Grief, waves

Last week in Kampala Scott and I split directions for a few errands, and I found myself alone in a bookstore on Kampala road, smack in the center of the city, looking for a few last-minute-addition art supplies. I had to go up to the second floor, and ended up in a sort of party-supply corner, which reminded me that Julia's 13th birthday is only a few weeks away.  Suddenly it hit me that the little-kid oriented stuff (cheap plastic dolls or too-simple games) would not ever be appropriate for her again, and I got all teary-eyed. It was probably the "Bridge Over Troubled Water" muzak in the background, but I was paralyzed there by the whistles and paint-by-numbers, sensing our kids' childhood slipping by, with two of them in another country far away and the other two wishing they weren't.  Not sure how long I stood there before being rescued by a phone call from Scott that propelled me on to the post office for stamps. . . . and since that moment between meetings and life-survival the grief has been pushed down.

Until church today, a good sermon about God using persecution to move believers into new areas (as in the pattern with Paul in Acts).  That had little to do with Caleb and Luke, but I suppose it was the half-empty family bench, and the mind-numbing effort of listening in Lubwisi that let my heart drift again, and the wave of sadness was right there, waiting.  I suppose it helped just to gently remind myself that in the background of an intense week of meetings and decisions, there is the always-present rarely-acknowledged fact of grief.  And like the ocean it can ebb, or we can float on the surface, but then a killer wave topples us again, and there is nothing to do but scrape over the sand and close your eyes and wait for a breath.

The Broom Tree Blues

This has been a FULL week, and one of intense spiritual challenge.  We have questioned our vision, our calling, our leadership, our community.  We have listened to the struggles of our team mates, and our Ugandan co-workers.  We have examined the challenges of running CSB, wondering if they represent normal first-decade developmental growing pains or insurmountable structural deficiencies in mission management. In between meetings we have juggled malfunctioning kerosene fridge wicks trying to preserve a month-plus supply of fresh veggies and meat from Kampala, or attacks of biting ants marching up our sidewalk.  We've begged our two youngest for patience with our busy-ness as they have faced their first week at home without both older brothers, and as they have had exams at school.  We've similarly begged our health center colleagues, especially Heidi, Biguye, and the midwives, for equal patience as we popped in and out to assist without being fully available.  We've welcomed Paul and Ward and tried to be mentally and emotionally present for the rare gift of their on-site friendship, and at the end of the week received Asusi back from her nursing degree program to temporarily stay with our family.  

In the midst of this fire and storm of stress, God showed up, as He promised.  Day by day we were awed by answered prayer, by meeting of the minds, by unanticipated insights, by that-makes-sense-agreements.  By tears and by relief.  By blessing.  

The three main messages God has brought to us from Scripture this year have coalesced:  I will fight your battles and bring Myself Glory just march on (2 Chron 20); Drink the cup of My will even it it is bitter (Mark 14); and Find Me in your weakness (2 Cor 12).  So here we are, emerging from a week of intensity with a testimony that God has not forgotten us here in Bundibugyo, that He loves us and the people we serve, that He is not finished with any of us, not punishing any of us, but calling us to move into the unknown of the future with faith.  We know that the next year will not be easy (was there ever an easy one?), particularly as Scott has been asked as Chairman of the Board of Governors for CSB to significantly step up his oversight and involvement at the school.  WHM affirmed our commitment to CSB and decided for now to forgo the proposed paths of government-aid or other-organization-donation.  We know God led in that direction.  We also know that we will struggle to love, to accept our weaknesses, sins, and failures as the very place where we encounter the presence of God's grace.  

God speaks through His word, and also through our leaders.  We're grateful to be part of a missionary-order, a family of believers, in which the Director of Ministries with responsibility for 170 missionaries in dozens of fields could land on our doorstep and listen and give us perspective and call us to grow.  We're grateful that the mission leadership prayed for him, and us, and that we were a witness to the way God works through all that, which increases our trust in following.

