“Mommy, Mommy, I need to . . . .”

Small, clutching, heaving body beside me. One-a.m. darkness, sudden-wide-awake, legs swinging over the bed, one hand cupping beneath N’s mouth, another flinging aside the mosquito netting, small body held between my legs, splatter of stomach contents against the hard cement floor, liquid splashing my legs in the darkness, a little body’s misery emptying into the fullness of the quiet night.

No solar-power stored at all; I walk in the darkness to wash a face carefully in water that is not so clean, wash hair with cold water in the coldness of the night. Looking for rags in the darkness I see a dark shadow moving and find a large hairy tarantula exploring our interior floors. Gishing it, we move on; to cleaning vomitous floors in the blackness of night, heating a kettle of water for a mid-night bath and hair wash, arranging pillows and blankets to sit up with Naomi as she struggles against what has taken hold in her stomach.

Meanwhile, this long night has followed a long day: supervising and securing two houses (our current one and the one we are about to move into on-campus) and two sets of house workers plus the construction project and crew on the new house (ten more men), thinking and praying over the school, staff and students; many discussions with David about the issues at Christ School, big and small; Quinn’s episodes of explosive diahrrea; dealing with food procurement, cleaning, cooking, pasteurizing, storing; a tense team meeting filled with the stresses of various members; local boys cat-calling and stripping in front of me as I walk up the path at twilight; our dog tearing valuable clothes off the line; still more requests for money from neighbors.

And still there is hope: Over the last few months I have felt my baseline missing, felt that the source and essence of who I am, God in and around me, has been hard to feel or sense. I have felt that when hard times inevitably come, I will collapse, not held by that bottom-of-my-pyramid, my God. Yet as a wise friend reminded me, God is very much still there, and though I don’t always feel him holding me up, when I fall He will catch me. And now I can sense Him. Now I am falling. And He is catching me now and I can feel His arms, His heart, his presence sustaining me. Sometimes it’s only in the falling that we can feel Him with us.
From Watermark’s album ” The Purest Place”:

“You’ve got all suspended All things connected Nothing was forgotten Cause your love is perfect You are our healer And you know what’s broken And we’re not a mystery to you.

We will dance and You restore the wasted years You will sing Over all our coming fears We’ll stand grateful For all that has been left behind And all that goes before.”

Goodbye to the Bartkoviches was beautifully team . . . . Mountains of the Moon resort; good food, swimming, wonderful rooms with hot showers; beautifully full of fellowship: many quiet conversations, lots of laughter, hilarious skits, game shows and raps and faux newspaper article readings; beautifully sad: tears, desperation and hope for the future. Most of us held ourselves together for most of the weekend but we still have many tears to cry. How can this be goodbye?? The slideshow Luke made of ten years of Bartkovich life in Uganda was a terrible tearjerker for all of us. David made a book of haiku for Kevin which also made me cry. There actually wasn’t much that didn’t make me cry. We crammed a lot of livin’ and lovin’ into a little more than 24 hours away at the resort; we left early Sunday morning, driving over the mountains to arrive into Fort Portal then began our return by midday on Monday as the Bart family headed on into Kampala and tomorrow, home to America. Pray them there.
My big brag was driving over the Mountains of the Moon by myself for the first time; a sort of symbolic gesture as the Bartkoviches leave, that I am embracing this life, moving into the difficult things with grace and strength because if God wills we are here for the long haul. Though it was the most difficult drive I’ve made I’m ready to do it again and thankful that as I plunge into life God is right beside me holding me up, sustaining me through.
As I thought and prayed through the sadness of saying goodbye to the Barts, I was reminded of the book The Gift of Pain (thanks Jolita!). Written by a man who worked with leprosy patients for many years the book vividly illustrates pain as the gift of life. Leprosy patients deterioration results from a lack of healthy pain. Diabetic patients are much the same. Because of the lack of pain, much greater destruction results. For me it was a helpful reminder; as the Barts leave we experience a lot of pain. That’s because our relationships with them are healthy and real and alive and the of tearing them causes healthy pain. I am thankful for that health, reality and alive-ness; and therefore thankful for the pain.

