Of Chicks and Politics

Picture a PhD from UNC, fresh from academic rigor, schedules, deadlines, research, intellectual challenge and stimulation, now as a mother hen hovering over her baby chicks. Yes, Stephanie’s day-old chicks arrived on Thursday night. Two hundred of them! Our Kwejuna right-hand-man Donato traveled to Kampala to bring them back in crates, on a bus. After extremely hot (90 plus IN my house) dusty weather, a thunderstorm broke that evening. His truck was delayed as the cold air front blew in. Stephanie waited anxiously to receive the chicks into their newly constructed dwelling, a mud-walled building that had been prepared over the last few weeks for this purpose, with a barbed wire fence protective perimeter and coffee hull flooring and watering containers. As the hours passed we feared they would all be dead from the cold air or the rough jostle of the road. Several team members stood nearby for moral support, while Stephanie and her Ugandan chick helpers unloaded the crates late that night. All 200 had survived! It was our pizza night so Scott gathered all the hot coals from our oven and took them down in a wheel barrow to add to the clay pots set up in the shed, for warmth. The young man who we hired to be their primary caretaker slept with them for their first night, adding his body heat to the clay pots as the chicks huddled. I saw them the next morning, fluffy yellow chirping cheerful signs of life.

It is Spring in America, and probably commercially already chicks are appearing as symbols of Easter and life. We pray that these chicks will also be signs of the Resurrection. Signs of life to children who are malnourished, as their eggs provide protein. One did die yesterday, so we would appreciate prayers that a large percentage would survive and thrive and lay eggs. Maybe as you see Easter Chicks on decorations, you’ll be reminded that real children are depending on real chicks to become egg-laying chickens in a real place in this world right now.

>From chicks to politics . . . Most missionaries don’t dream of nurturing goats or poultry, nor do they anticipate political struggle. But we found out that the man who has faithfully worked with the Kwejuna project in a distant corner of the district was punished by an unwanted transfer to another area. It seems that when the Kwejuna project provided a motorcycle to assist him in gathering data and coordinating care between several health centers that are 10-15 miles apart (work he had been doing on bicycle or foot) jealousies were aroused. And it didn’t help that this nurse is also a pastor and has spoken publicly against corruption in the district. Scott and Pamela found themselves yesterday pleading for his reinstatement . . . On politely deaf ears it seemed, though we heard later that the decision to transfer him may be reversed. All those Psalms that cry out to God to change the hearts of rulers feel very real at the moment. What could a movement of prayer for justice do in Bundibugyo? Food for the poor, and integrity in the process? Stay tuned!

Resurrection number 1001, 1002, 1003, . . . .

My friend Maria Garriott wrote a book entitled “A Thousand Resurrections”, about her life raising a family and planting a church in a violent, poor, inner-city neighborhood. The title sticks with me, and reminds me to look for those signs of the power of the resurrecting God at work in the muck of this world.

So I offer three more resurrections, and one transcendent moment, in the spirit of her book (which I highly recommend):

1001: Last week I admitted a nine-year-old boy named Bwambale. His father carried him into the ward, burning with fever, comatose, dehydrated, close to shock. That day the entire hospital was so packed we could barely squeeze him onto the floor. I ended up doing a lumbar puncture (spinal tap) while we tried to balance his longish thin body on a small table in a closet-type room where medicines are stored, because the usual procedure room was being used to isolate triplets with gastroenteritis, and I thought it would not be technically feasible to get the specimen bottle under the needle if he was on the floor! Since we celebrated Jack’s 9th Birthday this week, a 9-year-old boy hit my heart hard. Also his parents seemed really destitute and bewildered, having brought him from a remote mountainside village more than ten miles away, with only the clothes on their backs. But in spite of my concern I had no idea of his diagnosis. His spinal fluid was crystal clear, his malaria smear was negative. I gave him all my best medicines (literally all) and a blood transfusion. By the second day his coma progressed to the point where his posture and reflexes led me to believe he might die, or at least have permanent brain damage. I asked our whole team to pray for him, and my kids took up the cause. I went to see him on Saturday even though it is not my regular day to do rounds, and felt slightly encouraged that he seemed to have a moaning response to his father’s voice, though none to mine still. I was afraid to find out the news this morning (Monday) when I walked onto the ward. There he was, looking like any normal child. He walked up and asked me for bread! (Which seems to be a normal post-resurrection need, remember Jairus’ daughter). I am so thankful. I still don’t know what was wrong with him but I believe God healed him anyway.

