Life in Uganda

Red dust clinging to my shoes, and already so many images imprinted in my mind. It’s hard to know where to begin. Africa. It sounds so exotic, so mysterious, when you say it you can just see the ideas popping into people’s head. Not even a country, but the whole continent is boiled down into “Africa.” But here I am, and even this small town could fill a continent with words. America seems like a distant memory, or like life there is happening in the future.

“There is a poverty of soul in the suburban world that is almost too much to bear much of the time.” Yes. The truth of that statement was weighing on my shoulders before I arrived. Here being surrounded by people who have grown up in various countries in Africa, I sometimes feel a sudden stab of guilt at how easy my life has been. They call us (the white people)- “Muzungo”. The children shout it out gleefully, hoping for your attention, the shopkeepers greedily, hoping for your affluence. But it makes you aware, constantly, that you are different… that this continent has suffered a million tragic histories and joys and that your understanding at its deepest-- is shallow.

The generosity of the poor humbles me, makes me ache to find ways to express my heart. My roommate from Uganda woke up before me this morning and washed (-- scrubbed the red dirt from my white socks) because I’d left them soaking. They are so willing to serve, to trust God for provision as they share their food and money, to have the faith I often find difficult. Some moments I feel like I am just coming out of a deep sleep, shaking off the strangeness of individualism, of competition, of my own confinements & western socialization. I’ve spent too much time looking for friends of a certain demographic, being here with people who are not like me reveals so much in my heart… my gravitation towards those easiest to understand instead of struggling for love and communication. A few of the people here who are from "the West" have this mindset that we have something to teach, a subtle superiority… our glorious modernization… I want to shake that out of my system.

Each week I have two cooking duties—already the campfire like scent of the smoky kitchen with its ashy floor, piles of firewood (ie. trees), and half-wall windows is comforting. All the modernness of America proved no help in this kitchen. So, I am relegated to chopping watermelon and making salad after rolling out mostly square chapatti. But the Africans... singing and dancing, even in cooking they have rhythm and grace. I think when there's been as much hardship and suffering in a continent as there has been here, you learn to sing. You learn to sing as you work, sing as you celebrate, sing as you mourn. It's something quite beautiful. And they aren't judging me at all. The only thing that holds me back from their dance is the grasping fingers of my self -composure, of order... they don't care if I look like a fool, if I clap out of rhythm or sing out of tune... they don’t care at all, its me who cares. Intolerable I. But it’s so wonderfully invaded here.

Africa is teaching me to slow down. It is creeping into my soul, as my skin glares white among dark bodies, as the sun kindly turns me darker, as foreign words float around me with meanings waiting to be captured like butterflies in a net... as I let throw off the ways I've limited God.

As I sit outside the office I peer through a grove of trees, behind which the view of the cantina is crisscrossed with clotheslines flaunting their bright garments to the subdued rust-colored earth, the unruly grass that sprouts up like bed hair, and the muted blue sky. I am content here, not because trouble is removed, not because life is easier (at all) but because I am listening to our Dad, I am not thinking "am I growing" I am just conversing and responding-- becoming more and more alive. There is no other word for this feeling I can think of than being gloriously aware of being a living, breathing being. The breeze is cool and gentle.

Songs fill my life here. The music- more specifically the worship in any African tongue, I don’t know how to describe it, it flies into you like a flock of birds- inhabiting your hands and feet and stirring them to flight. You find the curtain of your lips drawn open into a sunbeam smile, and when you glance at others it’s like joy and light itself has been captured. The song itself is alive, like the heartbeat of Africa, and in moments you can forget everything in this simple, yet stunning harmonizing of voices and hands … and I think it’s a bit like Heaven must be or at least the nearest thing to freedom.

Red dust clinging to my shoes, and already so many images imprinted in my mind. It’s hard to know where to begin. Africa. It sounds so exotic, so mysterious, when you say it you can just see the ideas popping into people’s head. Not even a country, but the whole continent is boiled down into “Africa.” But here I am, and even this small town could fill a continent with words. America seems like a distant memory, or like life there is happening in the future.

“There is a poverty of soul in the suburban world that is almost too much to bear much of the time.” Yes. The truth of that statement was weighing on my shoulders before I arrived. Here being surrounded by people who have grown up in various countries in Africa, I sometimes feel a sudden stab of guilt at how easy my life has been. They call us (the white people)- “Muzungo”. The children shout it out gleefully, hoping for your attention, the shopkeepers greedily, hoping for your affluence. But it makes you aware, constantly, that you are different… that this continent has suffered a million tragic histories and joys and that your understanding at its deepest-- is shallow.

