After three weeks away, CSB students returned Monday, resplendent in their new “casual wears”, a kind of uniform for when they’re not in uniform. By popular student demand and the decision of the student council, casual wear uniforms will replace the normal “anything goes” attire for students in their off hours. Students, with staff supervision, picked the uniform; blue shirts/black trousers for boys and red shirts/black skirts for girls - brought from home by students. They sure do look good in their matching colors trooping in en masse through the gates and flowing into our side street in twos and threes on boda, bike and foot. It lends a smartness, an air of discipline to the chaos that is the return to school.

David’s week started with staff and leadership team meetings to address the various issues of opening the term; missing staff members, students under disciplines, exams, cleanliness. Yesterday we walked as a family all around “our” school compound; we feel a sense of ownership for this land and these buildings and a strong sense of responsibility for all the people who live here. We checked pit latrines for cleanliness, trash pits for fullness, and dorms for graffiti. We saw the staff who have returned for the start of the new semester settling into their homes again. Even shutters are opening on the buildings as all readies for the students.

Now arriving students will slash their compounds (boys and girls) to remove the tall grasses that have grown up in the last few weeks. They will pick up their rubbish thrown on the ground instead of into pits (garbage receptacles aren’t a common concept here). They will wash their shower rooms and latrines, unpack their three sets of clothing, toilet paper, toothpaste, etc Tomorrow beginning of term exams begin - school has started again.

Late yesterday Quinn and AJ were hidden off in a corner of the yard. They both had big sticks. I called Quinn in and we began to wash the days dirt off his legs and arms and face and well, everywhere - a pound must have come off of him! I asked him what they were doing with their sticks. Quinn’s sweet one-dimpled smile quirked up at me halo-ed by golden curls - ” Mom, if you haven’t noticed, boys LIKE sticks.”

I don’t want to stereotype because I’m sure there are many types of boys in the world, but this one certainly likes sticks. I have gotten in trouble many times for innocently tossing away a small stubby stick that was serving real purpose in Quinn’s play - mostly as weapons or tools. Quinn also loves to problem solve, to fix things, to climb and run and jump and swing upside down by one leg. I just put up a wooden trapeze bar for him and he has invented new tricks with it, including upside-down-light-saber-sword-fighting . . . . Which resulted in a fall on the head!

I remember when Quinn was a tiny little man - still a baby - and David had been reading a book about boys with one of his friends. The book talked about how boys have a need one day to separate emotionally from their mothers so that they can move into their manhood. And that if at that point, their mothers cling to them, they never move into their manhood well. I wasn’t sure what I thought of that idea at the time; but now I can see it happening. I can see Quinn moving sweetly away from me and into his manhood - small though he is. With me around, he is quietly independent- playing for hours with sand, stones and trees. The moment David arrives home Quinn is all over him - ” Dad, do you think we need to fix something? Dad can I help you with your taxes on the computer? Dad, if you are going to the mission to talk to Beewah, can I go with you?” Those two are inseparable; from their morning snuggles to Narnia stories to fixing the kerosene fridge and filing online taxes.

Quinn still favors me with his kind nature and love - on his own terms and in his own time. I can almost always get morning hugs and late afternoon cuddles and talks. He likes me to bathe and dress him, to help him clean up and to do art and puzzles and mazes with him. It is clear that he craves me in special ways that no one else can respond to. And so I can delight in his growing, delight in the boy-man that he is and the full-man he will someday be. And thank God every day that he has my husband’s life to watch and to grow into. It takes a man to make a man.

The last week or so has seemed to bring a myriad of small problems; our tire disintegrating on the way home, our other cell phone breaking, David’s slow healing from a small surgery in Kampala, my foot pus-filled and infected ( I pulled my stitches out today myself and am dosing with antibiotics), our fridge on the fritz and leaking toxic fumes out into our home through the night before we woke and smelled it Fortunately we don’t have glass on our windows so there was plenty of ventilation. Now Naomi has a small fever and I am hobbling along on a painfully infected heel while David starts the new school year. Our house is wet-through from the soaking rain last night (the only downside to no glass on the windows).

