on paradox and cannibals

Kisembo preached for communion this morning from John 6.  As he re-told the story, the language Jesus used in talking about his body and blood implied that the Jews were bhalogo, cannibals, a shocking insult that would have riled them to violent reprisal.  It is good to take the Scripture into African culture and see some things that do not make sense in America, such as the taboo of cannibalism, the raw boldness of Jesus' speech.

So what was Jesus saying?  Clearly, murder and the eating of a fellow human being are perhaps the ultimate acts of destruction, the furthest from godliness.  Yet just as clearly, partaking of the body and blood of Jesus through the Lord's Supper is the ultimate act of communion with God.  I'm reading GK Chesterton's Orthodoxy, and he makes the point that non-Christian culture tends to find a moderate medium between two extremes.  In this case, that could be either asserting that human bodies are no different than animal life so that the act of eating human flesh would be the same as eating a cow or a goat; or glossing over the language of John 6 as purely symbolic metaphor.  Maybe.  But Christianity is rooted firmly in paradox, that two apparently contradictory things are both true.  The heart of our faith is Jesus, very God and very man, not a compromise between them, but the furthest extreme of both.  

So we enter into worship through the service of the Lord's supper. In this case, "bread" is not really part of the culture, so the leaders buy little packages of cookies in the market, alphabet-shaped crackers.  And "wine" is also nowhere to be found, so we sip flat syrupy soda.  Through experience they've learned not to pour it out until the moment of the drinking, after ants one time infested the table during the sermon.  But munching my S-shaped cracker and sipping my modicum of soda seemed appropriate to the truth:  common daily humble items transformed by the power of love into life-giving substance.  A paradox, Christian cannibals, looking for mercy.

Superstitions and Reality

In Bundibugyo, no one wants to be too open about their good news.
Pregnancy is not mentioned; school success is minimized; happiness is
hidden. There is a strong fear that attracting attention will lead to
negative repercussions, jealous relatives or malevolent spirits will
notice the good fortune and respond with curses.

After so many years, I fight the creeping insinuation of cultural
fears. We publicly prayed for sports to be part of Luke's adjustment
to RVA, and very unabashedly rejoiced that Luke made the JV soccer
team. He played his first game Saturday, a 1-1 draw. After the game
the boys were still full of energy and the joy of the game, so a
"friendly match" was organized to play a second unofficial round.
Luke was able to get out of his wing position which he does not
prefer, and be a midfield striker. He scored three goals, and had a
blast. The last time he dribbled down the field, though, it seems an
opponent in frustration clipped his knee from the side. Now he has
what may be a significant injury. We are not sure, very hard to tell
from this distance. Were we wrong to be so glad about soccer?

Yesterday I posted about the blessing of frequent communication.
Since then, not a single SMS has been able to leave my phone, I keep
getting the cryptic "no network support for messages". What? The
combination of knowing our kid is injured, and being powerless to
respond, is painful. Of course we are contacting his guardians by
email, and praying that this is just a bruise and not anything serious.

Much in my heart just wants to say: how much more? Can't we just fly
under the radar and be at peace? All this may seem trivial, but in the
context of grief and separation, and some hard times with people we
care about at home, it seems like Satan is on the attack.

The response of faith: God's truth abideth still, His Kingdom is
forever. I admit the posture of hiding sounds more appealing than the
posture of advance, so we need faith.

Raining Mercies

Small but significant things to be thankful for rain down, in drizzles with occasional downpours. The biggest, a clap of thunder sort of of storm: Luke's room mate got called up to play JV soccer, from the wait list, because another boy broke his arm. Sorry for the kid with the arm, but I know that being new in the school as Luke and his room mate are, the chance to be on the team is HUGE. And that it was very hard and sad when one boy was selected and the other was not. We prayed for grace in their friendship. This is a huge boost. A downpour: that we can communicate so well with Luke by SMS and email, multiple times per day, so that issues like a computer stick that is improperly formatted or whether to choose Martin Luther King Jr. as a subject for an English report are still life details that we can know an interact about. At team pizza last night we called and passed the phone around; it was fun to see Gaby, the almost-little- brother, talking to Luke, and to be reminded that we share him with this team family of committed people who also love him deeply. A brief shower: Karen donated a handful of spiffy new, brown-faced, cuddly baby dolls to me, and I distributed them to four little girls admitted for severe malnutrition this morning. What an uproar! The grandmothers and aunts could hardly keep their hands off, and half the ward came running over to admire the babies, laughing and clucking out traditional greetings to the little patients as the mothers. The newest admission, Kansiime, had been sent to live with her aunt two months ago because both parents died of AIDS. She is wide-eyed and silent, a stunted 3 year old who has been bowled over by life already. But today she got a soft clean new UNICEF blanket, a baby of her own to hold in the chaos of her bereaved life, milk and eggs and beans to satisfy her hunger. Very nice. The long rains have begun in earnest, a drenching morning, sloshing ankle-deep in puddles just to walk across the lawn. In Africa rain is blessing rather than an inconvenience. Food prices have nearly doubled for many items this year, from drought, from over-use of land for cash crops like cocoa, from rising population and demand. So the rains bring a promise of abundance, of hunger satisfied. Beans were 350/= a cup a few years back, 500/= a cup (half kilo sized cup) last year, and now 800/= this week. Rice has gone from 700/= to 1200/= per cup. May the rains produce relief!

