Redemption

Wending through gardens and homesteads on a path barely wide enough for our motorcycle, Scott and I made our way to a pre-wedding "introduction" ceremony this afternoon. In the old days, this would have been a smaller and more impromptu negotiation between the families for exchanging women (to marry used to require giving a sister or other close female relative to the bride's brothers in exchange for her!) or later for paying the goat bride price. In the last few years, with influence from Baganda culture, it has morphed into a full-scale party which rivals the wedding for preparation and expense. The groom's delegation comes to the bride's home, bearing a pre-negotiated load of gifts. His relatives and the brides sit in the yard under temporary pole and tarp shelters, made festive with balloons and the ubiquitous decorating material: toilet paper. All the neighbors are there too, easily a hundred people or more, anyone who helped contribute to the inflated budget or who is attracted to the blaring tinny music or who wants a peek at the fun. There is much good-natured jesting and verbal riposte around a dramatic search for the right girl. The bride's family will parade out 3 to 5 young women at a time, often with sparkling chiffon wraps over their heads and faces, and he will have to decide if one of the hidden women is the right one. Once that is settled, the gifts are presented and evaluated. In today's case two very good looking goats were brought, and let me say the people of Bundibugyo are all about goats. The first was passed but the second, which was trailing twin kids, caused a lot of flurry and argument. Proverbs were exchanged in a witty way, until finally the bride's family accepted the supposedly sub-standard goat with the addition of some money. Marriage is more than the formalization of a passion, clearly there is a large element of the pragmatic, of money and family and loyalty and alliance, of survival. We did not stay through the whole ceremony.

The day reminded me of a picture of redemption. Today's bride was a school girl some years ago whom I wept over, a girl who ran away after being abused by a teacher, who dropped out of sight while she bore a child. Improbably, there she was, dressed in white, with styled hair and her strikingly beautiful face, being received into the family of a Congolese bishop. Those goats were for her, a symbol of her value. Her lost education, her stubborn refusal to implicate the father of the child, her abrupt graduation into the maturity of motherhood as she continues to raise the little boy . . all were forgotten in this day. Straight out of Hosea, a concrete picture of our hearts, loved by God not because we are innocent but because we are we.

J and J's NFTA part 4: Coming Home

After our last game, I treated the girls to cold sodas as they shared their last lunch of posho and beans. They rolled up the mattresses, collected the cleats and balls, crammed their sheets and skirts into their small suitcases. And then, incredibly, in an intricate process involving a lot of twine, 27 people (team, chaperones, coach, cook, driver, and conductor), stock for someone's business including 50 kg bags of flour and 20 L jerry cans of oil, 10 mattresses, and everything else, piled onto a very small pick-up truck. Eunice and I, as the only two over 40, were given the honor of sitting in the cab. And the responsibility to hold everyone's bags of bread, tomatoes, bananas, extra coats, the soccer balls donated to the team, a thermos, and who knows what else. We were packed, which was good because then the jostle of the road did not bounce us too far out of place, we were so weighed down. We had a personable and careful driver, Sam, and I only felt real concern when we stopped to rearrange once and the horrible smokey acrid odor of burning brakes floated in the window. This is a steep and winding no-guard-rails kind of road, not one to be undertaken without the ability to stop.

Usually, when we drive into Bundibugyo, our kids pave a way of good will. They wave to any and all, and most people wave back. They anticipate seeing their dog and their friends. They are happy, and it is contagious.

