally, contiuning to bear children is a security measure for them. Men wish their wives to be either pregnant or nursing, to assure them that the marriage is healthy.

Aren’t the babies just amazing. The one in pink is a darling boy. I gushed over “her” until I picked “her” up and the movement caused “her”pants to slip down and reveal - him!!