Do you know who blew the story that King Leopold of Belgium had turned Congo into a personal kingdom run by slavery? An accountant. A clerk at the shipping docks added up what went out to Congo, and what came in to Belgium, and concluded that the balance was not in Congo’s favor. This led to the awareness by the rest of the world that rubber was being obtained by drastic measures (including cutting off the hands of those who did not tap enough trees).
So accountants can be heroes, particularly in the world of aid, of missions, of development. This post is a small tribute to some of those heroes. Jerry and Dwight in our Sending Center. Scott, David, and Karen, who manage tens of thousands of dollars each, carefully planning, tracking, submitting receipts, being responsible for Kwejuna project, CSB, and BundiNutrition. Michael, at least we hope soon, handling money for development in Mundri, Sudan. And Scott again, because all the miscellaneous and sundry needs of team and widows and projects and orphans pass through his hands. All of these people do lots of other things too, but their non-glamorous desk time may be the most important.
Where are the brave accountants, the careful people who are patient enough to sit at a computer or use a calculator, to save the world?
Read the following list of woes and guess where in earth it is referring to: loss of land to foreigners, scarcity of drinking water and firewood, forced labor, bad government, famine, widespread rape, slavery, proliferation of orphans and widows, breakdown of community life. Sounds a bit like Africa, particularly the immediate areas around us in Eastern Congo, Sudan, Rwanda . . . But it is actually straight out of Lamentations chapter 5, a description of the fall of Jerusalem. In the face of that destruction Jeremiah weeps and waits, for hope.
It’s been a weeping and waiting kind of week here, actually a weeping and waiting kind of life. And usually I think I’m waiting for solutions, for answers, for change. But Lamentations says we are waiting for hope. Waiting for a glimmer of God’s presence. Because that is what we really need, even though I think we need much “more” which is actually much less. Like food for the hungry and justice for the poor and rest for the missionaries . . .
Pray that in the spurts of relief and answers we would not be satisfied with less than God Himself. Pray that hope would come. Here are some glimpses of it this week:
- Right now Scott has a truck full of UNICEF supplies, heading back from Bundibugyo. It was touch and go. He went to their office in Kampala which seemed to trigger the release of the goods, but they were sent via a UNICEF driver to Bundibugyo and mistakenly off-loaded at a district store. By the time we traced them we worried that we would never see them again . . .but all is well. A major answer to prayer. The most severely malnourished inpatients will be drinking this milk powder for months to come.
- Thanks to vision from Michael, persistence from David, and footwork from Kasereka, CSB was able to obtain three UNICEF water tanks that were donated to the district for school use. These are worth many thousands of dollars, freeing other CSB funds for the many other needs of the school. Amazing.
- A friend from UVA days is funding the salaries of the three nutrition extension workers for three years. Wow. This allows our ongoing donations to go for food, and allows the sustainable parts of the program (chickens producing eggs, goats producing milk and more goats, gardens producing food) to be built and secured. We are so grateful.
Many days, like Jeremiah, I feel that this calling is too much, that we are “caught between a difficult God and the service of His impossible people” (loosely quoting from the Card book). Then we get generous friends and amazing supplies from unexpected places, and it is a brief parting of the clouds to keep us moving forward. Weeping we wait, and hope does arrive.
It’s only Tuesday . . . But Monday was a week in itself. I walked in the ward, early, alone (well, no staff, but not really alone). As I read through the nurse reports I realized that baby Precious had died during the night. I heard people referring to her as “Precious” so I’m glad her name defined her in her very short life. I was then almost finished with weighing all the patients when a father rushed up at the end of the line to put his 3-ish year old daughter on the scale. He was sweating, having carried her from a village quite a few miles of steep paths away. As soon as he unwrapped her still form for weighing, Larissa and I whisked her into the treatment room. In his hurry and distress he had not realized that she died somewhere along the way. She had no heartbeat, not even a flutter of breath, fixed glassy eyes, cold skin. Women wail in a very scripted way, and their mourning I have come to expect and predict. But this young dad had rushed so earnestly that he arrived a good 20 minutes ahead of the rest of the clan, so when I told him his daughter was dead he was stunned and alone, and his spontaneous tears really got to my heart. By this morning three more kids had died, all with a final pathway of anemia. We are still struggling to keep up with the blood supply (which is why I welcomed the recent blood drive at Christ School!). I find myself sometimes hesitating, not wanting to care too deeply about yet another frail fragment of humanity that is so easily lost.