So it was very striking to me to enter the district disguised among the CSB team. Though the girls were in uniform, and singing, almost NO ONE greeted them. I expected the same smiles and waves my kids get. I hoped for a sense that these girls had represented the district, and were appreciated. Instead I saw only glares or indifference. The spirit of jealousy was palpable. The people on the road side were not glad for these girls, they were envious. Then it got worse: we ran into a mob. Men who had done a minimal work to fill a pot-hole had barricaded the road. As we rolled to a stop they aggressively rolled large boulders right up under the bumper of the truck, and shouted for money, waving a panga and pick-axe. One even wore a CSB t-shirt . . but did they care this was the team? No, they wanted money. A couple of dozen onlookers merely watched the drama, not offering any help. The driver of our truck refused to pay, and the mood became tense and ugly, until Eunice decided that we were in danger of being stoned, and paid them off herself. The driver told us later that he spends 20,000 shillings each way paying off the traffic police at every road block, and had no more money to pay this impromptu group of thugs! I was shocked. Our status has protected us, and if we had been in our recognizable truck we would have been waved on through. But this time I got to see the hostility that people pour out on each other.

Envy and aggression, the further we went the more heavy-hearted I became for our home. Bundibugyo is a place of spiritual darkness, still. Glimpses of glory, yes, in the girls and their opportunity, but these are flickers in a sea of shadow. Lord have mercy.

J and J's NFTA part 3: Cultural Immersion

When Julia and I arrived in Fort Portal, I really had no idea what to expect. But as we jumped off a taxi-pick-up and entered the campus of the girls' school housing all the teams, we were met with a warm welcome as the girls on the CSB team yelled "Julia, you're here!" and ran to hug her and carry our bags. Our team of 20 girls and one chaperone was housed on one half of a sturdy cement dorm: a dozen metal frame bunk beds and a roof, and a nearby pit latrine. Everything else: mattresses, sheets, plastic bowls, cups, sacks of corn meal and beans, firewood, jerry cans for water, kitengis for towels, soap, basins, salt, sugar, etc. had been brought from our school. As we milled about greeting the excited team, anticipating the first match the next morning, they invited us to stay. And so we did. At first I thought, let's see if we can make it one night. By the end I realized, this is a rare privilege.

Sure, the wafting odor of urine and garbage from the congested latrines was unpleasant for all of us. It was a challenge to bathe with a gallon of cold water in an outdoor tin stall. We improved our eat-with-your-fingers from shared bowls skills. I resorted to asking teachers at schools we played to plug my phone in to recharge the battery, a luxury I had previously taken for granted. We washed out clothes by hand with our little ration of water. And since Julia and I borrowed mattresses from the Chedesters, we each had a bed, while the girls slept two to a mattress on the bottom bunks, using the top as a storage shelf. But as the days wore on, none of that seemed very consequential.

Instead I marveled to witness the way 22 of us functioned as a single organism, everything shared. Once they settled down for the night, almost no one stirred. Then between 5:30 and 6 someone would wake, and all would begin to get up, opening the creaking metal door to creep out to the cho in the morning darkness, pulling on shirts and shoes for dawn training. Each day began and ended with the harmonizing voices of the girls singing from their beds, and then a short meditation and prayer. As the dorm emptied the chaperone, counselor Eunice, and I would relax with our Bibles watching the sun paint brilliant pinks across the cow pastures below us. When the girls returned we sipped cups of thick hot posho porridge, and divided up gear for the games. With 5 games in 6 days there was a lot of down time: reading, hearing stories, getting to know Eunice who is delightful. Time to reflect, and pray, time away from normal responsibilities and the distracting burden of possessions. Julia had brought along scrabble tiles and a card game called 5 crowns, and quickly taught groups of girls to play each, so that she became the main instigator of entertainment. The team captain, the only girl who is in the Senior 6 class on the team, was in my cell group Bible study for her first few years, but most of the other girls I did not know very well. I began to learn their names, and listen and watch and absorb more about life for a teenage girl in Bundibugyo. They talk about boys, They talk about spirits who have disturbed their families. They talk about worries that their aunt will no longer be able to pay fees. They sing. They giggle. A lot.

So much of our life involves being different, being on the outside. So the gift of going undercover so to speak, was a precious one. I went from feeling doubt, to feeling some pride (!) in "coping up", to wondering why I shouldn't cope since we are all human beings.