1002&3: Last Wednesday, as I sat seeing patients in the AIDS clinic, a nurse brought a plea from Jonah that I come to the operating room where he was doing a C-section, because he expected the baby to need major resuscitation. Since our nurse-anesthetist was involved in a motorcycle accident last week, he had been reluctant to do any surgery. But this lady had had two previous C-sections, and in both cases the baby died. Now she was presenting in labor needing a third operation, with no baby yet to show for all her suffering, and the midwives could not hear a heart-beat on this baby either. If there was any chance to save it he had to act right away, not send her to Bundibugyo town. So he went to work in the operating theatre with improvised anesthesia, and by the time I was called the procedure was well underway. I walked into the room to see the baby lying limp and grey on the counter. The midwife and I began to rub and suction and give breaths with a bag and mask, and the baby began to gasp. But then we heard Jonah exclaim “There’s another one!” and to everyone’s surprise he pulled another purple lifeless looking little baby feet-first out of the bloody hole in the unconscious mother’s abdomen. Baby 1 was starting to breathe so we shifted our efforts to baby 2, who responded quickly. Soon both were crying and protesting. The mother still looked a bit frightening, trembling under a mask of ether as blood dripped around the floor. But as of today all are alive and well, two pink and pretty little baby girls and one weak but grateful mom.

And lastly, a transcendent moment. As I mentioned above, Jack turned 9 on Saturday. The whole team and his local friend Ivan came over for tacos and a multi-layered drum-shaped cake. There were balloons and games and presents, but the real event of the evening was a dance party. Some line dancing, some free-for-all. Imagine a room full of missionaries gyrating in our candle-lit front room to SuperChick’s “Rock Bottom . . .if you’ve been there put your hands in the air and let someone know that the Most High cares . . “ It was fun, but HOT. After about five songs there was a general consensus that we move the party out into the yard. I had bought glow-stick bracelets (great for out-door equatorial nights!) and the whole team put them on, we moved the speakers out with an extension cord, and danced in the yard, which was really only marginally cooler. Just as we were about to call it a night someone said “there’s a family in your kitubbi” and went for a flashlight to find out what medical emergency was going to break up our birthday party. But no, it was our neighbor, Mukiddi’s equally old and infirm brother Tabaka, with a half-dozen younger girls from his compound. He hobbled up with his walking stick and said “Twasie kubiina”--we’ve come to dance. They live just behind our house and could no doubt hear and see all once we moved outside. So like good African neighbors, they came to join in. It was one of those rare moments when I felt like we were connecting as human beings, doing what was natural, not making a cross-cultural holy effort, just enjoying normal life together. The girls were delighted with the bracelets, we danced to the Shrek soundtrack, the younger kids ran all over the yard streaming colors, the moon shone hazily through oppressively warm and low clouds, and we had a taste of the marriage supper of the Lamb.

Mission-wide Day of Prayer: March 6, 2007

Our entire mission is observing a day of prayer and fasting on March 6, 2007. A list of prayer requests for our team is available from our "Download-able Prayer Letters" page accessible from "Our Links" on the sidebar. Thanks for praying!

Happy Birthday, Jack!

Jack Thomas, (aka, The Jackelope) marks nine years today....the last single digit birthday in our family!!

