Countdown to Christmas

22 The number of days until Christmas, though we reach the day 8 hours earlier here than in America (another perk of living in Africa). 10,000 The number of people we bumped shoulders with in the market yesterday, at least! Julia and I went to buy some fabric, kitengis with colorful prints. I’m not a shopper so unlike most of our team I avoid market day. As we walked into the pre-holiday throngs I found it at first disorienting—cheap frilly dresses made in China wrapped in plastic next to brown odorous dried fish spread on low reed tables; blaring music from over-taxed amplifiers; piles of used clothes being picked through by shrewd shoppers next to roasted corn or slimy orange soda bottles refilled with palm oil; everywhere people jostling, moving, surging, thronging. But I found myself after a few minutes absorbing the holiday mood. After months of rain there was sun in the sky, with a warm dry-ish breeze bringing hope of an end to the mud. People were greeting and laughing, inspecting goods. I found a student I knew mulling over high heeled sandals that looked like they would only last a few hours . . . And shared in her attraction to their shiny newness. The bright fabrics waving from poles in the breeze all appealed to me, it was hard to choose. When we stopped to talk to a tailor at his foot-trundled sewing machine he asked my name, then jumped up to shake my hand when he realized I was “Doctor Jennifer” who had helped some child of his family’s recently, which was nice. I smiled to myself walking home, to realize how much more the heat and crowd and smell of this market put me in the “Christmas” mood than a mall in America would after all these years of sharing the season in Uganda. 53 The number of donuts we made for a team breakfast meeting yesterday, with coffee and tea, to discuss missions in Sudan and pray for that country with our visiting field director Robert Carr. 2,500 The number of children in a population of 7.5 million in Southern Sudan who complete primary school each year. 1% The percentage of girls in Southern Sudan who complete primary school. Yes, there are places even needier than Bundibugyo and we are sensing God’s growing plan to use our team to launch new missionaries off to Sudan. 90 About the number of minutes it would take our one little strand of Christmas lights twined in greenery to drain our anemic batteries in this time of clouds. In spite of that fact we unpacked decorations and have the carols blaring. 10,000 The number of shillings someone paid at the church auction today for a Kwejuna Project T-shirt Scott donated. It’s only about 7 dollars . . . But equivalent to last week’s total announced offering, so a pretty big deal. Mostly people bring little piles of mangos or egglplants or sticks of sugar cane. When the auctioneer pulled the T shirt, spiffy white cotton with a bright logo, out of the bag the crowd went wild. I don’t think anything has ever generated that kind of money before! The pastor’s salary is the benefit, and a business man down the road has a new shirt. 31 The number of team and visitors arriving in a few hours to celebrate the first Sunday of Advent at our house. We’ll light candles and read Scripture and sing carols and prepare our hearts. The words of the angels will echo in our minds: fear not.

now available...

Our December (Christmas) Prayer Letter --in living color--is now available for downloading (see the link on the right: "Downloadable Prayer Letters"....

The theme: cloth-- its place in Redemptive History (curious?)

The image above--a photograph of one of the Congolese cloths we are giving away to mothers who deliver in Bundibugyo health units.

One more bonus...another Christmas poem from Jennifer.

On goodbyes and friendships

Today was the last day of the year for Christ School, the day when students pack their trunks and bags, receive their report cards, and make their way out the gate.  An unexpected blessing:  Luke’s best friend in his class made a special trip up to our house early this morning to say goodbye.  He wrote Luke a letter and thanked him for his friendship.  The two of them are the top students in the class in most subjects.  I can’t even begin to explain what a gift it is for Luke to have such a solid friendship at school, someone who stands out among his many acquaintances.  What a rarity for one of us as an American missionary to connect cross-culturally in a genuine manner.  So in the midst of a day that seemed to be full of problems and issues and conflicts and discouragements, a glimpse of mercy, a reminder of the gifts of a God who cares for details.    I’m really grateful.