On the 5th day we learned abruptly that our game had been delayed until the 6th day . . . meaning Julia and I would miss a ride home to Bundibugyo with Scott, meaning one day longer away than I had geared up for by then. I complained, quite a bit, wanting the whole schedule to work out more conveniently for me. But the Spirit convicted me (quickly, one of the advantages of praying for revival and repentance). Was I pretending to live by faith, or really trusting? I confessed my attitude to Eunice. That turned out to be one of the best days of all, lots of time to listen and visit. God was giving us a gift, and I almost didn't take it, like Mary at the tomb missing the whole beauty of the situation in the disappointment of my expectations.

Who would have thought that living in a dorm of 22 with nothing much more than a sleeping bag and a few books would be a real vacation?

J and J's National Football Tournament Adventure, part 2: the games

The Ugandan Ministry of Education and Sports organizes a number of yearly competitions, football (soccer), volleyball, netball, as well as music and drama, and scouting. After watching "War Dance" I was eager to see one of these events, and after a week at the National Football Tournament I'm an even bigger believer in their value. Coca- Cola sponsors the boys' football, but the girls' national gathering is relatively new. This was the first year they tried to hold both the boys' and girls' tournaments in the same town at the same time: 80 boys' teams and 26 girls' teams, with their retainers of coaches, chaperones, cooks, and drivers, probably easily two to three thousand Ugandans, Julia, and me (and one other American, a peace corps volunteer who was coaching a team). We arrived just as the impressive lady in charge was screening all of the players to be sure they were legitimate students . . . and though she was surprised to see Julia, she accepted her papers and welcomed her in.

The girls' teams were organized in four groups of 6 to 7 teams each, so that each school could expect five games as they played the others in their group for the first round. Since our team had only played ONE GAME EVER, we knew this would be great experience! As one might imagine, housing four to five hundred girls at one school and well over a thousand boys at another, scheduling dozens of matches a day using pitches all over town, providing referees and line judges . . . was a monumental task done in daily meetings, with no computers, just posters and charts and markers. Fluid schedules were the order of the day. But the officiating was professionally done and the pitches were in excellent shape.

Our team came in 4th in our group of 6. Not bad for our first time out, especially considering that our group included the national champions for several years running, a team that had represented Uganda at the East African Championships. We tied one game, won one game, and lost three. In every game the girls played with strength and endurance and real heart. Even when they were behind they never gave up. I was extremely proud of them, knowing how new all of this was to them, yet seeing them gel as a team and fight for victory. Two of our losses were very close games in which we controlled the ball much of the time. Since Ashley had gone back to the US for the month, the boys' coach Alex served as coach for the games. He's a pleasant and respectful young man to begin with, and it was fun to see him really start to believe in the girls more and more as the week went on.

Julia played in the second half for three of the five games . . not bad for a 12 year old among girls who average 16-20. She held her own, well trained by her brothers, and had several completed passes, steals, and one good shot on goal. Interestingly her main value was probably spirit. Clearly when she came on the other team wondered who she was (I heard some girls query if she played for the Netherlands national team!), and the spectators reacted with cheers (and some jeers). I saw her laughing with the girls she guarded as she stuck close "marking" them. She had a blast.

All of the girls came away inspired to train hard for next year. They tasted a small dose of success, a precious draught in their lives. They interacted with girls from all over Uganda, different tribes and cultures and schools and backgrounds. They saw women confidently coaching and refereeing. They spent a week in a place much different from Bundibugyo, for many of them the first time to be so far away from home for so long. Back at the hospital yesterday I remarked that most of the young mothers of children on the pediatric ward were within the same age range as the girls on the football team. What a contrast, to be a 16 year old representing your school and district in a national tournament, wearing a uniform, running and playing, hearing applause . . . or to be a 16 year old cradling an ill child, education over, a husband who probably drinks and beats you, a mother-in-law who expects to be served by you, very little opportunity to be affirmed except in producing more children.

Three cheers for girls' sports.