On War

In Uganda we write the date logically, day/month/year, so all morning at the hospital I was noting 11/9/08 on the charts, which has much less emotional impact than 9-11.  But I remember well huddling around our short wave radio as we listened to events unfold, and the feeling that the world as we knew it was imploding, and the eeriness of wondering what it would be like to be untethered here in Uganda if America fell apart.  My family was all within a few dozen miles of Washington DC, and we had no easy communication access then to know if they were OK.  It was weeks before we saw the terrible video images that by that point had already been seared into the collective memories of most of the world.  

9-11 shattered many lives. And it shattered the illusory assumption that America was safe, and Africa was dangerous.  For the first time we felt more secure than our supporters, at least for a while (until reports began linking Osama bin Laden with the very rebels who plague our border).  

We're watching Band of Brothers (a ten-part HBO drama on WWII - really, really well done) with whatever team mates wish to stay after pizza on Thursday nights.  The next episode is entitled "Why We Fight", and pictures the shocking discovery of a concentration camp by the American forces as they enter Germany, and certainly leaves me with the assurance that the sacrifice and suffering of those soldiers was meaningful and worth the cost.  But I also just read All Quiet on the Western Front, which describes trench warfare in WW1 from a young German soldier's perspective, and the cruel horror and waste of war.  Heidi said she saw a bumper sticker in Kampala: "When Jesus said love your neighbor, I'm pretty sure he meant 'don't kill them'".  I'm not sure what I make of all that.  I'm glad and proud that my uncles (5 on my dad's side and 2 on my mom's) fought in WW2.  But I don't want my sons to be in a war.  But I'm thankful for the UPDF soldiers who patrol our town and mission, and protect us from the greed and whims of unscrupulous rebels who roam across the border.  I've been under gun-fire, and while I didn't fight back personally, I'm glad someone eventually did.  And so we go, around and around, in dilemma, never fully innocent in fighting for justice and yet never fully convinced that all fighting is wrong.  

Meanwhile today is a day to remember American lives lost to the evil of attack, in my own lifetime.  And to honor the courage of men like my uncles who were willing to resist that evil before I was born.  And to be thankful that my family has survived our brushes with war.  And to pray that my sons never have to face the need to hold a gun and choose whether to kill or be killed.

six inches above the mud

This is Mumbere and his grandmother, one of my favorite patient pairs.  If anyone recalls, she is the old lady who took over care of her grandson when his mother Dorothy died of AIDS and TB and he was well on the way to dying himself.  She commented he was the only picture she had of her daughter.  Now that he is four, and on the miraculous ARV's, he does look remarkably like his mom when she was a recalcitrant teenager who refused to acknowledge her positive HIV test.  We have been through a lot together.  Last visit this tiny lady, who can't weigh more than 70 pounds herself, told me she wished for a mattress, because she and Mumbere sleep on dried banana leaves on the mud floor of their home.  She is not in great health herself, has a husband who is probably dying of heart failure and in the meantime stole and ate the goat she got from our project.  She faithfully walks miles to come for care each month.  I tried to help her by giving her money for a boda, but there she was on her bare feet again today, finally admitting she spent the transport on the simple necessity of salt for cooking.   Sleeping on a mattress doesn't seem like a lot to ask from life.   In the spirit of one of the main characters in Blue Clay People, I decided to give her one of ours (this is a book about Liberia, aid, cross-cultural stress, war, poverty, and life in Africa, and in it one of the somewhat wild CRS staffers sums up his philosophy of development as giving everyone a mattress to raise them 6 inches above the mud of life).

So hopefully tonight Mumbere and his grandmother will luxuriate, probably for the first time in their lives, sleeping on foam.  I hope they can keep it from the rats and rain, and enjoy a few hours a day of repose.  And I would not be surprised if in Heaven, this little old lady who plods through life with her grandson on her back, won't get a queen-sized bed in a palace from which she rules over a whole tribe of bankers, analysts, doctors, missionaries, and others who now sleep in comfort. 