We miss our team, who are almost all out of the country or at the least in the city. They will all return at the end of this week - and we’re looking forward to seeing them. In a place like this with no good hospitals or doctors with no stores to buy new cell phones, with no fire department to call for a check on air quality, no mechanics to mend broken wheel rims - team and God are what we have. Not including, of course, our wonderfully resourceful Ugandan friends who will try their best to help you fix your fridge, regardless of whether they have ever seen or heard of one before, who will offer remedies for disgusting wounds, despite a lack of medical know-how, who will prop up a car better than any jack. They are a joy to us, if also a challenge.

Naomi has found fast friends in two sisters, the daughters of one of our teachers. Though they only met for the first time this past week, they have found common joys of pretending and imagining. And my heart has delighted to see my prayers for Naomi finally answered - she has made African friends!
Our normally social Quinn, at our last house, could often be found playing football, participating in stick-gun wars or tree climbing with many African friends. But here he seems to be having a difficult time. Perhaps because Quinn is having a hard time with life in general right now. He seems stuck somewhere not quite boy and not quite young man and is frustrated by much of his days. The best times for him are when Dad is free to work on projects with him - today they are putting new brakes on David’s bike and putting up curtain rods for me, and Quinn is content.
Quinn has made one friend here - a boy I’ll nickname AJ. Sadly, he is one of only two kids on-campus that I don’t quite trust. It’s a hard thing for any local kid to enter our lives, to get their minds around our foods and drinks, our filtered waters and flush toilet, our endless toys and books. For a child who is not well supervised, not well loved at home or otherwise not quite ready for the challenge of living in two worlds, it is irresistable temptation.
I want to close the door on AJ - I don’t want more stealing, or more disappointments or walls in my children’s hearts. It’s the hardest thing to warn your child about their friends, isn’t it? I want my kids to have open, trusting hearts but the world isn’t always trustworthy. Quinn’s response to my concerns is to say ” Mom, he’s my friend.”

And so, AJ is in and out of our house. I am teaching him that a used cup must be washed, not merely returned to its’ place in the cupboard. I watch the way he speaks and the way he laughs at others and Quinn and I talk about it later. I find that my heart already has walls and hardness and I have rejected AJ without getting to know him. I am already ready to say goodbye but my child’s desires soften my heart. So, now I am realizing that I need to pray for AJ’s heart not just his presence in our lives. Pray that he will see and respond to the love of Jesus. That Jesus love will overflow from our lives into his. And pray that as we seek to give abundantly of our lives, hearts, things and safety that Jesus will be abundantly known.

I keep meaning to post pictures of our new house; but I never quite get to it. I’m wanting the picture to have some real estate “perfect house” vibes; for you to see my house at it’s best when it’s clean, neat and things are in their places. Of course that hardly EVER happens, so here we are months later with still no picture for you to enjoy.

Yesterday I walked in on the perfect snapshot to show you my real house - not the perfect real estate photo one; but the reality version. No camera was handy and I wanted to enjoy the moment so you have the verbal photo instead. . . . . Naomi and friends Beck, Rebek, Mary plus a few more have scattered our belongings hither and yon in their completely organized chaos. My clothes have become serenely draped and swagged wedding garments, books have become serving trays, flowers are the food. Our clothing, toys, and kitchen items are EVERYWHERE. Now the girls sit semi-circled around my friend Atibu, one of our students at CSB, who has picked through the box of scrap fabric I pulled out for her and is busily hand constructing multiple doll outfits. A, B, and D (house help) are working and laughing nearby; throwing out comments to the kids, me and Atibu. David is on the porch negotiating with someone needy and the sound of their conversation floats in through screened windows. African music plays loudly in the background and one of the little brothers who is joining our play time begins a spontaneous dance. Bread is in the oven and the smell fills the house along with the aroma of freshly slashed grass in the yard. Two dogs bark as yet more visitors arrive and queue for David.

This is my house - not beautiful, but beautifully lived in.

And slowly it will become more beautiful. I am slowly but surely making progress this week and each picture on the wall, rug on the floor, box of old clothing given away, helps my heart and spirit. I do love to be surrounded by the right kind of beauty - the rat-free kind!

“A” is one of two women who work for me. She comes daily at nine am to sweep all the floors, clean out the sinks, empty garbage and burn it and cook our bread. She is a lifesaver! After a year working with men I am so thankful for this calm and gentle woman who loves us so well through her work. “A” has had five children, four of whom are still living, and has been culturally married for a number of years. Culturally married means that her husband has paid part of her dowry (women are still sold here - normally for a combination of goats and other material goods but sometimes cows are also involved) and that her parents have agreed for her to live with him and produce his children with the promise that someday he will pay the rest of the dowry.