Julia and Jennifer's National Football Tournament Adventure

. . . began with a bus ride. Which should not be so adventurous, except for the fact that public transportation is the most death- defying activity for an otherwise healthy foreigner in Africa. I had long clung to the safety of traveling in our own truck, with our own defensive driving, and I admit that in over 15 years of living here I had never braved the bus before (I know that makes me a wimp of a missionary . . . ). Our family had arrived in Kampala from Kenya a week ago on a Friday evening, and we knew that if Julia was to participate with her Christ School team mates in the Girls' National Football Tournament in Fort Portal, she and I would have to take the bus Saturday, parting ways with the guys who needed to stay and buy medicine and food and do all the usual Kampala errands. So we packed as little as possible in bags we could easily carry, and Scott dropped us off at a congested intersection in the heart of the city. I pretended to know where I was going to discourage the inevitable hustling offers of dubious guidance, which involved several confident but wrong paths shouldering through throngs of people in the market mazes before finding our way to a fenced lot full of buses. We paid our fees (about 6 dollars each) and were jostled onto the already full bus. The conductor wedged us into the back bench seat, with people blocking the window and the aisle, our bags on our laps and under our feet. I protested that Julia would surely throw up, but he cheerfully said, no problem, we'll hand her a caveela (plastic bag) to vomit in. Friendly passengers greeted us with "Obama, Obama", but after a few minutes I started to feel claustrophobia and mounting panic. I think it was probably a bit of an obnoxious thing to do, but I felt like I had to make and effort for my daughter. I offered two women nearer the door and a window a few dollars to change seats. They jumped at the chance, and we were all happy, them with pocket money and us with our own two-person bench and an open window!

First we filled up with 384 litres of fuel, which I calculated cost within ten dollars of the full amount one could collect from the 60 seats, so either the profit margin is very very small (basically the passengers over capacity), or that fuel must include the return trip. No wonder so little is spent on vehicle maintenance. No one budged from their hard-earned seat, but it would have been possible to buy anything from bottled water to socks, dictionaries, school books, gum, or a suit jacket from vendors who wiggled up and down the aisle. Finally we were off, peering over walls and into compounds and shops from the high vantage of the bus window, twisting and turning and bumping over the rough back ways of the city. Within a few minutes a small boy three rows behind us had thrown up all over himself and the floor, the stench of which made us even more thankful for the open window bringing air. Once we left the city limits we gathered speed, so there was a good breeze as the papyrus swamps and small villages flew by. A small TV mounted at the front played Ugandan music videos, with cheerful reggae rhythms and girls in scandalously skimpy clothes, a sharp contrast to the respectfully dressed passengers clutching their bags and holding on for dear life, or kids in their best suits heading to visit grandparents in the ancestral villages. At the half- way point we stopped for the swarm of fast-food street vendors to shove their meat kabobs, roasted cassava, or chapatis through the high windows. After that the bus stopped more frequently (which slowed our progress but in my opinion also improved our safety) until the aisles were also too full to accommodate any more people, chickens, boxes, or other items. A young woman with a baby struggled to balance beside us, but when I tried to hold the baby for her he began to cry, so she instead sat on the arm rest, practically in my lap.

And so we reached Fort Portal, amidst banners announcing the National Football Tournament. Our adventure had barely begun, and I was glimpsing some of the purpose of God in our lives: to dismantle a bit of the carefully constructed safety net we had accumulated, which after many years had become a barrier between us and Uganda.

On the Road Again

A cool evening breeze rustles the eucalyptus leaves on this ridge of
the Rift Valley where we have stopped for the night, at Sunrise Acres
Farms. We have found this cluster of four cabins, cows, wood stoves
and homemade jam, down-to-earth here-for-life missionary managers, the
most peaceful spot in Africa, at least for weary missionaries. It is
more than the homeyness of the quilts and shelves of old books; it is
a spiritual shalom that pervades this place. We are extremely
thankful for the ministry of the Stovers, and AIM, and for the hours
of respite we can spend this afternoon and evening before the long
journey back across the border tomorrow.

