Goats and Goodbye

As we leave, a reminder of the Christmas Goat project (several posts
below, scroll down). The email address for Ginny Barnette was
incorrectly typed, sorry, remove that third "t" if you want to contact
her! May your Advent Season be full of dreams of goats as you
meditate on the coming of Jesus.

To the Mountaintop

God calls His people away to the mountains regularly. There Moses
encountered the trailing brilliance of His glory, there he and Aaron
prayed for victory as the battle raged below. Jesus brought his
followers there at least once to encounter His shining face in a new
way, and went there often Himself just to withdraw and renew.

In a couple of hours we are heading for the mountains that have formed
the backdrop of our daily life for more than fifteen years. We will
spend the next seven to eight days hiking a high alpine circuit of
Rwenori wilderness, hopefully some of us will be reaching glacier-
covered Margarita Peak on Mt. Stanley, Africa's third highest, 16,700
feet. Jack, Julia, and probably I will opt to remain at base camp on
that day, but we're hoping to have the strength and endurance for the
rest of the trek. Scott and Luke did a similar trip three years ago,
thought they chose Mt. Speke instead. Ashley and Nathan are joining
our family, so preparing the food, gear, medicine, shoes, pots,
sleeping bags, etc. for 8 for over a week in a place where we can
access NOTHING but water . . . is a daunting task that Scott has
tackled. Right now it is all in duffle bags in our front room, to be
loaded and carried to our starting point today, so we can begin
tomorrow.

We would appreciate prayer. First, that we get away from the grief and
pressure of life and find rest in the peace of nature and the
fellowship of our family. Second, that we experience God in His glory
as we climb. And third, for safety, health, no falls, no altitude
sickness.

It is never easy to leave this place, and we are probably in the midst
of an influenza outbreak. But Luke has longed for this adventure all
year, and it has become very clear to me that our window of our kids'
teen years is small and closing. So we are off, to the mountains,
together.

Remembering Dr. Jonah Kule 1966-2007

One year ago today, a doctor from the CDC called to tell us that our friend Jonah Kule had died at Mulago hospital. Though we were in the midst of trauma and tragedy here in Bundibugyo, I could not believe the news. I remember sobbing, then making phone calls to other people in Kampala, thinking there must have been some mistake. Since the CDC had more information than anyone else, his relatives remained convinced that Jonah was still alive, and we were not sure who to believe. It was night time, dark, our phones work best outside, so there we stood, talking. Scott Will and Bhiwa joined us, and I remember the overwhelming thought that this does not make sense, not Jonah. Finally we could not avoid any longer the reality, he was really dead, and I called to tell his wife, whom a few days earlier I had personally told of his hospital admission and helped along her way to Kampala to be near him, never thinking then that it would really turn out to be Ebola. We went to bed, not sleeping, wondering how many days until one of us would also succumb. Everything we had worked for seemed to be crumbling in those hours. Our friend had died, alone, in an isolation tent, surrounded by fear. We were not at his side as we would have wished, though Scott made many visits to the only other Bundibugyo doctor, Dr. Sessanga, who was self-quarantined in his home fighting ebola too. Those were among the worst days of our lives, living on a sharp edge of stress and uncertainty and sadness. Jonah's body was brought back to the district by a special transport, while we waited with his family. He was buried along with three other health care workers who died that same week, on the grounds of the hospital. The fear was so great that no one but us and his family and a few health workers attended, no choirs, no pastors, few neighbors and friends. Scott stood by the space-suited MSF burial team with their frightening boots and garb and detoxifying sprays, and read from John 12: unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it bears no fruit, but if it dies it brings forth fruit a hundred fold. Those were words of sheer faith at that moment.

Now, a year later, we had the kind of memorial service we could not have at the peak of the epidemic. I went down to the family home this morning, and one look at baby Jonah sent me into tears. I'm thankful that I was able to have a good cry with Melen at home before we faced the official ceremonies. We proceeded to Bundibugyo in five vehicles, each carrying and assortment of family, team, and friends. There we congregated at All Saints Church of Uganda, for a great service. The Archdeacon read from 2 Timothy 4 and talked about leadership, integrity, sacrifice. He called Jonah "a man among men." Scott also spoke about the Biblical theme of remembrance, remembering Jonah's sacrifice as well as his life. The Resident District Commissioner, the highest ranking government official in the district, came without retinue or pretense, carrying his Bible, saying he wanted to participate in honoring Dr. Jonah. There were a hundred or so others, including a nurse who survived Ebola and Dr. Sessanga who also survived. It was a solemn but worshipful time, and we were included in the bereaved who were specifically prayed for, kneeling on the hard cement of the church floor.