The generosity of the poor humbles me, makes me ache to find ways to express my heart. My roommate from Uganda woke up before me this morning and washed (-- scrubbed the red dirt from my white socks) because I’d left them soaking. They are so willing to serve, to trust God for provision as they share their food and money, to have the faith I often find difficult. Some moments I feel like I am just coming out of a deep sleep, shaking off the strangeness of individualism, of competition, of my own confinements & western socialization. I’ve spent too much time looking for friends of a certain demographic, being here with people who are not like me reveals so much in my heart… my gravitation towards those easiest to understand instead of struggling for love and communication. A few of the people here who are from "the West" have this mindset that we have something to teach, a subtle superiority… our glorious modernization… I want to shake that out of my system.

Each week I have two cooking duties—already the campfire like scent of the smoky kitchen with its ashy floor, piles of firewood (ie. trees), and half-wall windows is comforting. We were preparing for a love feast to rededicate the prayer garden and all the modernness of America proved no help in this kitchen. So, I was relegated to chopping watermelon and making salad after rolling out mostly square chapatti. But the Africans... singing and dancing, even in cooking they have rhythm and grace. I think when there's been as much hardship and suffering in a continent as there has been here, you learn to sing. You learn to sing as you work, sing as you celebrate, sing as you mourn. It's something quite beautiful. And they aren't judging me at all. The only thing that holds me back from their dance is the grasping fingers of my self -composure, of order... they don't care if I look like a fool, if I clap out of rhythm or sing out of tune... they don’t care at all, its me who cares. Intolerable I. But it’s so wonderfully invaded here.

Africa is teaching me to slow down. It is creeping into my soul, as my skin glares white among dark bodies, as the sun kindly turns me darker, as foreign words float around me with meanings waiting to be captured like butterflies in a net... as I let throw off the ways I've limited God.

As I sit outside the office I peer through a grove of trees, behind which the view of the cantina is crisscrossed with clotheslines flaunting their bright garments to the subdued rust-colored earth, the unruly grass that sprouts up like bed hair, and the muted blue sky. I am content here, not because trouble is removed, not because life is easier (at all) but because I am listening to our Dad, I am not thinking "am I growing" I am just conversing and responding-- becoming more and more alive. There is no other word for this feeling I can think of than being gloriously aware of being a living, breathing being. The breeze is cool and gentle.

Songs fill my life here. The music- more specifically the worship in any African tongue, I don’t know how to describe it, it flies into you like a flock of birds- inhabiting your hands and feet and stirring them to flight. You find the curtain of your lips drawn open into a sunbeam smile, and when you glance at others it’s like joy and light itself has been captured. The song itself is alive, like the heartbeat of Africa, and in moments you can forget everything in this simple, yet stunning harmonizing of voices and hands … and I think it’s a bit like Heaven must be or at least the nearest thing to freedom.

I made it!

Wow, where to begin. My plane flights were wonderful, I met a Christian teacher who's adopted 10 kids in Kenya/Uganda and sat next to an aid worker of Food for the Hungry/World Vision and spent lots of time talking to her on my way to Ethiopia. On the three hour ride from Kampala to the Hopeland base I spent the whole time looking right and left and taking in all the new sights and sounds.

It's hard to believe I haven't been here for more than the weekend, everything is so different I'm overwhelmed- but not in a bad way. It's just strange to be waking up in Africa and every American aspect of life is gone. The girls are wonderful though-- there are only five of us (and 1 married women) and ten boys (from India, Sudan, USA, Kenya, Congo, Tonga, & Nigeria.) Penny and Shannon are from South Africa and are 24 and 26. Shannon did her DTS at a different base in Brasil and did 1 month of outreach there, working with street children and a restoration home then her outreach was in Kabul, Afghanistan. So we've talked about the Middle East a bit. Judith is from West Uganda, and Cierra is from the states.

And the boys I haven't met much, except in class. They're mostly older- all over 26. I'm one of the youngest actually. It seems like it will be a lot of hard work and challenging, but I'm excited.

Today I had my first experience of an African church service and it just makes a smile grow across your face. We read Psalms aloud then repeated them turning it into a song, then start the clapping & drum and their harmonizing is so beautiful. And the children are so friendly and wonderful- climbing in your lap, climbing on you, following you around, laughing, singing.

Yesterday we went into Jinja town... Penny, Cierra, Nate, and I. They cram the minibus as full as possible so it's quite the bonding experience. Markets with goat & meat, clothes, sidewalks of shoes, and other trinkets. The streets are dusty and almost everyone walks (gas here is 10$ a gallon! and almost no one can afford a private vehicle.) Bicylces and motorcycles called (bodas) dominate the streets. And you see people carrying huge clusters of bananas or potatos on back-- as well as women and children carrying water on their heads. Compared to America everything is cheap - 1600 Uganda Shilling to 1$. The market place and street vendors is like Panama and Thailand.