Because whenever we land here, it seems our souls need a bit of re-
raveling. Once again we leave Luke in one country as we rattle back
to the next one. He faces major SAT and AP exams in the next two
weeks, and beyond that the intimidating prospect of being a year away
from entering college on another continent. We met with two members
of the RVA admissions committee who were cautiously sober about
Caleb's chances of entering the 10th grade class in the Fall . . .he's
number 2 on the waiting list, but the class is already over-full and
there are no known openings. We're coming out of four days of fairly
intense prayer, discussion, meeting, and relationship, as we met with
the other three Africa teams and leaders (two Nairobi, one Sudan, and
us) and our Director of Ministries and CEO. We return to a three-
month stretch of ministry, visitors, interns, recruitment, fund-
raising, vision-ironing . . .too long for a sprint, but pretty close
to that pace, perhaps something like the 800 meter race. Before we
even get home there are uncertainties and errands and delays in
Kampala and Fort Portal, and we feel like we've already been on the
move for too long. Transition is inevitable, as we work with team
mates to discern their gifts and callings and try to help them be more
effective and resilient, as we respond to the ever-changing needs of
Bundibugyo, and as we pursue that cup of God's will that challenges
our trust.

And so we will hit the road as the sun rises again tomorrow, back to
the mix of comfort and cost that we call home, back to the heart-
stretching call to love.

Nairobi

When we are in Kampala, we sense the culture-shock amazement that our capital city is becoming more and more modern every month, and surely must be fairly equivalent to Nairobi by now. NOT SO. Two nights in Nairobi have left us reeling. It has been a long time (?years) and we'd forgotten how amazing the city is. Traffic, garbage, car- swallowing potholes, hustlers, and slums to be sure. But also schools on every side, gardens, skyscrapers, even malls. We wandered in a daze through a few of the stores, and sat sipping iced cappuccino with a burger and salad. Is this really still Africa?

But friends, not luxuries, drew us to Nairobi. We stayed with Bill and Stephanie, two amazing long-time kindred spirits, original members of our college (and post) "Africa Team", the group of committed colleague couples that kept us moving towards mission. They both have PhD's from Cambridge and after many years in Ethiopia now teach systematic theology and church history and Greek at the continent's premier graduate school of theology in Nairobi. They graciously welcomed us into their on-campus bungalow, to fill their guest room and crash Bill's 50th birthday celebration. With Paul, we reminisced about life at UVA and about our early years as missionaries and parents. It was a reunion in all the best senses, a re-affirmation of our common faith and vision and a safe place and time to reflect and be encouraged.

And between our two evenings with these friends, we spent a great day with team mate Pat. Breakfast at Java House (scrumptious), and a full- day exploration to find the most eccentric and artistic glass- recycling project, a Willy-Wonka-like kiln where artisans form glasses and vases from the remains of bottles, all surrounded by bizarre sculptures and a trailer-park feel in the midst of vast cattle-ranch plains south of the game park. Pat heads to the US for a short HMA, so we needed that day to catch up with her, and to dream together of how our Creator God wants us to reflect His artistic character in our Kingdom-work here. Surely creating beauty from scrap must fit in somewhere.

Nairobi must have dozens of interesting and successful art galleries, hundreds of self-help projects, not to mention more hundreds of NGO's and wonderful ideas and school opportunities and training, plus state- of-the art equipment, even in some of the hospitals, all at a pleasant 6000 feet . . . no wonder so many foreigners congregate here. We were glad to join them for a day!

sms from Heidi

Thanks for praying for the renewal of the milk supply. Through a
letter, a visit, some emails from friends who know friends, and
supernatural mercy, the director was able to access a new supply for
out nutrition unit. We feel a little taste of the George Muller last-
minute provision. Heidi sms'd that Friday we had three packets of
milk left (out of about four thousand for the year . . ). But
Saturday morning a truck arrived with 60 crates, enough for several
months. I suppose we are always desperate and dependent, we just
pretend that we don't have to rely on God most of the time. So a
dramatic provision reminds us of reality. We are grateful.