But, as they say in Uganda, the struggle continues.  This district is a place of oppression.  It is hard to live and work here.  The spiritual push-back from evil is palpable, the physical demands are heavy, the risks are real.  So even as we emerge with a testimony of God's presence, we feel a bit like running to the nearest desert and sleeping for 40 days under the broom tree eating angel-cooked bread.  So we would appreciate prayers for renewal of strength and steeling of faith as we keep on.

welcome home (!)

As one of the UNICEF visitors said today, this is a hard district.  The national reputation of Bundibugyo is one of inefficiency and corruption, and the objective indicators of disease and death are as high as the more frequently spotlighted areas of the post-LRA-conflict north in Gulu, or the drought-stricken east in Karamoja.  And while we feel at home here, we also feel the weight of these issues.

And if that were not enough . . . let me just describe Scott's first morning back, while I went down to the hospital to see patients, he went out to load the medicine we had purchased into the truck.  Only to find that after driving thousands of kilometers through four countries, we had our first puncture of the trip in the last few meters, right in our own yard.  Which would not have been so bad, if that discovery did not lead to the discovery that when the car was serviced in Kampala, the mechanic's minions broke the bolts holding the wheels on then welded them back together to cover their error, leading to an entire morning wasted by Scott in phone calls, tools, help, and frustration just to get the tire changed (the mechanic apologized on the phone up and down and is giving us a new set of bolts free . . ).  Perhaps that would be easier to take in stride without the roach colony which expanded in our absence to become a roach universe.  Or without the line up of needs, or the days of rain.  Let's just say that the sheer effort of daily life in Bundibugyo is a pretty quick wake-up call back to reality.

So why stay here?  I suppose because we cling to the hope that the school fees we are helping with are gathering a core of children with a new view of the world, a new way of living.  Because the infant whose mother bled to death yesterday should not face starvation.  Because we've known the elder dancing in worship for a decade and a half and resonate with his joy and leadership.  Because we followed (to the best of our ability to discern) that pillar of cloud and fire that leads through wilderness before reaching the promise, that refines and cleanses as we plod along the way.  

So in spite of roaches, mud, broken bolts, theft, and dependency . . . this is the place, for now, on this earth, that we call home.

Unless You Go With Us

We need prayer this week, serious God-seeking prayer.  Paul (Director of Ministries for WHM who started his missionary life here in Bundi for 9 years) and Ward (the Missionary Care Manager for WHM) landed to meet with us and our team, focusing specifically on the way forward for the next decade of Christ School's growth and development, but also with a heart for each person on the team and their future life and calling in ministry.  We hit the road running, so to speak, meeting again with both of our consultants before we left Kampala.  I was struck once again with their wisdom and godliness, their overall passion for Christian education and the good of the country of Uganda.  One has already begun to recruit for us (he teachers masters-level students in education at two universities) and both seem eager to continue in their advisory role.  Both believe in the value of the school and have been willing to put hard time into a long list of very concrete suggestions for improvement.  An interesting fact that came out at the end:  Church of Uganda is now starting "model schools" that step back from the government-aided path they have pursued for the last two decades, and are more intentionally Christian and academically excellent, with values similar to ours.

Paul preached at Bundimulinga, ostensibly to the congregation but by grace words that were very encouraging for us.  He talked about Moses, in the scene in the cleft of the rock where he begs God to go with the Israelites, and then asks to SEE GOD.  This is a good picture of where we are as a team:  we want to move forward, but only if God goes with us, and in the process our real goal is God Himself, not a successful school or an easy life.  God answered Moses, not because Moses was articulate or persuasive (remember he always made his brother do the talking), and not because Moses always did the right thing or was strong or smart.  He answered because He delighted in Moses' asking, because once again His intention is to make His power known in our weakness.  That gives us boldness to ask this week that God would show up in our meetings and plannings, not because we have the right formulae, but because He delights in our dependance upon Him.