It was working reasonably well except for some small issues like a controlling and abusive husband, not enough money to go around, and frequently sick kids. Unfortunately, despite this relatively happy arrangement, A’s husband tired of her. Perhaps much of his unhappiness was related to her desire to limit the number of children she gave birth to. It seems she was concerned with some strange things like the ability to care for those kids; feeding, education and medical care (all of which are provided sporadically for most of Bundibugyo’s children because of this issue of too many children). But for A’s husband, number of children is an indicator of his manhood, his virility and power, and therefore extremely important. A’s husband decided to take another wife to provide some physical diversions as well as more kids. He used his salary and stole A’s to pay the dowry for this other woman; then he accused A of unfaithfulness, beat her to the point that people believe he meant to kill her (neighbors intervened and restrained him), and told her not to come back until she was ready to live with the other wife.

A has always told her husband that despite the common cultural norm of polygamy, she believes that one woman with one man is good for all concerned. She has always said that the day he decides to take a second wife is the day their marriage is over. Now she is refusing to join this polygamous scheme and requesting that she still be allowed to raise their children on the land they bought together as an inheritance for their firstborn son.

So what are the issues? Ugandan men are considered legally and morally superior to women. A man who leaves his wife (beats his wife, is unfaithful to his wife) must have had good grounds, based on the women’s behavior to do it. Women have no legal rights to their children which are owned by the fathers whether or not the men are interested in providing care. Right now A’s children are being cared for by a family relative as A is not allowed to care for them without submitting to her husband’s control. He isn’t interested in caring for the kids - she is living less than 1/2 a mile away and rarely sees them. Women are also not entitled to land ownership and even though they have contributed their own funds to buy this land will rarely be granted permission to live on it or farm it without their husband. Again, women are the primary farmers and gardeners yet the produce of their land rarely belongs to them. The police typically side with the men in a place where there are far fewer scruples about the law anyway. A ran to the police the night of her beating to request their help but was refused.

There is some hope. New human rights organizations supported by such foundations as the Global Fund for Women have done good work in Uganda (probably not all good, but much good). I hear that Bundibugyo even has some offices for these organizations and we (mostly her closest male relative) are planning an appeal for A to keep her family and her home despite the intense cultural opposition to a woman’s fighting for what is rightfully hers - she is opposing not only her violent husband but an entire community. Most women don’t even realize they have these kinds of options so I am proud of A for becoming educated and being willing to be so strong.

Can you imagine? A has lost almost everything; her husband to another woman, her children to their father’s control, her home including almost all her possessions, her salary to fund his lifestyle, her physical safety, her dignity and respect, her status in the community and the list goes on and on. She is going on with peace and some joy because she knows that despite having no father and no husband and being separated from her children, she has an eternal Father who loves her and cares for her. Pray for her to be strong. And pray for my intense anger to be righteous anger which God uses for good. And don’t forget that I tell you A’s story not because it is so heinous but because it is so typical - this is the lot of most women in this place. A is choosing to fight for her freedom. Most women choose to live a life as a second and passed-by wife, being verbally abused and beaten as their son’s grow to disdain women as much as their father does and their daughters grow learning that a woman must give her body to the man who asks for it, in whatever way he asks. This is real evil.