But the most poignant and beautiful aspect of the service: Baby Jonus was baptized, taking the official name Jonus Gift Muhindo. Jonus, for his father Jonah, a living picture and remembrance of a great man. Gift, because he was a beautiful and unexpected gift to us all, especially Melen who had longed for a son after 5 beautiful girls, and had to wait until her husband was dead to receive that gift. And Muhindo, which translates as change, because he is a boy in a family of girls, a smiling and honored family member passed lovingly from hand to hand. I leant them the very outfit that Luke wore for Christmas when he was the same age as Baby Jonus, our first few months in Uganda. The red velvet also appeared on Caleb when he was baptized (because it was the only fancy boy baby outfit we owned) with Jonah and Melen's daughter Biira; we had no family to attend that event but celebrated with Jonah's family afterwards. And Jack wore it too, at his baptism. It was special for me to see Jonah's son baptized, in the same outfit.

As the service drew towards its completion, the weeks of hot dry weather ended with a downpour, as if God Himself wept. In Africa rain symbolizes blessing, so it was a dramatic climatic evidence of God's favor upon this day. We had to sing extra songs as the entire congregation waited for the rain to end. Then we processed to the hospital for a final graveside service, the entire congregation singing as we slowly walked a kilometer through town, past the shops and restaurants, offices and taxis, everyone respectfully silent, watching, aware. At the grave Dr. Sessanga spoke, then more prayers and presentation of flowers, the four tombs lined up as concrete reminders of the way that this disease targeted the very people who most sought to alleve its suffering.

We are grateful for the milestone of remembering Dr. Jonah, his friendship, his service, his courage, his death. And of affirming the continuing life of his family, his daughters, his wife, his tiny smiling son, who will never meet his own father until Heaven, who smiled and played with his aunt's earrings and his own shoe, who slept snoring in my arms, blissfully unaware of the grief and loss of the day. A year brings the first measure of healing, and in spite of shaking sobs in each others' arms this morning, I caught Melen smiling at her baby this evening. Grief and life, tears and thankfulness, all mingle tonight.

Life, a Wednesday interlude

Two of our closest Ugandan friends died this past year, Dr. Jonah in December and our neighbor John Mukidi in May.  Both were men we met within days of our arrival in Uganda in 1993.  Both were the kind of people who would be genuinely concerned for our welfare, who would share meals and life, who would advise and listen, who would include us in their family celebrations, and we included them in ours.  This kind of friendship is rare, particularly cross-culturally, and we lost much as they died.  And though they died months apart, from very different causes, both are having major remembrances this week.  Yesterday was the second death rite for John Mukidi, his oluku, the official end to the period of mourning, as he takes his place as an ancestor.  And tomorrow we will head to Bundibugyo Town's main protestant church for a memorial service for Dr. Jonah.

So in between those two events, today, we had an interlude devoted to life rather than death.  Mukidi was from the generation preceding us, Jonah was our peer, and now we are left looking to the next generation.  We celebrated the 14th birthday of our friend Ivan, a boy who has found his way into our hearts and lives as our kids' friend (Jack's best friend).  His mother left him to re-marry after his father's life crashed around alcoholism, and when he's not at our house he lives with his young uncle in a small room behind a commercial clinic in Nyahuka.  By God's grace this boy has maintained humor and perseverance and hope in the face of a chaotic and disappointing life.  Tonight we cooked a great meal, and sat by candlelight under the bougainvillea, with a sparkling candle on the cake and a few simple gifts.  The moment of focus, of specialness and appreciation, does not come often in most kids' lives here.  Ivan has been a great gift to our family.  Tonight was no exception, sandwiched by mourning we exhaled for this evening of celebration, the affirmation of ongoing relationship and a new generation of hope.

Laying to Rest

Our neighbor John Mukidi died on the 19th of May, just before we made it back from our short sabbatical. He was 78, and held on much longer than we thought possible in the face of cancer, heart failure, a hip fracture, hypertension. For almost 15 years he had been a presence of wisdom and whole-hearted belief in us, the kind of fatherly pride that we needed as we learned our way into the culture. I will always remember him in the first days of the ADF, strolling into our yard wrapped in only his kitengi from sleeping, the sun filtering into a new day and all of us breathing a sigh of relief that we had made it through the night. In the later years we made middle-of-the night runs to his bedside, administering that last boost of lasix that would pull him along for another month, or two, or more. We ate many, many meals there, or just came to sit on the porch and greet. His son John is one of our kids' good friends, and a boy whom we have taken on responsibility to sponsor.