We ended the day with team worship and communion, led by Ward, with a similar theme.  Jesus gave the beatitudes not as a list of things to do or be, but as a demonstration that God's blessing flows to people who lean on His promises.  Again we were encouraged, that our hunger and weakness and poverty of spirit can be the very place where God brings His Kingdom.  As we closed with a rousing chorus of "For All the Saints" with it's view of the final fulfillment, I sensed God's presence to lift our eyes to the future inevitable reality of His continuous presence.

So please pray for us this week, as a team, to keep our eyes on God's power and promise, not our own deficiencies and struggles.  We probably can't handle even the glimpse of the trailing end of glory that made Moses glow weeks later . . . so let us be content with whatever He chooses to give us.

Thanksgiving

We are extremely grateful and relieved that both Luke and Caleb made it through a tough week of try-outs and were selected for Varsity and JV football (that's soccer in America) teams at RVA.  It is an extremely competitive sport there, and we do not take their inclusion for granted.  They love the sport and will benefit from the exercise and team-work, but most of all it is a boost to their sense of belonging, and one of those islands of success in a lifetime of being the younger/smaller/excluded foreigner on the field, being allowed to practice but never really on the team at CSB.  Luke missed most of last year's JV season with his knee injury, so it feels like a new opportunity as he plays this year.  Their relief in making the roster was tempered by sadness (for Luke) about his friends who did not . . . and soberness for all as a boy suffered a concussion during the last practice, very frightening for all the kids and coaches as he was unconscious and convulsing briefly.  As we rejoice, we pray for his recovery (prognosis is good) and for safety in the fun ahead.  We gave a little party of appreciation for our RMS teachers last night after team worship:  Nathan and Ashley's coaching, playing, challenging, encouraging are responsible for developing the football skills, and Sarah's patience with teaching Luke a bit about singing for the "Saraphim" (Sarah, Luke, and Acacia performed a couple of times) enabled Luke to be selected for choir this year too.  

The deeper message to my mother-heart is a picture of God's mercy.  When Caleb broke his arm, it was at a picnic stop that was MY idea, and over the complaints of everyone else. So I felt vaguely responsible for ruining his chances.  But I wonder in the end if his insistence in giving his all in SPITE OF a broken arm communicated to the coaches his passion for the sport.  Which is a way that God is teaching us right now, the 2 Cor 12 truth, that His power is discovered in our weakness. He takes the very things that look like loss and turns them into gain for His glory.

It was God's plan

Today's New Vision ran a full-page feature article in the "People" section on Monday Julius, the young medical student sponsored by the Dr. Jonah Kule Memorial Leadership Fund.  The top of the page quotes Julius as saying "I do not count myself a hero, it was God's plan to use me to serve His people" and then in bold print "He stayed behind to fight Ebola when his fellow medics fled". In spite of that hype, Julius' humble and serving spirit shines through the article, calling him a "born-again Christian" and noting his World Harvest scholarship.  And his smiling but studious picture features a wedding ring, too.  He may not feel like a hero, but I hope he is a role model for many other young men in Uganda, simply doing the right thing in caring for patients and remaining faithful to community, marriage, and job.

Kampala

Kampala:  people, potholes, laughter, shouts, blaring music, outdoor pool tables, garbage, puddles, construction, traffic, police, whistles, lights, shadows, neon, buses.  Kampala:  lines, forms, rules, meetings, come back tomorrow, try again later.  Kampala:  oranges that are actually orange, apples, incredible Indian food, pizza, icy cold water, hot tea.  Kampala:  the ARA staff who comment on our kids' growth since they've known them since birth, running into old friends, but also the anonymity of being awash in a city sprinkled with foreigners.  Kampala: optimistic lists of tasks that fizzle in the reality of crawling traffic and inevitable inefficiency.  Kampala:  the awkwardness of being in Uganda but not quite home, of abundance that is not quite America either.  Kampala:  the pressure of thinking ahead for weeks or months of grocery shopping, of juggling visas for 6 people in two countries and movement back and forth, of last-chance-to-do-this or that for another three months, of the truck being in the shop for days, of seeing piles and piles of clothes or pots or fruit or suitcases or shovels or books spilling from tiny shops onto sidewalk displays and wondering "do I need that?".  Kampala:  going out for dinner (imagine!), being uninterrupted as a family, sitting in a friends' garden all day for quiet prayer without a call from the hospital or the panic of work undone.  Kampala:  a few days is enough, but I'm glad we can come here.