You Know It's Rainy Season When . . . Part 2

You know it’s rainy season when airplanes get stuck in the mud. Yes, just when you may have thought that a flight would free you from the mire, well, you would have thought wrong. Today Kim’s mother Ann and friend Michelle arrived by MAF. First they had several hours of delay in Entebbe due to a problem with the fuel injector. Frustrating at the end of a LONG trip from Seattle WA but preferable to the alternative of flying without fixing the mechanical issue. We thought all was well when they finally sailed into a clearish sky (a whole day without precipitation today, very unusual) and landed on our grass airstrip. At least is used to be grass. Half-way down the one kilometer strip, the taxiing Cesna slipped, turned, and stopped. A ton of airplane rests on three small retractable wheels, and those wheels were half-way submerged in mud. The plane was not moving any further. It is surprisingly difficult to push and airplane—the machine is delicate in some ways, and the points of contact limited. Many attempts ensued, with some men sitting on the tail to lift the nose, others pushing and straining on the wheel struts or nose, all of us getting dirtier and dirtier in the mud, and our pilot looking more and more resigned to disaster. It took our hero the engineer Josh and our hero the leader Scott to devise and carry out a plan with boards, pivoting, and a dozen helpers. After about two hours of hard work they got the plane moved to firmer ground. But by that time it was too late for our pilot Laura to lift off back to Entebbe. So she’s grounded here, having to arrange last minute baby sitting for her two-year-old daughter in Kampala because her husband is in the UK with their 3-year-old son who needs surgery. Today was their wedding anniversary . .. And the only other time Laura has been stranded here it was her daughter’s birthday. She’s a brave lady but perhaps will stop flying to Bundibugyo on important dates. An armed local guard is watching over the plane tonight. And we’re praying for NO RAIN until tomorrow. All in all a long and trying day, and the rain is not yet letting up.

Death, unadorned

Innocent died this morning.  She was six years old.  She died of sickle cell disease and anemia and poverty and family stress and too little too late.  

Her father Kapu does gardening work for the Massos, as he has for a decade.  They have watched him grow from his early teens into his mid twenties.  They have watched him become the father of three children, Innocent being the oldest.  The second died on Christmas Day two years ago.  The third is a 4 month old baby.  Kapu’s mother died on Friday.  Karen went to the burial that day and held Innocent on her lap through the whole event, a bright and eager six-year-old girl whom no one expected to be close to death herself.  We have possibly the highest prevalence of sickle cell disease in the world here in Bundibugyo, and its victims are too numerous to count.  Kapu and his wife had done a good job of steering Innocent through many crises, but I think the events of a family death and burial over the weekend probably threw them into disarray, and no one noted the signs of her impending danger.

I found her this morning having just arrived at the hospital.  The alert staff immediately sent her for a check of her hemoglobin and the lab result was 3.3 gm/dl, a value incompatible with life.  In sickle cell disease a child can literally bleed to death internally, red blood cells melting, clogging the spleen, disappearing.  She was already hooked up to a transfusion when I entered the ward.  I immediately heard her labored breathing, saw her lying unconscious on a mattress on the floor, supported by a relative, clinging to life by the merest thread.  In spite of mobilizing the nursing staff to give her antibiotics and antimalarials in addition to the blood, she died within the hour.  I’ve rarely heard a cry more despairing than this mother’s.  Perhaps being near the anniversary of her other child’s death, being left with only one of the three, perhaps she had allowed herself such hope that the treatment would work, I don’t know, but she fell apart.  

By afternoon the clan had dug another grave by Kapu’s mother.  Most were still at the home observing the four day period of mourning.  I arrived just after the coffin, mostly to support Karen whom I knew cared deeply for the family.  She sat outside weeping and I joined her, like the other women, sitting on papery dry banana leaves with our legs stretched in front of us, wet sand scratching my legs, leaning against the house.  Many of the friends we’ve made over the years were there, the diverse network of relationships that run through the community.  When one of Kapu’s age-mates, Kawa Vincent, who is now a primary school teacher but also used to be a little boy hanging around our homes, gave the requisite “report” on Innocent’s life, he got choked up.  Seeing this young man struggle to speak moved many of the women (including us) to tears afresh.  The hardest part was when the little cloth-covered coffin was lowered into the fresh muddy hole, and the men began to push the excavated dirt back in.  Loud, thunking splats as the finality of the act echoed.  At that point Kapu broke out in heart-rending cries (not usually seen from the men at these events) and that released Karen’s grief too, so that like the other mourners she just had to sit on the muddy ground and sob.

