Around dinner time tonight I really hit a wall of tiredness. It was a physically and emotionally exhausting day for me (well,most seem to be lately) and I just SAT. Sat on my porch talking to people and drinking as much water as I could hold and feeling bone weary.
The kids began the usual dinner time bouncing off the walls and I went in to make dinner and get them started on the washing and getting ready. (rainy season means LOTS of washing off of mud) As I began cooking up some meat and rice and roasted carrots, a bat descended from our attic. Naomi and I both hit the floor as the bat cruised right in down on top of us. This is not unusual, but this bat just kept coming back. David took both the kids into our bedroom and closed the door and read to them. Meanwhile I stayed out to finish dinner. What a circus. That bat had it IN for me! I kid you not, during the fifteen or twenty minutes it took me to finish dinner, that bat swooped down on me about ten times. After the first few I realized that this bat had issues. And I decided that rather than our usual anti-violence approach to bat maintenance, this one had to go any way it could be gotten rid of. I grabbed my always handy can of DOOM (the bug killing spray they sell in Kampala is called DOOM which is such a cool name, don’t you think?) and a towel and began my insane battle against this small and elusive prey.
I’m glad no locals were there to watch as I made a fool of myself swoop after swoop, trying vainly to get a somewhat lethal sized dose of DOOM on this tiny creature without inhaling too many of the carcinogens myself. The towel was thrown many times, along with copious amounts of chemical vapors.
Some minutes later, I dashed, bottle of kool aid in hand, towards the bedroom door, hitting the floor as the bat descended once again.
We ate a picnic dinner in the bedroom VERY CAREFULLY, because roaches and giant ants in the bedroom are just really not fun.
Now here I sit, older, wiser, racquetball racquet in hand, ready to play some batcquetball . . .
Wish me luck.
And I used to be such a gentle person.

Here is Monday, the local man with schizophrenia who has terrorized us all at times.  He is doing better these days, taking some meds.  He has a lot of bizarre behaviors and still a sweet and beautiful spirit.  I love this picture because you can see David on the roof behind Monday, working on team mates’ solar panel!!

Yesterday seven year old Innocent died. You can read the moving story at Jennifer’s blog, www.paradoxuganda.blogspot.com. I can’t do justice to any of it here, I was not close enough.

Last night, barely hearing of her death, I was immersed once again in my own angst, the weight of the world on my shoulders as I came face to face as always with my inability to make the kind of difference that would bring me value and joy. (as written in the last post)

Meanwhile a mother mourns her daughter, a daughter only one year older than my own, who only a few days ago was healthy and flourishing, ready to face the world. Ready to bring her own beautiful and unique gifts to the people of her world.

Today I listen over and over again to “I can Only Imagine” – which unveils the only antidote I know both to the pain of death and to my own soul’s suffering through brokenness. The only antidote I know; standing in the presence of Jesus and God the Father, complete, whole and painless at last.

This song is the most beautiful description of heaven I know of . . . .

I can only imagine what it will be like
When I walk by your side
I can only imagine what my eyes will see
When your face is before me
I can only imagine

Surrounded by your glory
What will my heart feel
Will I dance for you Jesus
Or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence
Or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujiah
Will I be able to speak at all

I can only imagine
When that day comes
And I find myself standing in the sun
I can only imagine when all I will do
Is forever, forever worship you.

As I close my eyes and let the tears fall I can see little Innocent, truly innocent at last, beautiful and graceful in her amazing African way, dancing before Jesus, pain-free, no longer suffering from sickle cell, poverty, hunger . . . . Delighting in her Daddy King.

A busy day, we are close to evening once again. Four pm, Bible Study time. Today the children are smaller than usual, only about twenty-two. We sit in the kitubi, some on the wall, some on chairs and some on our mat. I sit in front of them on my low stool and Daniel sits next to me on his shoes. We are working our way through the life of Moses and the people of Israel under his leadership.

Today we hear about him receiving the ten commandments on Mt Sinai and about the people of Israel who remain at the foot of the mountain and quickly give up on God and Moses and choose to worship a golden calf they make themselves.

When our story had ended I spent some time discussing our hearts propensity to worship. I told them I see in my heart and the hearts of others that we are created to worship. We cannot live without bowing down to something. If we are not bowing down to Rohanga (God) we will worship something or someone else. I talked about a young woman worshipping a man she wishes to marry. Her eyes only for him, not for Jesus. I talked about young men worshipping education, their eyes on the power and success they may someday have. Daniel seemed to be heartfelt in his agreement as he translated and I had that familiar tug at my heart that told me the Holy Spirit was encouraging me to keep going.