And that’s why today’s nutrition clinic was particularly encouraging. When I finished inpatient rounds I went around the corner of the ward to the porch where we distribute outpatient food to help Pat, who is filling in for Heidi while still doing most of what she usually does. Pat was there, but all eyes were on the cooking demonstration being led by a young man we just hired to help with BundiNutrition. Charles Baguma just completed a degree in social work at Makerere, which makes him part of an elite cadre of University-graduate Babwisi. But there he was with his pans and spoons and the riveted attention of 20-some grandmothers and caretakers. Thanks to his interning with Scotticus, he was ready to teach them. He showed them how to mix the gnut/soy paste with cooked matoke to form a nutritious mash. Then he made everyone go wash their hands and took spoonfuls around the crowd, for each kid. What fun to see little Mariam munching away on the protein! And my morning was complete when one of the two great-grandmothers who are breastfeeding their orphaned great-grandsons returned. Baluku was barely over 2 kilograms a few weeks ago, and is now close to 4. But what really made me smile was the fact that he was wearing the most glaring purple and green striped pom-pommed socks which came up to his thighs, an accessory straight out of a Dr. Seuss book, and NOTHING ELSE.
“And we are just here in the grass.” That was how my neighbor described the atmosphere in Bundibugyo District. The civil servants, those nurses, teachers, accountants and administrators, who depend upon government-issued salaries, are on edge. They do not want to take sides in the major political strife that is occurring, because they are not quite sure which side will emerge victorious. And this is not about which side is right, at least not for them. It is about survival. Corruption is assumed to be rampant, truth is assumed to be elusive, success in life is assumed to be tied to patronage, so the path of wisdom is to lay low in the grass until the lions achieve some truce.
I’ve been reflecting on the role of the outsider, people like us, in this place. More and more I see that a major aspect is that we ARE outsiders. Yes, we try to learn the language, to achieve acceptance, to work within, to build relationships. But our other-ness carries a measure of safety and a measure of power for change. My life does not depend upon which of the lions dominates the other. My income does not depend upon staying in the good graces of the governing political party. My relationships don’t carry any weight of bribes asked or owed.
That independence sets us apart. It means the school can fire teachers who abuse female students, even if that teacher would happen to be related to a man of power. It means that our nutrition programs hand out food to children who are marginalized and malnourished, not to those who are relatives of the health workers. It means that we can speak against injustice without fearing a curse. For some, it means we can be trusted. For others, it means we can be dangerous, because we are harder to manipulate.
Last week I was filled with indignation, I won’t say holy indignation, because I now my anger does not carry the fully righteous mix of truth and compassion that it should. But I was confronted with two-year-old child who had become progressively lame, with a gibbus back, probably due to spinal TB, a treatable condition. I had arranged for transport from our own donors (equivalent to about a month’s salary here) to get her to a decent hospital for neurosurgical evaluation. I asked her mother to call her father to come in and contribute some token amount, for a meal along the way, so that he would also own the decision to seek care. He was a relatively well-off man with three wives and a fish-trading business. He refused to give his wife and child a single shilling, telling me that he had nothing. As confidently as I could in Lubwisi I cautioned him that God sees his heart and actions and cares about the life of even this child. And I advised the mother to seek support from her brothers if her husband refused to help. She requested discharge and a few days later came back with her brother and her own savings to embark upon the journey towards healing her child. But interestingly, even though she was going with her brother, her husband was there to see her off. I think he had begun to doubt his refusal to help.