Death in Bundibugyo is death unadorned.  We sang hymns, but while sitting in the dirt, with food scraps covered with flies lying nearby, the hymns giving counterpoint to the wailing of the closest relatives cradling the body throughout the ceremony.  There is no illusion that death is a sanitary medical process—here it is sorrow, and filth, and gasping weakness, and empty hearts.  Sitting on that ground I could only remember that some of the other patients at the hospital, as soon as she died, did a better job of comforting than I did.  They surrounded the mother and said “she’s with Jesus now.”  The more bleak the death the more important the hope of Heaven becomes.  

You know it's rainy season when....

...your cow has to stand in her water trough to avoid the plague of biting flies ...and there are mushrooms growing in your shower stall. Yuck.

Two Worlds

Baby crying,
Drizzling rain.
People dying
Sorrow and pain.

Cold, clear mountain peak
Exotic monkeys so shy
Colorful birds to seek
Beautiful blue sky.

A world of contrast
So different yet the same
Two worlds in one
Beauty and pain.

Luke Myhre (age 13)

(Luke wrote this poem the day he finished exams, it came to him riding home in the mud.  I think the contrast between the beauty of Africa and its pain is always before us, and our kids.  Thought you might like a more serious poem, and the perspective of another member of the family.  Jennifer)

TWAS THE THANKSGIVING SEASON . . .

Twas the Thanksgiving Season of 2006 When the Bundibugyo Team found themselves in a fix. Clouds hung o’re their valley, rain ru-ined their fun, In vain they waited for glimpses of sun. No power, no road, no dry clothes, no food: The incessant drizzle frazzled their mood. Mud coated their legs, frogs thrived in their shoes, Fungus, boils and flies plagued them with the blues. When up on the calendar there arose a celebration Devoted to thanks, in spite of the situation. To their kitchens they flew to sift, stir, and dash, Creating dishes worthy of a Thanksgiving bash. Their leader Doctor Scott, with his usual skill Slaughtered and plucked a tur-key for the grill. More hungry than pigs to the Pierces they came, And Scott merrily greeted each one by name: “On Myhres and Massos, on Pierces and Barts! Stephanie Carol Kim Amy Pat Pamela Josh Scott!” As he called through the door the whole team appeared, Four families with children and eight singles held dear. “To the tables come one! To the feasting come all! We’ll refresh and regroup and press on past this wall.” So down to the banquet each team member did sit Devouring turkey and pie, they left not one bit. And then, in a twinkling, they stormed back out the door Strengthened with power from on high they would soar. Karen, how she sparkled, with spreadsheets and goats And art projects and preschool in this place so remote. Michael’s bearded chin indicated he was wise >From flow rates to futurology he could all analyze. A hundred children? No problem for loving Annelise She’d tell stories of Jesus and all would be pleased. Advanced math and batteries give David no pause Though ‘banker’ must have been hidden in the fine print clause. Kevin’s ready to preach, teach, raise funds, balance books, Holding Christ School together is even harder than it looks. He needs JD, who had twins in her belly, But now manages teachers between diapers so smelly. Stephanie just arrived but she’s already raised money Have you tasted her recipe of g-nuts and honey? ’No problem’ –Carol bodas to track down sick babies: Intern, teacher, researcher, we hope she’ll come back maybe? Reading, writing, and Spanish; basketball, Bible studies, Miss Kim devotes herself to serve everybody. Teaching science and history while learning Lubwisi Miss Amy’s joyful endeavors make it all look easy. Pat loves the wounded, the sick and the poor, Even when Monday shouts at her door. Zipping by on the picky, Pamela’s out everywhere, To TBAs and health centers organizing better care. Josh resurrects computers, fixes bikes, plays guitar And bushwacks to water projects near and far. Master Scotticus, though new, shows no signs of fainting Tackling French, biology, biking, even filming and painting. Scott winked his eye as he nodded his head The security risk was low: they had nothing to dread. In spite of the rain, they could get back to their work: Sixteen adults, thirteen kids, not one single jerk. So refraining from publicly picking his nose, Scott prayed for them all as from dinner he rose. He sprang to his Land-Rover, called the team with a whistle, Away they all slid to continue their Ugandan epistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “God’s Kingdom is coming! Don’t give up the fight!”