Slow Saves

Occasionally saving a life is dramatically fast, visible in real-time moments, as the unconscious child is rehydrated and awakens. Usually, though, a bit of time lapse photography would be helpful. Today five kids went home "cured" from the nutrition program. Several had been admitted for weeks or a month; Kato took the prize with a 53 day stay. He arrived in July, skeletal, the unlikely bone-and-skin twin of a healthy sister. I remember clearly wincing at his frail body lying limp on the bed, and sensing that his mom had all but given up hope. But a month later I remember seeing her dancing and singing down the aisle of the ward one day, and the nurses told me that she never expected him to live and now she was rejoicing. From 4.1 to 6.4 kg, his flesh filled out on milk and TB meds. He began to sit, and then to crawl. He is 1 1/2 years old but he still can not walk, though when I led him across the floor by hand he giggled yesterday with the effort. I like to wonder what plans God has for him, that made him such a target of destruction, and yet worth rescuing. Perhaps to be a teacher, or a caring father, or an artist, or president. Who knows.

Next, Bwambale, a child I personally thought would either die or be whisked away in the night by his tired mother. He came with dangerously severe kwashiorkor, and an also-malnourished little sister. Soon we realized that he was much worse off than she was, and slower to respond to milk, because he also had sickle cell anemia. It took over a month but his swelling finally subsided, new skin finally appeared under all the peeling patches, he finally took interest in the world. Meanwhile his sister also began to thrive, so his mom is now lugging home two heavier kids.

Mbusa's mother brought all four of her kids to live on the ward for the last few weeks, because she had no one else to help her care for them. He smiled mischievously as we prepared his discharge today, and his sisters clamored to have their picture taken too. They will probably find home rather tedious after all the excitement.

And then, Gloria. Gloria's lethargy on admission was heartbreaking, and her mother's almost as significant. And no wonder: this mother was from another part of the country, had had her 3 month old infant die this summer, and now was watching her 2 year old dwindle down the same path, and she was going through all this basically alone. In the 32 days of her admission, Gloria's father only came one time to see her. In spite of all that, she departed 2 kg heavier than she arrived, with a new hold on life. And her mother did some hard thinking about her own situation and decided to take Gloria back to her ancestral home in hopes of both of them surviving. I pray they will.

Lastly, Rick Thomas, getting his third lease on life, discharged and well when he could easily have been dead.

Their beds were being refilled before they could even bundle their belongings out the door, but for a moment there was joy over these slow saves.

Humbly Grateful

Luke made the JV soccer team at RVA. It is hard to overstate the greatness of this news for him. You would have to have known him all his life, kicking a ball as soon as he could walk, playing hours a day with his friends, loving the sport. You would have to have watched him over four years at Christ School, trying to fit in, thankfully allowed to come to practice, but always a bit younger than the others, and a bit on the outskirts as the only American and the only non- boarding student, never really ON the team. You would have to have seen his pain when as a "senior" he practiced whole-heartedly (thinking it was his last chance) but never got to even put on a uniform, let alone play in a game, and when the team went to nationals he was one of the two or three regulars (out of 20-some) who got left behind. In spite of playing almost daily, and being pretty naturally athletic (his father's genes, not mine), the only opportunity in his whole life he's had to be on an organized team and play in competition was in 2nd grade when we were doing our MPH's in Baltimore. He was the star way back then, but most of his life since then the predominant message he's had from sports is that he's not quite good enough. You would also have to know how important sports were in his dad's life, and how much he's longed to taste of that experience. You would have to have seen him continue to practice with Alex, the CSB coach now, even when he was no longer a student there, and with Ashley, who was captain of her college team and gave him great instruction this summer. And you would have to imagine how as a new kid at a school among many who have spent most of their lives together, being on a team could help one feel connected. So with all that in mind we rejoice that he was selected. He was told that this year was one of the most competitive ever . . . 60-70 high school boys started tryouts, but only two (JV and Varsity) 15-man squads were chosen, with preference to seniors. He was so worried that he would not be one of the players. And sadly both his room mate and the boy across the hall whom he has gotten to know a bit, did not make the team, which is awkward for Luke and sad for both of them. So we are grateful, but humble, knowing that Luke's gain is tempered by representing loss for others. We thank you for praying.

(P.S. - the photo of Luke above was taken by his dorm parent (Troy Gallagher) during the tryout period at RVA.)

Fragments gathered

Before Luke left, I completed a quilt for his bed, the scraps and fragments of our life pulled together to make a colorful whole. Included were pieces from old clothes we have worn out with use, former and current couch cushions and curtains, as well as familiar patterns from the market. I hope it reminds him that what seems shattered and disconnected can be arranged creatively into something more beautiful. . . .and that the re-arranged realities of the past continue to cover and protect and comfort as we move into the future.

Scott has posted a flicker set of pictures taken around the RVA campus, for those who have never been and would like some context (click from sidebar).