It is anti-cultural to put the power of money and motion into the hands of a woman when her husband is not in agreement. Was this wrong? I hope not. I hope it was an example of the way the Gospel frees. I hope it was a small stand to show the mother of this child that she was a valuable person who could act to help her child. Certainly Jesus was not intimidated by the religious establishment of his day, which made him a dangerous person too. But I am very , very aware that I am not Jesus, and all of my struggles for justice are tainted by pride, by a judgmental heart, by incomplete understanding of the real story. I can only pray that while the lions quarrel, we can give a hand up to some of those cowering in the grass.
“Arise, cry out in the night, at the beginning of the watches;
Pour out your heart like water before the face of the Lord.
Lift your hands toward Him for the life of your young children
Who faint from hunger at the head of every street.” Lam 2:19
Jeremiah wrote these words watching the suffering of Jerusalem at the hands of invaders. Scott has been leading our team in a study of lament, which challenges us to cling to God. As we also bear witness to the harrowing effects of sin and sorrow, we invite you to cry out in prayer, to pour your heart before the Lord.
- For the life of children. Would you pray specifically for Christ School, as we near the end of the second term? We all knew it would be a rough summer with the transition in leadership, and we praise God that the riots which erupted this time last year were avoided, that in spite of a major theft, struggles with the food service, shortfalls in funding, and student suspensions for misconduct . . .the Pierces have weathered their inaugural term with grace, vision, and even a spark of humor. Please pray specifically for the staff and missionaries to have wisdom to teach and model godly sexuality. When you take over 300 pubertal human beings emerging from a culture where sex is viewed as a commodity for transaction and an essential component of normal body function . . . Well, we realize that the spiritual beauty of the creation of humans as male and female, and the spiritual safety of the placement of sexual relationship within the commitment of marriage, is lacking in these students’ minds and actions. This has become starkly apparent this week as we cared for a girl who nearly bled to death, possibly from a botched abortion. Pray for their lives.
- Who faint from hunger. The pediatric ward has been running at 150% of capacity for most of the summer. Rising food prices, unreliable weather patterns, dissolving family safety nets, increasing awareness of the hope of help . . All have brought many more desperate children to our attention that we have the resources to care for. Praise God that the team of former missionary Scotticus, summer interns, and Ugandan university students conducted an illuminating evaluation of the BundiNutrition programs which confirms the wisdom of expanding the use of locally produced peanut/soy paste that Stephanie pioneered. We distributed another batch of Matiti project goats (organized by Karen), and another round of supplementary food to HIV-positive women and children (still funded by Pamela’s advocacy, in absentia). PLEASE PRAY that UNICEF would confirm their commitment to provide milk-based therapeutic food by signing their agreement and sending our next shipment THIS WEEK. Pray for Heidi, my right hand help and friend on the front lines, who has to spend two months’ “internship” in Kampala for her nursing license, and for me to persevere, to see the fainting revive and live.
- At the head of every street. Bundibugyo is more of a maze of paths than a grid of streets. And the political system reflects that obscurity, with funds and accountability being hidden behind twists and turns. Yet your prayers are beginning to shake things up. In the last two weeks, a crisis has boiled over, pitting one seemingly “good guy” against some entrenched local corrupt politicians. Three fairly influential and notoriously dishonest civil servants were “interdicted” (fired) this week. Would you please KEEP PRAYING FOR JUSTICE to prevail? For the Lord to hear the cries of the hungry and remove from power those who embezzle their aid? For a true turning to the Lord in the hearts of the people, so that they rely on God and not on stealing for their security? Your prayers have the power to bring about real change in Bundibugyo.
- Pour out your heart. The season of sorrowful goodbyes cycles around again, as Katie, Jesse, and Nick finish their internship and depart tomorrow with their leader Kim. The Massos have tentatively scheduled their long-anticipated (but I admit serious denial in my own heart) departure for Sudan in the beginning of October. And very close to home, Luke will enter Rift Valley Academy’s 11th grade class the first of September, our oldest off to boarding school. The waves of grief are building once again. Pray for hope, for the daily assurance that God leads and loves even in loss. We had hoped for another couple (the Clarks) and two more single guys (Jason and Nathan) to be here by now, picking up some of the threads that will be left dangling as our team fabric is torn with these departures as well as the others over this year. Pray for their support to come in God’s timing, and for us to recognize mercy in the apparent delay.