On arbitrariness and stress

I wish we had counted the police road blocks one must go through to drive the thousands of kilometers we have passed over in four countries.  They are ubiquitous in Africa, where police do not have the vehicles or communication equipment to cruise the roads or chase the wrong-doers.  Instead they set up rusting spiky metal strips staggered half-way across the two-lane roads, and then raise their arms heil-Hitler like if they want you to stop, or wave you on to weave through the barriers if they are less interested in you than the next vehicle.  Usually they just seemed bored and wanting to look us over, ask where we're coming from or going to as they assess the interior of the truck, ask what we're carrying, ask about the kids.  They check the insurance sticker on the front windshield (our favorite slogan:  "we won't make a drama out of a crisis" . . which is probably true since I doubt the insurance would do ANYTHING dramatic  or otherwise for us, but we're required to buy it).  Or they scrutinize our Ugandan drivers' licenses.  I have talked to taxi-trucks in Bundibugyo who expect to pay about 5,000/= per roadblock (or 20,000/= per trip from Fort to Bundi) in "fines" which might be interpreted as bribes.  We had no problem other than an inebriated after-dark police-man when we were on the way to dinner in Nairobi, who slurred his words then was impatient with us for not pulling out the proper papers . . . but no fines or fees.  

Then add to those dozens and dozens of potential stopping points, four borders, each with a set of exit officials and entry officials, each a 45 minute to two hour process.  And in no case is there a clear posting of fees, or a procedure to follow, it is all hit and miss and obscurity.  There are offices for stamping passports, for dealing with the vehicle, for paying for visas, for declaring the luggage.  There are immigration officials, police officers, and numerous other bureaucrats, plus hawkers of everything from peanuts to dress shirts, prostitutes, beggars, and fellow travelers, all in the hot equator-intense sun.  At the various windows the idea of a queue is replaced by the huddle of push-your-way-to-the-front, but most people in the no-man's-land of the border zone seem to be merely spectators waiting for a scene.

If it was just a matter of time, or inconvenience, I think we would take it in stride, this is Africa, efficiency is not expected.  But at all these police checks and border offices, there is the hanging cloud of uncertainty.  Did we do all the proper paper-work, or not?  Will it cost nothing, 10 dollars, or a hundred?  Will we be waved through, or told to turn around and go back to the previous border or town?  Are there rules of justice here, or are we at the mercy of greed?  The reaction of any one officer can be so completely arbitrary.  For instance on the way INTO Tanzania, we were told the official who clears the vehicle had gone far away to his home for the night, so we would have to park in the border area and wait for the next day.  However after hanging out with the immigration people for a half hour, they took pity, and walked a hundred yards to the home of the correct official, and he walked briefly back and cleared us.  But it could have gone either way, and perhaps we were just so oblivious to the bribe hints in this case they gave up .  On the other side of Tanzania, the first official we came to at the initial border gate looked at Scott's paperwork and said:  you were in the country 8 days.  Yes, Scott said, we told them at the entry border it could be up to two weeks (which was clearly marked on the form), but it was a bit shorter.  Well, the man starts to yell now, you have broken the law, if you are in the country more than 7 days with a vehicle you have to pay a tax.  Fine, Scott says, I'll pay, I'm very sorry sir, they did not tell us that at the when we entered by the other border.  By now the man has worked himself up, and keeps screaming angrily at Scott, waving his arms threateningly, accusing him of not knowing the laws, saying it was Scott's job as a visitor to search out the regulations, not the other border agents' job to tell him, spitting out angrily that we have not respected the laws of Tanzania. This goes on for about 20 minutes while he makes Scott wait in his office listening to his outrage, practicing the wisdom of turning the other cheek.  It is unnerving and unpleasant to say the least, the degree of hostility spewed forth, over a mere $20 that we were quite willing to pay.  