This week’s team bible study focused around the Third Culture Kid (google it!) book and the meaning and impact of transition on our lives. Jesus was the original third culture kid, as us missionaries are fond of remembering, and the people of Bible times experienced many transitions. The book describes transition as : a passage from one place, subject or state to another. Those who leave must transition, those who are left behind transition too.
The life of a missionary is always spectacularly full of transition and change. Yet for us on the Bundibugyo team life has felt even fuller than usual of change, of loss, of mourning. Our hearts are heavy, our spirits close to breaking in some ways.
For me, asking the philosophical question “is transition normal or a broken part of this broken world?” is important. How do I react to the grief of loss after loss. To the immersion in the knowledge that even as I enter ministry here there is no avoiding that unmistakably I must someday leave. How do I plunge my heart into this place, these people, while knowing that it likely will never be my permanent home. How do I say hello to new people with love, grace and openness while letting go of others all the time. How do I help my children weather this.
We are used to frequent moves as a Navy family but the missionary life is something altogether different. A lifestyle not only of change but of attachment and tearing away. We decided as a group, that change is a normal part of an abnormal world that change itself is healthy but in this world it is inextricably linked with brokenness, sadness, pain. We asked Jesus to enter this pain with us; His experience was really remarkably similar. He entered a foreign place to love a foreign people with all his heart and soul, he was hurt and rejected, broken and pierced by the ones He came to love, and ultimately he left the place to which He came. It was never His home. We look to things eternal, thankful that we too are eternal beings who will live to see the new heaven and the new earth.

Wednesdays are chapel days at Christ School. Lunch is followed by an hour long chapel service including singing, prayer and a message. Cell groups, where students discuss what they’ve heard with a staff member facilitating, come next.

This week’s chapel was both the first of the new year and the last for the Bartkovich family. Kevin, JD and their firstborn, Joe, all attended. Madame Betty, our deputy headmaster for students, was the MC - she did a beautiful job as usual. Betty has the grace of a woman, the easy control of a mother, and the intelligence of a very smart teacher. She has also risen to this second-in-command-position under Kevin’s empowering leadership, a remarkable thing in a place where women are so little valued.

There were speeches from students and staff, songs to say farewell, hilarious short skits, and a history of the school from Kevin. David made a short appearance as “incoming headmaster” to cheers from students, who seem remarkably unflustered by it all.

I was invited up to lay hands on JD as the deputy headmaster for staff (Peter Were) prayed over the family. A few minutes later as the Christ School girls sang farewell to each family member by name, the tears which I have held for so long threatened to irreversably begin. What a crazy strange time for us as we enter the excitement of beginning our roles as parents of Christ School yet mourn the loss of the Bartkoviches. Perhaps this was a little how Joshua felt as he succeeded Moses. We want them to stay, want to keep them with us; yet to move into what God has called us to they must go. It’s a difficult paradox.

From our trip between Kampala/Jinja/and home to Bundibugyo
ATV’ing
Pierce family Jan ‘ 08
Quinn on horseback
Amazing Lake Victoria at Sunset
cocoa processing - David buying a tarp just before the hail started
Naomi with floam beard

More photos, these are from our arrival in Uganda, staying at the evacuation house with our friend despereaux and celebrating Sarah’s (MK teacher ) b-day.
despereax the chameleon
N, Q and Louisa
The Christmas House
Sarah’s b-day play

Last-day-before-school-tree-picnic
Pat’s mural NHC
beautiful Pat
Listless Aiyesha

Karen, JD and I went down to visit Melen today - our official grieving visit to mourn her husband Jonah’s death. Normally we would have sat with her before the burial even took place but of course we were not here.
Melen is beautiful, even in grief, because she is a woman of strength and character. She is nearly eight months pregnant and running a nursery school for over fifty children while taking care of her own five girls (three in school in Kampala).
Little Sarah, only 2, wandered in as we talked. Melen mentioned that just that morning she had asked again, “where is my Daddy?” That is when the tears flowed, for me, for Melen. We prayed with her and left a small gift. Please continue to pray for this woman, who has chosen to come back to the place which has taken so much from her. Most local women who are widowed lose their provider, the source of their livelihood and their children’s education. This is a huge loss. Melen has lost so much more. She lost a friend, a companion, an advisor and listener, a man who truly loved and cared for as so very few husbands here do. Her losses are monumental. Yet she is back in Bundibugyo with her smallest children, choosing to live here and lift this place up with her school. We are blessed to know her and privileged to pray for her.