The noises are funny too-- there are a lot of animals on base. (a small farm and lots of things growing and gardens we'll work in and such. Cows outside the window (moo shrieking- hard to explain), the toilet running, and the quiet noise of bugs in the grass. It is so quiet outside, from the buildings near the soccer field you can look out over Lake Victoria and its absolutely gorgeous. And the rain... sounds like a shower is turned on right next to your head (but so far its only been at night and the sun dries it up so quickly.) This morning we four girls went for a run up the hill and it was just after sunrise and misty. The stillness just creates so much space to think, meditate, and hear God's voice.

the road goes ever on and on

At last the day is here, the one I've spent countless time mulling over, wondering what lies on the other side of, the day of departure. It still seems a bit unreal. God has been faithful beyond my expectations-- financially, with the support of people and faith communities that will be praying for me, and with moments of peace, beauty, fellowship, and communion that have filled my spirit. These last few days hiking along the Patapsco, among trees soaked in gold, Isaiah 55 has been pressed on my heart.

"For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;
instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;
and it shall make a name for the LORD,
an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off."

a cup of cold water in His name

"I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence.
I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love.
I felt in myself a superabundance of energy which found no outlet in our quiet life." - Tolstoy

Yes.

I want to taste of life.
Yonnie prayed for me once and had the vision of God doing eye surgery, correcting my vision, and every time God finished, he began again to remove something else. I feel like that now. In a current phase of absorbing books on: India, Arundahti Roy, and the Aids/Hiv epidemic)... in a place of preparing my heart for Africa- anxious to be broken down again, to taste and see reality more deeply.

"The American way of life is not sustainable for the world" and that is why we can not accept the American dream. I believe in a kingdom where nationalism has no place, I believe that in the resurrection of Jesus Christ we inherit hope, joy, and peace. I believe. And sometimes that belief tears at me. Stripping off layer after layer. And so I wait anxiously for Africa, because I know it is another stripping... to see what most of the world deals with daily, to push off the rose-colored glasses of my middle class American existence (again) and go to the "hurting, dirty, and dying" - and to learn from them humbly.

I am a learner.
I am a student.
Sitting at His feet as I struggle through these questions that threaten to unravel previously held assumptions, that threaten my comfort, the edges of my boxes. The uncertainty of the times could send me drifting, tossing like a toy ship in violent waves...
and yet He whispers, "Be still."
Not with my words, not with my actions but in my heart.

I want texture not text.
and it begins again, another journey, a step forward into the unknowns of:
Uganda
Community development
AIDS/HIV, Poverty, Hunger, Orphans
Humility, Love, Truth, Redemption.

I have little to offer of myself, but I can tell a story,
and share the richness of the inheritance of the saints.

Remembering

Thoughtful conversation:

[Friend:] He said he would not believe until he had placed his hands in Jesus' side and hands (Peter)

then, Jesus appeared to him, and asked him and all he said was "My Lord"overwhelmed with awe and love. I think sometimes it's like that for me, with all of the intellectual mess
and questions and discussions and doubt and politics of the church- then in such a simple way He reveals himself, and it's like that... suddenly there's a softness and all you can say or think is "My Lord!"

[Me:] I think the jealousy of God is a really wonderful attribute that we don't pay enough attention too. If God is jealous of our affection, our attention... then He's jealous of our communication too. So of course He is willing to speak to us more than Satan, more than our feeble brains filling our heads with our weaknesses, more than our flesh... He is jealous of us. And that's amazing. We're wanted and pursued by Him... if only we tune our hearts into that. I want that constant communion so much deeper, because its there- its like a radio channel always going on, but I just have to tune to it.

home?

Yesterday, I met with the leaders of the International missions team at my church. I immediately felt so welcomed and cared for (I've only been attending there a year with living in Portland in the middle so I don't know many people there.) Jim & Carol Gibbs walked me through some steps for preparing my heart, getting my world-view shaken again, and setting up a home team. It is a huge encouragement to have their support now and to find my fit in the local church. After all my uprooting - living in Texas, Hawaii, Maryland, Montana, Oregon, and a summer in Brazil... I feel roots again-- that will last the six months I am gone.

God does funny things- their house church (small group) is switching to Tuesdays which was when my African Dance & Culture class was supposed to be and I was disappointed by that. Tuesday, two hours before my class, it got canceled so now I can go to the home group and get more involved with the church here for the next six weeks... AND I'm still going to take a dance class.

Also, I found out more about my schedule/team in Uganda. They'll be fifteen students from Uganda, Tanzania, Sudan, Nigeria, South Africa, and the USA. For the first three months from 8am till 4pm every day I'll be learning & putting into practice development skills and doing outreaches in the area working with the community. Besides the development activities we'll also be preaching! Ahh! I am so excited, as it approaches the feelings grow that I both, have no idea how crazy this will be-- and will see again just how near God always is.