We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I felt compelled to remind them that when God gives us the gift of hearing about Him, He is also increasing our responsibility to respond. I felt sobered by all that these kids are hearing about God. And sobered by their ability to respond or ignore.

Imagine my disappointment a few moments later when Daniel started asking some questions about the story and no one seemed to remember any of it. I was overcome by a wave of real tear-bringing discouragement. What in the world am I here for?? Do I have ANYTHING to offer ANYONE? (absolutes are a sure sign of Satanic attack)

I guess I really don’t have that much to offer anyone. I know that I am created beautifully and wonderfully and uniquely. And that God created me for reasons that no one else can fulfill. At the same time, God can offer everyone anything they need through the power of His Holy Spirit. Perhaps I find myself worshipping once again, not at His throne, but at the throne of my own accomplishments, my own satisfaction at success.
I asked Daniel a few minutes later if the story was too difficult or not told at the right level. He said the kids were only feeling shy and perhaps still processing. I know that none of that is the point, for me. Am I confident enough that this is what God is asking me to do that I can do it daily without evidence of transformation, without the satisfaction of some kind of productivity? Can I find my satisfaction in fulfilling who He designed me to be, in living out of His power, in believing what He says is true?

Not easy for people-pleaser me.

Each time I pray over someone here, usually accompanied by the translation to Lubwisi of either Daniel or Muhamooza, I find myself whispering Jesus name as I close ” in the powerful name of Jesus”. And as I find the translator also bowing his voice in reverence to “Yesu Christo”, am constantly in awe of His majesty, of His solitary presence. He alone is worth worshipping. Worship Him with me.

What could be better for a four year old boy than getting to drive the car on the roads . . . Who will stop you here?  Quinn regularly drives (with some assistance!) for simple trips down to the village or Christ School.

This vehicle is the second we have had here, our first was destroyed by the bad roads but replaced by our seller, because he believed there was preexisting damage (praise God!)

After a lot of thought and prayer we intend to replace this second van with a used Land Cruiser, ASAP.  Over the last few months, we have found our current vehicle won’t last long in these conditions and doesn’t allow us the needed mobility to travel quickly and easily over the mountains should we have to.

David, Naomi and Quinn inspect friends’ home which needs to be destroyed and rebuilt. (one more project to fund!) Termites have eaten away at the reed structure and the dried mud is falling out in chunks during the rain and wind storms.

How many kids do you know who get to ride a piki piki to school??  One of our perks here, fun rides down dirt roads along with two girlfriends and their dad . . . . Safety is always a good thing to pray for us!

Quinn discovers a new kind of “nomba ya kekombe” (the house of the bat). His tub just filled with warm kettle water, he gets undressed, then turns to find his tub is already being used!! “It just flewed down from the ceiling mom!!” The bat happily flew away once carried outside.

Brooks, asking the hard questions, comments on the blog:

“How are the promises in the Bible being fulfilled in the lives of sick and dying Africans? Is death a gift from the Lord, a release from the burden of this world? How can I worry about how many more blessings God will give me and being particular about wording of scripture when people are dying from a lack of love, food, and other things I consider basic necessities? How do people with burdens I cannot comprehend have such deep faith?”

First of all, let me say, I have no good, comprehensive and wholly true answers. I CAN give you a bit more of a glimpse of what I am privileged to see here.

We support a boy in school. He is 15. He has just completed P7, which is seventh grade and is waiting for his PLE results to apply to a secondary school with our support – Christ School!! This boy has a beautiful countenance and a beautiful heart. He is a sinner, just like all the rest of us, but there is something transformed about him. He stands in sharp contrast to many young men here.

By the time he was seven he had lost both parents to AIDS. A distant relative ( her mother and his mother shared the same father) went to the burial and found M.C. as I’ll call him, living with someone there. He had no surviving relatives anywhere in his home town of Fort Portal. At seven he was a TRUE orphan in every sense of the word.

Can you imagine being this boys mother, watching his father die, than waiting to die yourself. Never having been well enough to take good care of your child. Watching him suffer from lack of food and nutrition, knowing there was no way to educate him. Knowing there is no one there to care for him, thanking God that he himself is HIV-.

This distant relative, a brave “aunt”, took M.C. in, despite having six children and a very minimal income of her own. This is how he came to live in this place. For the last eight years he has lived with this family of eight; relatives, yet not close, sharing communal meals and sleeping mats.

When I visited this family, despite my deep thankfulness for the ways they have cared for and provided for M.C., I have no doubt that who he is was shaped by the parents he had. His countenance reflects something so much deeper and more beautiful than his current home life.