Check out that priceless smile...that's the mark of a boy who has just received his very own spring-loaded 3-inch Gerber JACK KNIFE.

Whoa, careful now! I guess you know how to pray....

Happy Birthday, Caleb!

Caleb (a.k.a., Chipper), our nocturnal child, marks 12 years on this, the final day of February. We will celebrate with three of his Ugandan classmates from Christ School over dinner, cake, and a video.

He is a gift of God to our family. Please pray with us that he would continue to increase in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men (Lk 2:52).

PS - The cast comes off the left arm in two weeks.

Post from last week: Glimpse of the way it should be

Stepping back into the struggle:  in some ways invigorating, the month in America now feels like a fog of politeness, a vague memory of general niceness that has been stripped back to the clarity of the battle for this not-yet-right world.  But the struggle also wearies.  In a few hours we will have been on the ground for one week.  Perhaps the biggest loss:  Kyomanuwa, the little boy whose picture I posted because I was fighting for his life against the ravages of rapidly progressive AIDS, sensing the persistence of his caring mother.  I was dreading the news, and thankful to find him alive on my first day back, yet admitted to the hospital.  His skin had healed some, I dared to hope.  But by Friday he had lost ground and needed blood, and died an hour or so before we could get it from Bundibugyo, so that I got the news as I rushed the cooler of units into the hospital.  Being permitted to see him and hope and then having him die I took hard.  Pamela and I biked miles around village paths on Saturday looking for his home, we had a general idea of the village but took a long time to find the actual compound.  By the time we arrived the burial was over and the guests had dispersed, it was only his mom lying on an old mattress on the dirt floor.  We prayed for her heart, for her hope of seeing him in Heaven.  She has only one child left.

But a glimpse yesterday of the way it should be—a baby was admitted with a severe abscess deep in his leg that was cutting off circulation to his foot.  This tiny child may have Down Syndrome, looked weak and floppy and may not live long.  But here is the hopeful thing:  Jonah was there, I brought him in to see the baby, he was ready to take her to the theatre to perform surgery right away.  And one of my students, Birungi, who wants to be a doctor, was doing rounds with me to learn something.  I sent him up the road on my bike to collect a stronger antibiotic we have a small supply of at our house.  It struck me that I was not alone in the way I would have been even a few years ago—here was the doctor we had all (and I mean the prayers of so many in America!!) worked to train, and here was my hope for the next doctor or clinical officer, and we were entering into the struggle for this baby’s life together.   We have far to go, the corruption in the system is still so rampant and blatant and discouraging, injustice abounds.  But a glimpse of the way it should be, and for that I’m thankful.

TESTING

Trying to see if this will post—my apologies since my last two attempts never showed up on the blog.  We’re alive and well, and if this works I’ll resurrect some news from last week.

Quote from NT Wright lecture

You don’t get to share in God’s life and escape without wounds—look at Jesus.

Back in Bundibugyo

After two days of international flights and then a few hours of post-midnight crash-and-revive sleep, the four kids and I flew into Bundibugyo on a small MAF plane yesterday.  Since our family exceeded the 5-person capacity many years ago . . . We haven’t flown for anything except medical emergencies recently.  So it was quite a treat to arrive in one smooth hour of air rather than eight grueling hours on the road.  And we had Garrett who is a very fun pilot and took us high over heather and bamboo mountain ravines, then an abrupt 9,000 foot swooping descent to buzz the airstrip and circle dramatically back around for a landing.  But best of all was to be welcomed back into the arms of our caring team, smiling and hugging.  Since leaving America always involves some tears and loss, it is a sweet moment to land back into community on this side of the ocean.