Not My Will

That is our prayer, as we sit in the old colonial gardens of a hotel
in Naivasha, Kenya's Rift Valley, studded with yellow-barked Acacia
trees, and flowing with a palette of bougainvillae. As we face the
cup of this world's sorrow and brokeness, we reflect upon the hours
Jesus spent in a garden, too. God takes the dissolution of His
creation seriously, so seriously that the cup of His wrath spills over
into consequences of disease and hunger and isolation and despair. We
pray to see that removed, but we acknowledge, soberly, that the way of
removal may involve our tasting. Pray with us that we would trust the
love of our Father, and his all-things-are-possible power, so that we
hold with both hands the cup He hands us in this time of planning, and
swallow His will. And that we find the cost of such a draught dwarfed
by hope, for ourselves and for Africa.

Step One

Yesterday we left in a tropical downpour, only to find out that Nathan
and Sarah's hoped for airplane ride would not materialize, so they
needed to pile on our truck, too. We ascended the mountains in an
eerie mist, complete with baboons silhouetted, huddled in the trees.
But once on the other side, the clouds dissipated, though the day was
still quite long with errands in Fort Portal and with us not wanting
to dislodge the loose shock and spring that had torpedoed Scott's day
last week. Step one of our journey was to reach Kampala, which we did
by early evening. I have no great desire to live in the city, but I
do find something about this place vibrant. Cramped one-room shops
lit at night, some with a TV or a pool table, shelves of biscuits or
cooking oil packaged in the tiny daily allotments of the poor, hair
salons with loiterers, used clothes stretched on curvaceous hangers.
Everywhere darting motorcycle bodas, overbearing mini-buses full of
commuters, random pedestrians, blaring horns, all though with a good
humor. It is a city of the scramble for life, of a rising expectation
and eroding culture, a city of filth, and a city of beauty.

And the center of pretty much everything that goes on in Uganda, the
place of multi-story office buildings, grocery stores with
refrigerated meats and bar-code-scanning check-outs. This morning I
headed to the fortress of efficiency that is UNICEF, braving the
intimidating security to talk my way into meeting a very busy and
important executive whose subordinate forgot to tell her I was
coming. I understood her insistence on protocol and order and yet I
think she also heard my plea for the kids in Bundibugyo who were about
to be sold out on a technicality or oversight. All in all as much as
I could hope for, the promise to "look into it". Not a clear "expect
a shipment this week", but far from a "no."

The rest of the day, a little of this and that, some kid time, picking
up a hand-woven kitengi cloth that Luke had requested (we use them for
towels), finding out that Tuesdays are half-price at the movies and so
our whole family could go to the matinee. Dinner by candle light at
our favorite Indian restaurant. Fun. Perhaps the anonymity of being
just one more mujungu among the many, one more person no one knows, is
the best part of Kampala.

Step two begins tomorrow at 6, the drive across eastern Uganda to the
border and into the central Kenyan highlands. We will traverse one of
the major east African trade routes, the two-lane paved corridor of
goods that flow from the port at Mombasa throughout Kenya, Uganda,
Rwanda, Sudan, into even Congo. And so I end with some news from
today's East African Newspaper, detailing a special field
investigative report that collected data on trucking: "Bribery
expenses total about $891 per truck, accounting for over 21% of the
total export costs." There are 36 road blocks along the way, from
borders to police checks to weigh stations. Drivers face the subtle,
indirect request for a bribe at 78% of these stops. It takes 5 times
longer to move cargo from the Kenyan port to Kigali (Rwanda) than it
took to get the ship from Japan to Africa. Over 57% of the journey
time is spent, stationary, at the road blocks. . . . I will remember
all of this tomorrow when we see the endless lines of trucks backed up
at the border, or when the police wave us through their nail-studded
barriers looking for more lucrative vehicles to question. And I will
ponder the connection between the trade routes and the AIDS routes,
wondering whether the harshness and futility of the African trucker's
life makes him more vulnerable to high-risk HIV-transmitting
behaviour. And I will be thankful that we brave the potholes only a
few times a year, and do not live on the roads every day.