Today his spirit was honored by a meal in which those close to him came to eat at his home, a final closure on the period of mourning. His older son Simon, has now become the head of the family, somehow symbolized by this ceremony today. The chairman LC5 showed up at today's festivities, in honor if Mukikid's status as an elder and of his step-son Sangayo's status in local government. The clan choir of men alternating with the church-ish choir of girls alternated loudly ALL NIGHT, right up until dawn. Then they rested a few hours and at noon it all started up again, stomping, dust, gyrating, call and response song. We were ushered into a room to eat, and then to the newly-cemented grave to watch the dancers and take photos. The sight of slight, young John, becoming a man, with his mother and stepmother and sisters, standing by the grave, made me teary. But no one was really crying, the mood was upbeat.

The mourning is over, at least officially. This is a week steeped in memories, and their weight pulls me down, weary.

Christmas Carols to Olukus

Tonight our team gathered for pizza and down time after the long AIDS Day.  Nathan started playing the guitar, and we all drifted into singing Christmas Carols around the piano, a pretty amazing experience.  We are small in numbers, but both of our men can SING and Sarah breaks regularly into angelic descants.  God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen was drawing to a close as we heard clapping and flutes out on the road, and then all sorts of wildness erupting next door.  So we flowed out of our house and gathered in my neighbors' yard.  Tomorrow they will celebrate the "Final Rites" for the late John Mukiddi.  Because he was an old man and respected elder when he died, they have waited months to make a big deal of the final ceremony which rests his spirit.  The process began after dark (days start at sunset) as his clan members paraded up the road and began to dance.  About two dozen men, some shirtless, danced around the open fire, their shadows wavering against the wall of the house. Each carried a single-tone flute which they blow in a very distinctive rhythm and four-tone pattern, swaying and jumping, while two men beat waist-high drums right by the fire. The individuals were blurred in the shadowy darkness and the drifting smoke, the line an organism in itself.   Our whole team watched for about an hour.  How many people in 2008, I thought, wander next door and witness authentic traditional dance and music in an under-the stars  not-for-tourists ceremony?  Well, I guess lots of Africans do, but not many outsiders.

The down side is, that to truly honor Mukiddi and protect the rest of the family, they will keep this up ALL NIGHT a few yards from our bedroom.  And remember that we live practically outdoors anyway, screens and no glass, no sound barriers.  It is now 10 pm and the flute-playing men have given way to a teenage choir singing at double pace and double volume every Lubwsis song we've ever heard in church complete with pounding drums and whooping women and shrill whistles.  Think pep rally.  The crowd increases hour by hour, and we are weary.  I think we may go down and sleep by the cows, which I suppose is in the Christmas spirit.

One Life, One Wife

Dec 1--World AIDS Day. Where else can one see pygmies dancing with flutes and feathers and bells? For the first time in two years, Bundibugyo managed to pull off the official celebration on the actual day. The ceremonies started FOUR HOURS late, but at least it was still Dec 1. It was a classic official function: UNICEF tents and plastic chairs, dusty heat, milling people, everyone waiting and wondering when it would really start, coming and going, bustling organizers, hot cokes, an intermittently working sound system, schools and dance troupes waiting on the sidelines, ridiculously late arrival by the "big men", the nagging sense that no one really WANTED to be there, the three circling mentally ill men who occasionally hassled presenters and whom no one dared to confront. There were a few innovations. Save the Children put together some educational games, people played with bottle caps and dice. Pat's Peer Educator Groups offered HIV counseling and testing on the spot. Once the ceremonies got under way, a half dozen HIV positive people stood up and gave testimonies of the normalcy and health of their life, of thriving on treatment. This was followed by a primary school where girls in grass skirts danced suggestively with miniature boys, bizarrely counter-message, while singing songs with lyrics along the lines of "AIDS has finished our lives, AIDS is a terrible disease, AIDS is taking our children, we are sick." I found the paradox of the messages interesting: do not fear and discriminate, we people living with AIDS are just like you, we are healthy, we have children, we are OK. And: AIDS is fatal, AIDS ends your life, be careful, don't get AIDS. Both messages are true, and necessary, the first to combat discrimination, and the second to soberly warn against promiscuity. Like many true things in life, they both need to be said, loudly, with music and dance and color and vigor.