When we’re in Kampala we usually stay at the American Club or ARA - protected by mile-high fencing, American embassy guards and a full-time security patrol, bomb checks, and gate-checks it’s its’ own little world. And though these security measures might sound a little off-putting, once you get inside all you feel is safe and at home. The kids call it home-away-from-home and roam the grounds totally at ease. There is a big beautiful pool, lots of open yard space with tons of playground equipment, two tennis courts, foosball, ping pong, pool, a bar, and several TV rooms offering cable service plus an array of videos/dvds to borrow and watch. Yet somehow with all this, it feels as comfortable as a good friends’ home. Most rooms share bathrooms and are found in several small homes located throughout the grounds. The staff knows us all (the team) and greets us with excitement as we step through the doors after our requisite three months in Bundi (it’s always the same schedule, three months in then a a few weeks out). We order American style food from the extensive menu and sip imported drinks like Dr. Pepper and A and W root beer. They usually have candy bars and crisps (chips) too! It might sound deluxe - in reality it is much like a community center or community club but with a very good staff; only here a community center with these amenities is non-existent.
Well, we’re home now but we spent nearly a week in this pampering environment. Each day the ARA fills up with ex-pats, most of them living in Kampala, who are there to retreat into a more familiar world for a few hours or a few days. In typical American fashion, some eat too much then exercise it off in the gym - a total waste of calories in the typical Ugandan’s mind. We swim nearly naked and walk around in skimpy clothing ( like shorts), we listen to canned pop instead of screaming African disco songs, we eat food with no sauce and sauce with no food with no qualms at all. And as much as we love Africa, as much as we delight in our Ugandan friends, as much as we have grown to feel at home in our beautiful bundibugyo, the American Club is a slice of take-a-huge-painfully-cleansing-breath heaven.
So now we’re home but not without adventure; one of our tires shredded on the way. We don’t know what happened but we’re thankful all ended well even though the tire is in multiple pieces. We ended up using many Ugandans, poles, and big stones to jack up the car because due to the total flatness of the tire we couldn’t jack the car up high enough to get the spare on (we carry two because flats are so common and mechanics so few).
Now we settle back in to our normal life in Bundibugyo where the rats have gained the upper hand in our two week absence.

Over the last months of exhaustion and apathy, I’ve been thinking a lot about abiding. It was started off by Anne Graham Lotz’ book; “Just Give Me More of Jesus.” If you have never heard her articulate and poetic “Just Give Me Jesus”, google it or find it on itunes. It is a conduit to true worship of the One we love. Lotz’s book is essentially a treatise on John 15; the famous analogy of the vine. It took me till halfway through the book to “get it” but it’s a powerful read.

David likes to tell our students at the weekly CSB chapel on Wednesday afternoons, “Get off the fence”. It’s a great analogy for them because they really are surrounded by a fence! And breaking the fence, trespassing into the world beyond, is such a common point of discipline issues. And so David tells them, week after week, it’s okay if you want to be on the other side of the fence, just go. It’s okay if you want to stay here learning with us, just stay. But GET OFF THE FENCE! Make a decision for your life and invest yourself fully into that decision. Of course the ultimate decision we hope they will make is not only to stay at the school but to choose to live their lives for the One who died for them. And to choose to abide in Him.

Lotz explained it this way; are you Spanish moss clinging onto and around and hanging below the vine? Or are you actually a branch, grafted into the vine, attached firmly and healthily, and allowing the life-giving sap of God to flow into you 24-7. It’s interesting to remember the way plants work; getting nutrients 24-7 because they turn their leaves toward the sun for the essential part of the day and rest in that sun-energy the rest of the time. Many of our students are spanish moss, clinging on to the form of christianity easily attached to in this environment, yet not experiencing life change. And for those of us who are born again, we are NOT spanish moss, yet we can live as if we are, live in a clinging, hanging on way instead of in a grafted in and fully supplied way.

As my friend Patty said, we forget how full of choices our lives are. We do have choices; choices to turn our faces to the Son for a critical hour or two of our day to read His words and rest in His presence so that throughout the rest of our days and nights we have can freely and abundantly receive the sap of His loving grace by making ourselves available to hear what He always tries to tell us.

Any relationship is the same. I have a hang up with the idea of religious legalism, of too much discipline in the spiritual life which leads to a dead form of christianity. Yet when I reflect on the idea of leaves turned to the sun, of sap flowing freely through the well attached branch, I am reminded that every relationship in my life also reflects these truths. Most easily and accurately seen in marriage: if I don’t invest time in listening to my husband, in telling him my fears, doubts, joys and passions, in resting in his arms, in reminding him tangibly that I love him - our marriage grows dull. We have not lost that commitment to each other (neither can we lose our attachment to the branch which is the Father) but we have lost the joy of knowing each other and loving each other for who each of us are.

Leo Tolstoy said, ” Everybody thinks of changing the world, and nobody thinks of changing himself.” And ‘Richard J Foster said in response, ” Let us be among those who believe that the inner transformation of our lives is a goal worthy of our best effort.” I’m certainly someone who thinks of changing the world! And I firmly resist the idea that I am somehow supposed to change myself. Yet the inner transformation -the turning of my leaves toward the light of the Son, is worthy of my best effort. Pray that I will make the time I need to sit in His light because I long for that.