The Paradox of Giving

In church this morning the first reading was from 2 Cor 9:  

But this I say:  He who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and he who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.  So let each one give as he purposes in his heart, not grudgingly or of necessity; for God loves a cheerful giver. . . . Now may He who supplies seed to the sower, and bread for food, supply and multiply the seed you have own and increase the fruits of your righteousness . . .

The pastor is doing a series on giving, and we were meant to hear these words as we give up the precious possession of an intact family, of daily interaction with our son.  It struck me that "seed" often refers to progeny in the Bible, as in "Abraham's seed".  And like Abraham, we sometimes are called to offer that seed, to throw it far not knowing what will happen.  When Jonah died we were drawn to the John 12 passage about the seed going into the ground and bearing fruit, which we are seeing already from his life and death.  In this passage the focus is more on the one who sows, promising that abundance will flow from giving away.  The paradox:   filling coming from emptying; life coming from deaths literal and figurative; good flowing from sorrow; the sowers going forth in tears and returning in joy (Psalm 126).

Well, I haven't been the most cheerful giver this week, though I know God understands.  I was also thinking during the service that the passage leaves much to the individual, to decide what is to be given.  I do not believe God ever called us to send our kids to boarding school before now.  What He asks of one family He may not ask of another.  I was praying with another missionary recently and she commented that we missionaries sometimes assume that God calls us to give up dreams that may be good, that we over-sacrifice.  It would be easy to err in either direction:  denying ourselves good things when the sacrifice merely makes us feel self-righteous; or claiming good things that we should lay aside for better.  No easy formulas dictate where the balance lies for any person or family, it is a walk by faith, a daily laying down of life, a daily sowing of the seed and waiting for the harvest.

Back Home, at least some of us

It is an ill wind that blows no good . . . I was explaining this saying to my kids, sort of the idea that some good for someone comes out of most problems. It reminds me of the rainbow that appears only in the rain, good and hope and beauty which arise in suffering, which we had spectacular example of in Kijabe (see above). A prime real-life example would be today's travel. Our truck has been having difficulty starting for some time, and the cold air and high altitudes of Kenya made this issue even more urgent. So we left it with the Land Rover doctor in Kampala, a trusted mechanic, for diagnosis and treatment (he suspects a major overhaul will be necessary to re-bore  the pistons) and flew back to Bundi today on a Caravan with Ashley and Sarah. Now it is 5 pm, the time we would normally be jostling into town, dusty and exhausted after 8 hours on the road. Instead we soared over the uneven terrain at a smooth 10 thousand feet (we ascended briefly to a mind-tingling 15 thousand but the clouds prevented a pass over the peaks so we dropped back down to the usual pass), and were lovingly received by the team only an hour after we left Kampala, with a lunch at Pierces and time to hang out and debrief and tell stories of our time apart. Now the food is unpacked and the fridge beginning to get cold, the laundry in piles, the trunks opened, and the tedious process of settling back into life has already begun.

I am grateful for the easy final leg of this trip, the respite from the road, after many many hours and jolts to and from Kenya. We are physically and emotionally spent. Driving away from Luke as he stood watching us leave under a tree at RVA was perhaps one of the low points of our life (and we've had a few lows, so that is saying something). We were all crying, and it was all rain and no rainbow at that moment. I am now dully sad, and Scott is beginning to recover, but watching him as a father part from his first-born son was brutal. We all (even Luke) still believe it was the right step. But it was a hard one. We are particularly anxious about his soccer try-outs which have proceeded daily this week. Like most boys who grow up in Africa, Luke loves the game. He is not alone. There are still over 50 boys trying to fill the 15 JV and 15 Varsity spots. The opportunity to be on a team was a huge factor in his desire to give boarding school a try. We of little faith feel the parental angst of wanting this good thing for our child and fearing it will be denied, and the ambiguity that if he makes the team someone else's kid won't.

And all this sorrow comes in the context of a year of goodbyes. Many readers of our blog have also been following the blog of Dan and Nancy Macha, missionary colleagues in WHM. Nancy died of breast cancer in Philadelphia as we arrived at RVA, and her funeral was held as we drove away. I suppose the terrible finality of that parting should put ours into perspective, and it does to some extent. But both are reminders that this world goes not well, that things are not quite right, that the separation which began when Adam and Eve hid in the garden plagues us to this day. Whether it is for a school term or half a life-time, we grieve the loss of fellowship, of joy, of presence when we part from those we love. Both partings may not have happened, or at least been delayed, if we were not walking this difficult road of mission. And again, both remind me that it is one thing to accept the cost for ourselves, but quite another to accept it for Luke who now lives in a dorm instead of a home, or for the Macha kids who now have no mother to turn to on earth.

So here we are, back in Bundibugyo, relieved to be home but slightly uneasy and guilty that we should feel the respite of resettling without a sixth of our family. And a hundred times a day our thoughts turn eastward, feeling the weight of the almost three solid days of travel that lay between us. We need the memory of the rainbow.