Scott's speech was filled with data on HIV in Uganda and in Bundibugyo, acknowledging the good news on progress in treatment and stability of  prevalence in Africa over the past few years, but then challenging everyone to realize that a steady prevalence in an area with a doubling population means twice as many AIDS patients. He quoted  a professor from Uganda from the Lancet: "We can not treat ourselves out of AIDS."  Meaning that access to medication will not stop the epidemic without changes in behaviour. And he ended with the "One Life, One Wife" campaign, modeled on the national bird which pairs exclusively, the Crested Crane. Preaching monogamy in Bundibugyo is a bit like preaching the holiness of poverty in Northern Virginia, it is a counter-cultural message that seems to deny people the very thing of value towards which they work: progeny. But our prayer is that in a safe and exclusive relationship they will discover the truth, that love lasts longer than multiplicity. I find it interesting that though the Uganda campaign for ABC: Abstinence, Be Faithful, Use Condoms, could be seen as an attempt to change culture .. . the practical outworking of the public health party today was to preserve culture, giving a forum to traditional dance and song and language.

Someday a World AIDS Day will not be necessary. Meanwhile the dust will fly from the stomping of belled legs, the skirts will swish, the heads will nod, the drums will throb, as another celebration draws to a close, and we hope that a good percentage of the onlookers go home challenged if not yet changed.

Angels' Desire

The angels, I am certain, were hovering around Bundimulinga church
this morning in an expectant shimmer of trembling mystery, desiring to
look in (1 Pet 1). Suffering and glory and faith tested by fire,
these are the beauties which angels are said to marvel over, and which
have been improbably encased in the mess of human stories. This
morning's service was long (and felt longer because we were awakened
at 5 am by an emergency call, woman in labor bleeding to death, come
quickly . . . but by the time Scott got down there the woman had
amazingly delivered a healthy baby and both survived. Good news but
little sleep). And today's service was hot. Very hot. Dry season
is here in full shining force. Luke is longing for the coolness of
Kenya, sweating through his shirt without even moving. There was a
fundraiser for the choir to buy uniforms which generated an hour of
auctioning off the various gifts people donated: mostly sugar cane
stalks, pumpkins, oranges . . . but also one very small live white
rabbit in a cardboard box (went for 2,000 shillings) and one brand new
bright yellow Kwejuna Project T shirt donated by Scott (by far the
most popular item, went for 12,500 shillings!!). There was the usual
singing and sermons, greetings and announcements, and we were
admittedly tired and less than comfortable. But the show-stopper of
the day was the testimony time. A primary school head teacher, who
looked familiar to me but whom I do not really know, stood up front
with his Bible, and proceeded to give the most beautiful testimony of
repentance I have ever seen in any church. He began by saying that
though he had become a Christian in 1992, he felt he was truly being
born again today. He read several Scriptures to show that he needed
to repent to God, to the church, to his children, and to his wife.
Then instead of the vague "If I have done you any wrong please forgive
me" kind of weak semi-repentance, he boldly told his story, saying
that he had pursued two extra-marital sexual relationships over the
last few years, and describing the terrible impact on his wife, and on
his life. He actually got down on his knees, and his wife came up
front, and when he asked for her forgiveness she granted it. The
elders came forward and prayed for both of them, and their young
child. Bhiwa hugged the man so hard he lifted him off his feet, and
the women in the congregation were cheering they were so amazed. When
it was all over the wife stayed up and asked if she could sing. She
was too overcome to speak, but she stood in front of the church and
sang solo a song about Jesus on the cross while a tear rolled down her
cheek. Then in the prayer request time three other men stood up, none
with specific repentances like this but all three asking the church to
pray that they would be convicted by the Spirit and change as this man
had!

I can say that in many years of going to church, what we saw today was
very,very rare. We enter this season of Advent looking for Jesus, and
today I think we had a glimpse of His reality and presence. This is
what the angels long to witness, the birth of the baby and the battle
being won, the defeat of sin and the power of healing. Pray for
Vincent and Jane, for the long process of rebuilding trust and forging
a real marriage from these broken pieces.