Jonah, another chapter

Bright an early Sunday morning we were visited by Gideon Alinga, a prominent community leader, who was bursting with news of the birth of a son.  One of his two wives had just delivered her eight child . . . The first C-Section by Dr. Jonah at NHC.  As we have heard the full story this week we were again amazed at the way God answers prayers, the orchestration of this birth.

Alinga is an old-time WHM contact, sponsored by previous missionaries for a degree, fallen out of favor over various issues but still a strong force in this community, not always a force in our favor, a somewhat tricky relationship.  His wife was in labor late Saturday night when the midwife (Rose, another nurse we sponsored for further studies who just completed midwifery at the same time as Jonah) detected on exam that the baby’s umbilical cord had prolapsed, which means it was coming out of the womb ahead of the baby.  If this happens the baby’s blood supply is cut off and the baby will die.  She called Jonah, who quickly decided an emergency C-section was the only way to save the baby.  The nurse-anesthetist had gone to her home village and was untraceable (it was now after midnight) so Jonah wondered if he should refer them to Bundibugyo, but knew that the baby was not likely to survive the trip.  So he operated anyway, delivering a healthy large boy, finishing at about 4 am, with a stand-by lantern in case the solar-powered lights did not last long enough.  

Jonah’s first C-section could have been anyone; for it to be this family smacked of God’s timing.  The late hour, lack of anesthetist, and critical condition of the baby could have spelled disaster; having a great outcome smacked of God’s mercy.  Now Alinga and his fairly powerful clan met and decided to name the baby Jonah Guvenah.  They reasoned that like Jonah of the Bible he emerged from the belly miraculously.  To name a baby after Dr. Jonah (who is from the Bakonjo tribe, not the Babwisi like this family) combined with the grandfather’s name (Guvenah) is quite amazing.  Alinga is now enthusiastically drawing public support for Jonah’s presence here.

More chapters to come no doubt!

Pre-Thanksgiving Feasting

The last Kwejuna Project Food Distribution . . . .116 HIV+ mothers, half our team, more than a dozen neighbors hired to cook hot porridge for the waiting moms and help them heft the heavy bags of food away, in short a crowd. Again the Community Center was filled with noise, babies, laughter, life. The face of HIV is not all bleakness and suffering I realized as I looked around. No one would pick most of these women out of a crowd, at least not yet. It was one final opportunity to call them all together, preach the Gospel, love them practically, rejoice over babies not infected, counsel some to bring their husbands for testing, encourage those who have been left alone or are struggling on with care. Like the pilgrims we sailed into the PMTCT work and imposed ourselves and our programs on these women, so at the end of the year it is a joy to invite them to a feast. A treat for me was to reconnect with Robbinah, who came to me over a year ago tearfully pleading for help with her baby. She was articulate and aware of the risks, one of the few with some education, pregnancy made her leave school, the father of the baby did not marry this teenager, and she knew she increased her baby’s risk by breast feeding. Though we promote exclusive breast feeding as the safest option even in HIV infection . . . Something about Robbinah led me to go against policy and take a gamble and supply her with the baby formula she so much wanted, perhaps her determination to save her child. After a few months Karen was able to supply her with a dairy goat. Now a year later she has a healthy toddler. Another facet of the public health/private health dimension, her story is not replicable for all 114, but sometimes an individual case can be different. World Food Program officially ends all food distribution to Bundibugyo this month. What feast now for the poor?