Aahhh, the big city at last, with it’s roar and bustle and dust and energy. The road from Arua was horrendous; a combination of terrible pot-holed tarmac and speed-humped gravel. We passed through Gulu district which we identified before seeing the signs, by the large open areas interspersed by mass huddles of homes - official or unofficial IDP camps. Multiple small businesses in these areas sported the name “Kony” - as in “Kony’s Good Eats Restaurant” which puzzled us. Appeasement? (This area edges the infamous territory of the LRA’s Joseph Kony of Invisble Children fame.)
But at last we have reached Kampala and after a very late night of driving and a good rest we are ready for a new day in a new place. While the kids wake up slowly with their Daddy, Naomi with a fresh fever, I take off on bota (motorcycle taxi) to head to international hospital for various medical check ups. I love the freedom of the motorcycle; though not so safe, it sure is fun and a good alternative when we must meet on the road later.
After doctors and blood work ( I pay out of pocket for a doctor consult at the best hospital in Kampala, about $15) I head on to buy crafts at a local gathering then on again by bota to the big mall in town where I decide to try out “Sparkles Salon” for a much overdue hair cut. This place is not known for cutting “white hair” but I venture in anyway, the price is good, under ten dollars, and the atmosphere looks quite modern and clean, not a likely place to catch hepatitus.
It was an interesting hour. Starting with a grand total of FIVE different products applied to, then washed off my hair and an almost indecent head and neck massage. As I sat enjoying the luxury of the massage, warm water, and sweet scents I pictured myself as the sacrificial lamb being fed its’ sugar cube before slaughter to sweeten the death. When the hair dresser picked up his scissors and approached my head before even asking what kind of cut I wanted, I sensed I might be in trouble. And when a language barrier proved too much for some key words such as “short” and “trim” I told him to just go ahead but not cut too much. After a tense while, I ended up with a very good haircut and much more relaxed neck and shoulders so I gave the guy a good tip, thanked the Lord and headed on.
Our day ended sadly. After more errands, wonderful pool time, then a lovely dinner out with friends we were heading home by car at nine pm. Stuck in bad traffic we were inching along at little more than a standstill packed in on every side by all the vehicles, motorcycles, bikes and pedestrians. In the darkness of the car, as Naomi cuddled in the warmth of my lap (no seatbelt laws here and we were hardly moving, remember?) the hands of two men reached into my car and past my precious daughter and ripped David’s cell phone from my hands. The darkness of the car must have highlighted the illuminated phone as- a somewhat fancy PDA phone which is David’s right hand man. Amazing how such a small act could leave me feeling so violated, helpless, vulnerable. It took my mind a moment to be sure that Naomi was still there, that it would not be safe to chase the thieves. Then I just broke down and sobbed.

Now, with Murchison full in our bellies, we take the game drive road out towards Arua, again farther north. Christ School’s football team has already begun their competitions at the National level at the Coca Cola sponsored tournament. This year the matches are held in Arua, which turns out to be a good-sized city, thriving on its’ strategic location close to Southern Sudan and Western Congo and the aid developing both. The language here defeats us but we are relieved to find that even non-native Africans have trouble “picking” any of it. One of the staggering realities of Ugandan life, the inability to understand your fellow countryman, living mere kilometers away.

We stay at a nice hotel catering to the buzungu palate with brick oven pizza and an amazingly clear and clean swimming pool. Dinner there with our CSB staff coaches and a visit to Master A and his wife Emily’s home (they are natives to Arua; though he is working and living with us in Bundibugyo) were highlights of our time, along with seeing the scrappy CSB team in action for two of their seven match games.

Sadly, Christ School lost both matches that we watched . . . . Most likely to “professional cheating” as I like to refer to the more accomplished and developed ways of fooling rules and regulations. Bundibugyans are smaller (nourishment and genetics) than many others in the country but the large height disparity was likely also due to the involvement of non-students, men in their mid to late twenties, on some of the other teams.
No matter, our students played beautifully the first day and spiritedly if a little more tiredly, the second. Clearly we’re not yet the best in the country, at any rate, and no doubt lose matches due not only to cheating but to the quality of our play, but at this point CSB is still in the running for the second round of competition with two losses, two draws and one win - our best performance in CSB history. And better yet, we come away proud of our coaches, strong African men coaching in English, resting injured players and struggling to see that their team are not only good footballers but good students and people as well. It’s not about whether you win or lose but how and for who you live your life. We see them making some good choices.