Thank you for being our watchers, those who cry out in the darkness and strain to see the dawn. We know that your prayers are moving in the lives of students, hungry families, politicians and team members.
I was asked to name a baby today. Her weary mom seemed out of ideas on her 9th child. Or perhaps she did not want to bind herself too closely to this tiny and deformed little girl. I had been called by the midwives to examine the baby, and found a full term but very small baby with a cleft lip and palate, missing skin on the back of her scalp, a small extra sixth finger on each hand, and a huge omphalocele, which means that her bowels protruded in a sac of membrane extruding with her freshly cut umbilical cord. This is a classic combination for the highly lethal Trisomy 13. In a rural African health center, what can we do for her? Cover the gaping abdomen, keep her warm, and offer milk. Not much more than that. Though I debated taking the same aggressive referral risks that saved the little girl Kabajungu in the picture below, I decided not to send this baby anywhere. Her prognosis with full Western medical care is a 50% mortality rate within the first month of life. So who am I really helping if I push the family to take a long and uncomfortable journey to an unfamiliar place, to struggle in a dysfunctional medical system, and probably return empty-handed? Still, it is hard to make the decision to pursue comfort and palliation and not surgical correction. I feel the heaviness, the gravity of such a decision, and the draining tiredness of having to make it. I’d rather not.
When I was filling out her admission forms and asked the mother for a name, and she told me to choose one, I thought for only a few seconds. Precious. My Lubwisi falters on matters of the heart, so I called a nurse to help me explain that the name symbolizes that this little girl, even with all her problems, is precious in the eyes of God, whether she lives a few hours, days, months, or decades. The testimony of friends from Chicago whose son Micah died of lethal congenital anomalies the day he was born came to my mind: from the perspective of eternity, a life of 7 hours and a life of 70 years are the same, both immeasurably short, and both infinitely precious, worth the attention and love and sacrifice of God.
And while part of me would like to take a photo of Precious for scientific purposes, I decided that on this post she should not be pictured. Because her earthly body at this moment is a very distorted picture of the eternal reality of who she is, of what she will look like when she is made whole. The privilege of watching bodies become whole is one of the greatest ones I have experienced here, but this time I will have to wait for Heaven.
From rounds today:
Kabajungu Margaret, the little girl who was dying of an intra-abdominal lymphoma last year, against all odds and through much struggle, cured. Back for follow-up, shyly smiling, a reminder that sometimes it is worth taking a risk.
Mariam, discharged today: she was admitted in early June shortly after her mother died of AIDS. In spite of being HIV-free herself, and receiving gallons of UNICEF milk, she poked along with daily fevers and listless crying, until we realized that she was probably infected by TB. After a few weeks of therapy her weight has increased by 50%, she’s smiling like a charmer, chubby-cheeked and home in the care of her grandmother to finish her six month course of tablets.
Biira: It took five weeks to turn her around, and I had often said (in despair) that my life would be complete if I ever got her to smile. She was an edematous lump, refusing to drink milk, never moving much, depressed and dwindling. TB therapy also proved to be her turning point. Monday she broke into a huge grin. It was like witnessing the breath of life entering the clay of humanity. She has come alive.
But others still have far to go, sipping their formula, clinging to their too-soon-pregnant teenage moms or their weary bereaved grandmothers. I hope in another month the pictures at the bottom will be transformed like those first three. Faith means living between the acknowledgment of our scabby hungry weakness and the promise of milk-rich health. Hanging on between hunger and healing.
Uganda, the pearl of Africa, tropical beauty, open-faced friendliness, relative stability, fantastic scenery and spectacular wildlife. And we actually live here. So why vacation anywhere else? As we get ready for a visit from my mom in August, I’m trying to make reservations for a few days of in-country travel, and it has been an eye-opening experience. We are not the only ones who have noticed that this is a great country. There has been a subtle but steady growth and shift in the tourist industry that I’m realizing is not all for the best. Like the rest of the world, vacations in Uganda are polarizing between the very cheap and the outrageously expensive, with nothing in between. We are looking for privacy and beauty, and those two things are becoming almost unreachable.