For a few days the roaches on my toothbrush will startle me, as well as the annoying habit people have of not speaking English as my Lubwisi stutters over my lazy tongue.  Two neighbors have already come to tell us about the two huge snakes that crawled out of our yard and were killed on the road in the last few days.  I’m thankful that our guardian angels were clearing the path for our arrival.  Scott is still in Kampala stocking up on food, so for a couple of days I’m focusing on re-connecting in relationships rather than cooking and cleaning, living off the generosity of the team.  This morning I went to see my neighbor who broke his hip while we were away—bittersweet, he’s my Dad’s age and shares some characteristics that take me back to a year ago.  The delight on his wives’ faces as I opened the door at the hospital made me thankful for the friendships we have here.  Checked in on Melen’s new preschool, and found Jonah seeing all the pediatric patients, other friends on the staff busy with their work.  Luke and Caleb found their new uniforms and classes and were greeted with make-up exams.  Julia and Jack had a happy reunion with Ivan and their team friends.  

I always find the transitions stressful and find myself unenthusiastic about the input of energy that will be required over the next week to organize and resume life, to put away trunks full of American goodies and traveling clothes, to carve out time for the important things in life, to assemble a live-able working and eating and being schedule once again.  It’s good to be home, but perhaps never more apparent that there is no real home on this earth.  

American Blessings

We have been negligent in blogging . . . But full of thanks for many things in our month of travel.  Here are a few:

• Our main supporting church full of faithful people who love us and pray for us and have stepped behind us and our team in major and sacrificial ways.
• Our families who bent over backwards to see us and care for us, my mom even driving with us for over a thousand miles and many hours, taking care of our kids while we were in meetings.
• My niece Emma’s surgery which God in His goodness to us arranged in the exact window of time that allowed me to sit at the hospital with my sister and brother-in-law through the procedure, and be with them in the post-operative period.  Her Marfan syndrome has led to severe scoliosis and back pain necessitating the placement of two long metal rods (and 24 screws) from her shoulder blades to her pelvis, a 6-hour surgery in which she lost a liter of blood.  She will have a long recovery period, but had excellent care and her post-operative xrays look ramrod straight.  
• Caleb broke his left arm (both bones) when, as he says, the scooter he was riding stopped but he didn’t.  This happened in Charlotte NC, requiring an immediate emergency room visit for a splint and reduction (painful) of the fractured bones back into a straight line, then a cast two days later in Orlando Florida where we went for meetings.  The gracious hosts of the conference hooked us up with an excellent orthopedic surgeon, and Caleb’s arm should be fine after six weeks in the cast.  We’re thankful we could so easily access good care.
• Scott recovered fully from Dengue Fever, which has an ominous name and rarely a severe or fatal outcome, but in this case was more like a case of mono with a painful rash and several weeks of fatigue.  Our visiting board member Randy Bond suggested the diagnosis which was confirmed by blood tests in the US.  This is useful information to us as we were not previously aware that this infection existed in Bundibugyo.
• Praying and weeping and singing and laughing with the World Harvest Mission Team Leaders, laboring over goals for our mission, sharing our stories with each other.  
• Sitting under the teaching of Steve Childers, John Smed, Randy Nabors, Stu and Ruth Ann Batstone,  and others at the Global Church Advancement conference with WHM and a few hundred pastors and church leaders from across America.  Some of the conference did not apply much to missions in Uganda, but much did, and we drank thirstily from the wealth of spiritual input.  
• A candlelight dinner for two in Orlando’s “most romantic restaurant” one night after the conference sessions were over, a much appreciated time to reconnect in marriage away from the pressures of Bundibugyo.
• Lots of fresh salads and Java Chip ice cream and crunchy tortilla chips and easy-to-access food!
• Celebrating Luke’s 14th birthday repeatedly—with my family (they went to a climbing wall, great fun) and with our WHM family.
  

Well, the list could go on and on.  We are thankful for the month’s travel and ready to settle back into Uganda.  Thanks to many of you who read this blog and were interested and informed and encouraging.  We value the times we could spend face to face and wish those times were longer.  One aspect of Heaven to look forward to. . . . There is a way in which we are made for the fellowship of community, and uprooting causes small deaths, traveling reminds us of those we miss.