Sunday morning rain threw our day’s plan up in the air; rain delays services (walking parishioners don’t venture out) and rain on tin roofs drowns out the sounds of preaching and praying.
Taking the chance for a lazy Sunday morning, we curled up together with books and games and hot tea. By mid-morning the sky was looking hopeful so we decided to head to service. We had been invited by one of the women in my bible study to a special baby dedication service in the village of Kuka. We started off, stopping to pick up a Ugandan family who was traveling there with us, and showing us the way. All we had been able to gather by asking for directions was that Kuka church is quite near Kuka Primary School which is located directly in the village of Kuka. Hmmm . . . Still not helping us.
We wrapped around in our trust Land Cruiser, heading down one rutted, muddy road and then another and back deeper into jungly villages until we came to the top of a hill and David slammed on the brakes. The nice steep hill had a three foot deep ditch running down one side and as we started very slowly down the hill aiming to keep that ditch between our wheels, the mud began working it’s magic as we slid inexorably towards the ravine. David stopped the car mid-slide, mid-hill and with the emergency brake locked in he and our Ugandan friend got out to assess the situation. I sat in the front seat with the kids; Naomi wishing for us to go home, Quinn wanting to get on the roof rack to better enjoy the view and the hopeful slidey ride down the hill!
Nearly an hour later, after many hard looks at car, mud, hill, ruts and lots of advice from the locals who appeared out of nowhere - ” you try! It can be okay!” - along with a healthy dose of hoeing to fill in the ruts with mud and pull off the topmost layer of sticky, slidey mud; we finally made it down the hill.
We arrived at church around 12, feeling like pilgrims. Sometimes the effort hardly seems worthwhile. David and our friend were both a bit muddy from their work on the hill but we headed in to what promised to be a celebratory service.
How could we tell, you ask?? It was the toilet paper strung ceremoniously up all over the building that really told us. In addition, in typical fashion, the church had a number of visiting pastors and bigwigs but no real parishioners yet. Now that we had arrived, they too would come. The front of the church was filled with the best seats of the locals, cushioned local chairs and couches. We were all seated along one side of the church in these special seats and within minutes the service began.
The first announcement was the program of the day, which was when we realized that we were in it for the long haul; Sunday School, down to the river for a baptism, back for worship songs, then the special baby dedication service, then the special message (”Madame Annelise will be our special guest preacher” What? I will?!) then communion, then the feast.
It really was quite a cultural adventure; we sat near a lovely spunky baby who kept us amused through many of the long parts of the service. We know many of the Ugandan worship songs now so we are able to sing along pretty well and the whole service was translated so when one pastor decided to air a family’s dirty laundry as part of the morning we got to understand the whole story. (!) My biggest thanksgiving was the near proximity of the river; and that I didn’t have to climb down into or through it to watch the baptism. Around four pm I decided my children had to eat something and smuggled them a small tupperware of roasted g-nuts and their water bottles, which they partook from as discretely as possible. They held up absolutely beautifully through the long, hot service and even listened attentively to my message. ( I talked about children; they are a gift and a responsibility from God.)
When the service finally ended we walked out into what was now bright sunshine, hopeful that the road was drying enough to let us go home. We headed to my friend’s family home for the feast prepared for us; rice, beans, chicken and bottles of soda - a real treat. The greeting room where we were seated and fed was beautifully clean and had only one decoration; a great big shiny Ebola poster on the wall. Naomi and Quinn tucked into the food with gusto; participating in the typical basin hand washing and eating with hands (where else do kids get to eat with their hands when eating at friends homes?)
Then it was back towards home; taking a longer way back but missing the most exciting hills and rivers of our first journey. We arrived into the Myhre’s driveway at 6:30, only a few minutes late for our monthly team worship led by Michael. What a treat to enter this service of a different kind and worship in our own language and traditions. We ended the day tired but happy.