Christmas Goat Giving

We are so thankful for more than 100 families who received dairy goats in 2008, funded by the generosity of our friends and supporters in America.  Once again this year we are offering the Give-a-Goat opportunity.  For $130 we can purchase and transport a specially bred dairy goat here in Uganda, train a family in its care, give them a few tools for constructing a simple shed, and then allow them to take the goat home.  Thanks to this project, many children who otherwise would have starved, can thrive—drinking the calories and protein they need.  Most of our recipients are babies whose mothers have died, or whose mothers are infected with HIV/AIDS and therefore need to wean them from potentially infectious breast milk. 

Your donation is a gift to a family which is about as close as one can come in 2008 to that of the homeless and wandering parents of the infant Jesus, living on a slim margin of survival.  The first 100 donors will receive a hand-made African Christmas tree ornament which symbolizes the real gift of the goat.  Please put it on your tree to remind you that Christmas is all about incarnation:  love in bodily form, God becoming human and needing milk, your generosity translating into a real live animal and its milk.

The mechanics:

1.     Use the "Give-a-Goat" button on our sidebar (or at www.whm.org) to donate by credit card.  This is the simplest and fastest method, and allows our colleague Ginny Barnette in the Sending Center to quickly confirm your donation and address and mail you the ornament.  Here is the direct link : http://whm.org/project/details?ID=12375

2.     Send a check to WHM Donation Processing Center, P.O. Box 1244, Albert Lea, MN 56007-1244, writing "Goat Fund  12375" on the memo line.  Since the processing and return of the information to Ginny could take a couple of weeks, you may want to email her (GBarnettte@whm.org) in order to be sure you receive the ornament before Christmas. 

3.     If you would like the ornament mailed to a DIFFERENT address than the one on your credit card or check, you must also communicate this to Ginny.  A card will be included with each goat describing the program.

 

Four Thanksgivings

Four more things for which I give THANKS: Luke, the loyal-- He touched down on the airstrip today with his mop of 3-months-away-from-home thick hair and his ever-taller frame, giving hugs and receiving the enthusiastic greetings of family and team.  His first term grades show us that in spite of his peculiar and patchy education, he had managed to learn something and can hold his own in an American system, though in some classes the teachers commented that it took time for him to adjust.  We got to read a children's illustrated story he wrote for Creative Writing class (about Hasty the Chameleon), and see a 99% grade on his BC Calculus final.  His photo and graphic design were chosen for the invitations to his class's major social event in February, the Senior Banquet.  He's growing up, in full-term spurts that are all the more evident by his absence. Caleb, the healed one--I am thankful for quiet healing.  In a nothing-short-of miraculous way, he is suddenly growing.  For those who have known us, you may remember that Caleb suffered serious illness from chronic gastroenteritis during his first two years of life in Uganda, and completely stopped growing for a while.  After a major Hopkins work-up including intestinal and liver biopsies and growth hormone testing, the conclusion was that he was just like most African kids, preserving his life and his brain at the expense of the rest of his body in a sea of sickness.  So we settled in for a life of shortness, as he re-set from being a huge baby to a slight child.  Suddenly, though, he's growing.  On Thanksgiving Day we measured:  5 feet 7 and 1/4 inches, taller than me, pretty much exactly where Luke was at the same age, leaving the 10th percentile way behind and closing in on the 90th.  I thank God for this amazing gift of healing. Julia, the brave-- Yesterday Julia and Acacia took Wibble the goat back to his pen at the Massos after our rodeo.  Suddenly Acacia cried out, Julia, come, help. A baby goat named, somewhat confusingly, Cow, had fallen into the Masso's trash pit and could not get out.  Trash pits in Africa are not nice places.  I have never actually been IN one, and never hope to be.  But the goat was in trouble and her friend was distressed, so Julia climbed down into the hole dug deep for trash, lifted the little goat named Cow, and managed to push him up and out.  Our heroine, the shepherdess. Jack, young Abe--Also at our party last night, Barbara had the idea of asking Jack to recite the Gettysburg address.  He had memorized it for school this year, and reminded us of the values that make us proud to celebrate Thanksgiving. Bravely he stood in front of the crowd of 29 and delivered the famous speech.  Jack has had a tough year, the youngest in the school, injured and unable to play sports, desperately missing his brother.  It was good to see him able to speak, to laugh, to gnaw on his turkey leg with his friend Ivan by his side, to dazzle us all with his articulate rendering of the address. These are four amazing kids, I know I'm not objective, but today I just want to be thankful for them.