The stress of these encounters tends to fatigue Scott more than the rest of us, as he always bears the brunt of the interrogations and bureaucracy.  One evening I watched "The Great Debaters", a movie about racial tensions in Texas in the 1930's.  And I see an echo of the same emotions in our experiences here.  We are not at risk of lynching, so I don't want to take the analogy too far, but I think we perceive a small taste of what it was like to be constantly at risk of being the victim of a small-minded, insecure official deciding to put our class of people (in this case, white foreign aid workers) in their place, to push us into obsequious apology, to demonstrate to nearby companions just who is boss.  Our skin highlights our difference, our otherness, our not-belonging, something anyone can see from far away.  And in our case, the legacy of oppression and colonization gives Africans a legitimate suspicion.  So I think Scott is one of the few 21rst century American male doctors with white skin, who can empathize with the discomfort and tension and potential harm of being stopped by a police officer without having done anything wrong.  I suppose there is some value in that, in spite of the cost.

a joy in the journey

This long journey around Lake Victoria is nearing its end.  And one of the joys has been the moments of slow dinners, reflective conversations, soul-encounter, with fellow travelers.  We took off the time to be with our kids, and that was gloriously necessary and good.  But in God's providence, looking back, I am amazed at the number of times our road intersected with others.  Ashley was our initial companion, we drank in three days with the Massos in SW Uganda, our former intern Joel met up with us in Rwanda, we visited another former intern and family in Mwanza.  Then of course Kijabe, where in addition to the reconnections with RVA folks we had a fireside evening of catching up with a doctor-family who also worked in Uganda two decades ago, and several shorter visits with people we have known over the years.  Back in Kampala we spent two nights with Soctticus and Jane, who have one-month consultant jobs with UNICEF, and who are gourmet cooks on the side, and expert at  making us feel welcome.  We even met the Pierces yesterday to see G-force, which was probably the most fun for Jack and Quinn but the rest of us enjoyed their joy, too.  And then to top ALL of that off, our former pastor who is now a missionary in Karamoja with his family, was also in town running errands, and the 9 of us caught up over lunch at the mall's food court, commiserating (they left two daughters in college in the US, just as we have left two sons in high school in Kenya).  As we parted and Al hugged Scott and called him "friend", it hit me deeply how valuable this connection was for our souls.  So as we begin to look towards home, I am thankful for the friendships which God brought along to sustain us along this journey.  We are designed for community, and the draughts of friendship we have enjoyed over the last few weeks have been life-giving, and reminders of how thankful we are for the team to whom we return soon.

Launching, take 2

Goodbyes today pulled our hearts, but did not wrench them as brutally as last year.  Leaving two kids together is better than leaving one alone, a year of history of surviving and even thriving helps, and we have a better feel for the school and the pace and the hope of reunion.  And the biggest atmosphere booster:  the student health nurse, an assistant JV soccer coach, and the dorm dad, all told Caleb he should still go to football (soccer) tryouts in spite of his broken arm.  Still I cried in my long last hug, and our car was soberly quiet with just the four of us heading out. 

The chaplain preached on 2 Cor 12 during orientation, the familiar passage about the thorn in the flesh and God's power in weakness.  And his words were once again Spirit-empowered in their appropriateness, echoing the theme we've prayed and meditated on since the Easter season.  If the cup can't pass, it must be drunk.  If the thorn can't be removed, it must be embraced.  Rather than running away from difficulty we are called to move into it, to pass through the deep and the dark, and to emerge to find out that God was with us the entire time, that He designed and orchestrated what feels like death to us in a way that shows His resurrecting power, and actually brings us life.  It is another mystery of paradox:  moving into trial moves us deeper into God.

And so we plod on into another season of loss, another tearing of the heart.  We lean forward into the rough path, wishing there was a smooth detour but trusting that we must instead pass right on through the thorns.  And hoping for more of God, somehow (for us and for our kids), in the pain of separation.