Where did this deep wisdom and beauty come from? How can we make sense of suffering? How can we hold beside each other the two parallel rivers of God’s goodness and man’s suffering, knowing that somewhere they intersect?

Our friend Muhamooza has experienced a lot of suffering in his life, like so many here. Recently as I was reading through the book of James, I felt God wanted me to give him a verse I found there. I wrote it out carefully and gave him the paper.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James 1:2,3

Without a shadow of a doubt, the intensity of suffering here produces an intensity of faith, not mature in the ways that we theologically rich Americans expect, but mature in the ways that Jesus refers to, simple, childlike. My faith is constantly increased by watching those around me who really don’t know where their next day’s food will come from. Those who maybe have a pregnant wife and two children in the hospital with severe malaria, and only they and their firstborn remain well. As someone told me recently, “you must always be ready for the visitor. Malaria is a visitor that comes without knocking, without speaking “cody,cody” (I’m here!), you
must be a champion in Jesus, because this world has much trouble.” Amen, brother.

As I have experienced a lot of sickness over the last few months, one of our workers has asked me why God allows all of us to suffer like this. And I can respond; from watching you, I know that suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance, maturity. And maturity, deep faith. We know that we suffer here in many ways, but all over the world people suffer deeply. It is an important part of my ministry here to share the suffering of well-off Americans. We too have deep heart sorrows. No one, anywhere has happiness because of their circumstances. Perhaps we don’t struggle for our lives daily, because of food. But maybe because of depression, an eating disorder, or anxiety, we do.

Jesus came, as the Great Doctor, not to treat those who are well, but those who are sick. Praise God, that He comes for us, because we are the sick ones, with no answers, with no circumstantial joy. Our joy comes from Jesus, where we find true life. Walk in the championship of Jesus, you will still suffer, but in the suffering there will be comfort, peace, and endurance.

Pat and I are marketing. We search through used clothing looking for sheets for the old woman who has come to the market with us today and is waiting in Pat’s vehicle. A beautiful old woman of about 80 – how does she survive? – she must, even at her age, still find an out of the way place in the chaotic marketplace to squat and relieve herself. No assisted living here; just living, or dying.

I find a beautiful used punjabi (sp?) top for $1 American. It is white and embroidered with gold. Though a shirt, it fits like a dress down to the knees, a way for me to wear pants in this culture!! I waver. It is hard for me to purchase here. Everything is weighted in terms of need and what the money could buy for someone suffering. Pat convinces me. Now I have made my first “for me” purchase in Nyahuka. I guess that means I am staying. Maybe its not too late for me to put it back . . .

Now Pat and I stand in the market together, being whipped by “mpwega” – the wind. Rain is coming. The people here only have to look at the sky to know the time the rain will come, the heaviness and the length of its stay. Amazing to me. People are running every which way, removing clothing from racks and placing sugar and flour and rice under covers. Rain.

We dash into a duka as big drops begin to fall. The small interior is about half the size of your typical American walk in closet, but the owner here is considered well off. It’s crammed with goods. We find an umbrella, a really nice one, for only 4,500 shillings and purchase it as we don’t have one yet. Who would think that you could find umbrellas here, yet you can. Mostly they are used for sun shelter, but also good for rain.

Now we walk, under cover, to another duka, this one selling kitangi cloth. I am searching for some fabric to have a shirt made, a christmas gift. As we stand in the duka, looking at the small selection of beautiful African fabrics, the rain intensifies. Now, even as we purchase our fabric, we are stuck. Even with umbrella there is no going back out. The small market road in front of us is now awash. A baffu, small basin, flows past us in what has become a river. Bikes resting against dukas collapse into the mud and are covered with swirling water. Pat pulls out her camera to grab a picture of the eddying mud and all around us dozens upon dozens of Africans stare with deep curiousity and interest at that camera. If only I could take a picture of them watching her take pictures. The scene is vividly National Geographic. Small, poorly constructed and dilapidated square wooden structures; held together with whatever, filled with mostly cheaply made, easily broken goods, meat hangs whole from hooks, our greatest commodity, people, line the covered fronts of the dukas.

Now the rain is slowing and we are stepping out to find the “tailor man” who will sew a shirt for me. We step through foul-smelling calf deep muddy water. Please God, let me have no open wounds on my feet. We watch the people in front of us who have more experience with the shallowest paths through in the rainy season. We buy sugar, carrots and some plastic shoes for someone who needs them. Then, wet, muddy and finished, we walk home.