The very cheap: backpacker hostels and campgrounds, or local lodges, frequented by Europeans, Americans, and Australians between 18 and 30 years of age, people who want to feel like they are really roughing it. A few roaches, loud music, an active bar and internet connection, rarely-cleaned communal bathrooms, add to the sense of adventure. Entire truck-loads of tourists can pull in and pitch camp within the hour. These places are not all bad, but since we LIVE with roaches, noisy neighbors, mud and grime . . . We really look for a little peace and solitude on vacation, a little order and soothing visual peace.
But the privacy and beauty have been bought out by an increasing number of very small, very exclusive, very expensive luxury lodges. These places are not owned by Ugandans. They usually have only a dozen (or less) cottages or tents, with private porches, amazing views, perfect plumbing, tasteful décor, and good food. The owners charge rates that exceed, FOR ONE PERSON STAYING ONE NIGHT, the ANNUAL INCOME of a typical Ugandan. I think this is because their volume is low, and the absent owners themselves are living in relatively expensive places, so their profit margin has to be through the roof. One place I contacted recently had increased from $96 per room in 2003 to $420 PER PERSON PER NIGHT in 2008. Booming economies in the west, more mature travelers (more of the 35 to 70 crowd), writing off expenses to NGO’s or corporations? I’m not sure, but it seems that there are new venues every month, usually on land contiguous with a national park, or overlooking scenery of great interest. Does Uganda benefit? Yes, but is the ratio just? Not sure.
So where does that leave us? Two choices. One is camping in the national parks: the beauty and solitude are there, but it is a LOT of work (bring your own everything), occasionally frightening, and so not always restful. So we’re glad for the second option, the Kingfisher Lodges. These two small resorts are built in a simple but lovely style, have a pool, the food is fair, and the price is reasonable. They are income-generating projects of a former missionary technical school teacher turned entrepreneur, who thus far has kept his rates within reason. We are grateful. One is a five to six hour drive from here, and the other is about 9 to 10 hours. They are frequented by Ugandans too, which means there is a market for family-friendly medium-range, clean, simple, beautiful lodges, if any more entrepreneurs are out there.
Our district is not settled. Health workers tell us daily that their salaries are not being paid. They believe that top elected officials somehow stopped payment at the bank, in order to create chaos and discontent, a ripe situation for mass action against the central-government-appointed administrator who is investigating the finances of the district. It does make sense in a Bundibugyo-logic sort of way. If a locally elected official has been siphoning funds for years, and then someone comes with the authority from the central government to ask questions and put their nose into the records, what better way for the local politicians to protect themselves than to create mayhem and focus it on the investigator, trying to get him thrown out! The man at the crux of the conflict is the main central-government appointed official who supported Dr. Jonah. He may not be completely clean of corruption, but sentiment in the health system is that he is the lesser of the evils, and being persecuted by those locally-elected officials who are more corrupt. On Monday mass protest was averted when the official who was threatened called in riot police with tear gas, and the agitators dispersed their meeting peacefully. So life goes on. But for those of us who have been praying for a shake-up of business-as-usual, for uncovering of corruption, for accountability, this may be the beginning of real change. Jesus said, be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. That sounds like good advice for living in Bundibugyo where we work with the serpent-hearted while trying to keep our own hearts dove-like.
21: Here is Julia with her CSB girls’ team, sporting the jerseys donated by Miss Ashley’s Covenant College coach. Ashley gave Julia number 21, her old number, which meant a lot to her. We are thankful for the little slice of time when Julia can be part of a group of girls as their peer and friend, we’re thankful for the physical exercise and skills, and we’re thankful for the role model that her coach provides in a life surrounded by much that is foreign and harsh.
i, the square root of negative 1 . . . : Miss Sarah has been coming up to our house every afternoon to share the one copy of the pre-calculus book from which she teaches Luke, striving to get him ready for entering RVA, teaching him a bit about choral music and even getting him to read some pretty dense British literature. In short, she’s filled a role this year that no one else was quite capable of, and we are amazed and thankful that God put her there at just the right time.
