Pray for CSB

This morning we went to chapel at CSB, which we often do on the last Sunday of the month as visiting parents are welcome that day. And we were delighted to listen to the preaching of Eric. Eric was a former teacher who wrote to us a few months ago asking if he could do an internship in the midst of his seminary studies, coming back to live and minister in Nyahuka. We knew we'd have little to offer him in our transitional stress . . but Scott also saw that the school could use his gifts, and so we took the risk of asking him to come in spite of everything else going on. Today we are glad that he accepted.

First, because of who Eric is. A teacher who is now a student. A chemical scientist who now deals in unseen matters of the heart. An African married to an American. A believer from a Pentecostal persuasion attending a very conservative reformed seminary. An Eastern Ugandan from a relatively educated and well-to-do clan choosing to live in a very poor area of Western Uganda. A person with a keen mind and a sensitive spirit. Someone who crosses a lot of barriers, just as the Gospel predicts, breaking down categories and walls. Because God is not contained fully in any of those groups, the juxtaposition and paradox remind us that He is Beyond. And because Eric has grown up in the culture of Ugandan boarding schools, but moved outside of it now, he can use just the right stories and illustrations and proverbs and yet apply them in new ways.

And second, because it is June. Second term. The time of year when schools become restless, when students rebel, when troubles abound. Last year a brewing sense of riot stopped when everyone gathered to pray for Kevin's survival. Last week we understand that a neighboring school suspended classes after students there beat a teacher over a canceled trip and disputed funds. This morning we heard that at our school disgruntled students from the same trouble-stirring class that usually gets blamed bought a padlock and shut the on-duty teacher in his room, because he had confiscated the phones they were not allowed to have on campus let alone charge on school power. This is a very passive-aggressive approach, but potentially a death threat in a place where rebels have locked dorms and homes to burn and kill.

Deus handled it beautifully, seriously, spiritually. Calling the suspect class forward, asking them to kneel, asking others to pray for them. Speaking with a loving firmness that the students seemed to listen to well. One broke down in tears and two others made speeches of apology. None of these, of course, are likely the boys responsible for the actual lock-in. Please pray that what is done in darkness would come to light, as Annelise often requested. That those who wish to destroy the school would be stopped, either by converted hearts or by removal from the premises. That the innocent majority would not suffer as staff become frightened or angry. That Deus would move forward with wisdom. That other teachers, like Eric and Eunice, would be used by God to bring His word and real and lasting change.

Thanks for prayers for CSB . . . and for us, that we would not be so focused on our own departure that we fail to keep on our knees for CSB too.

Conflicts of Interest

Last night was an excruciating one for American soccer fans living in Africa.  The USA team has played against so many odds (two consecutive games with unreasonable calls that negated clear goals) while maintaining team work, spirit, attitude, honor, that we have grown quite excited about them.  It's probably the most America-connected our kids have felt in many years, a good thing as we head to the USA for the rest of 2010.  And yet, this is the first World Cup played in Africa, and there is only one African team left in competition.  Sadly USA had to meet Ghana last night, and someone had to lose.  Our team came over for ice cream sundaes (!), even the Johnson kids who were hours post-bed-time did their best to stay awake, and I even came up with some little American fags to wave while we cheered.  This was one match we decided NOT to watch with our neighbors, as EVERYONE in Africa was rooting for Ghana.

As it turned out, Ghana beat the USA 2 to 1 in overtime.  It was a close and well-played match.  Jack took the loss quite hard.  But no matter what the outcome was last night, we were going to be conflicted.  If the USA had won, we would have been living in a community where our country had dashed the hopes of the continent.  I remember well watching with our students as the younger Ghana team won the under-20 World Cup, an event that instilled hope and courage and pride.

So we are sad that America lost this, proud of their effort, glad that the continent of Africa still has representation going into the quarter-finals, and excited about the potential for football and sports in general to galvanize an entire people to live up to their God-created reality.

Birthday Highs and Lows

Our family often uses "highs and lows" (sometimes three of each, sometimes one or two) around the table as a way to share about the day as we eat dinner.

Low #1: burning life. Somehow I thought the freedom of divesting our selves of so much accumulated junk would feel happier. Instead, it is painful. Yesterday we attacked some shelves that were crammed with school notes. The typical Ugandan educational method is for a teacher to dictate and transcribe a lesson on the chalk board, so the students can enter the sentences word by word into their blank lined-paper books. Imagine the pre-printing-press monks copying the Bible, and you have the basic idea, texts are too expensive so copying is the preferred means of information transfer. Realistically, Luke at Yale and Caleb at RVA will use a library, and internet access . . . they will not need to refer to the pencil-diagrams of flowers or chemical equations in his old notes. But as we piled them up in a wheelbarrow and took them to burn in the trash pit, it felt like we were negating the value of all that effort, erasing all those years of cross-cultural struggle in the classroom. Hard. And from there to the boxes of files under our bed (our bedroom is our office). Old calendars for planning travel and retreats, team meeting notes about issues like school schedules and ministry goals. Documents written up as we planned our nutrition program in 2003. Interviews our interns conducted to research cultural ideas. Letters from people in the US. Bible study notes from my old cell group days. Notes about patients. All to the burn pile, clearing space for whomever will inhabit this house, protecting the privacy of the people in our past . . . but also giving me the sinking feeling of loss, as if by burning the evidence those things did not happen, or are no longer important.

Low #2: discordance. Emails and phone calls about the specifics of what date we can arrive here, or there, and whom we'll see, in countries far away from here. While life here, also goes on. So we're living in the future as well as the present and the past; in three time periods on three continents as we plan our movements for the rest of 2010. And while I know it will all fall together eventually (and much of it already has), when it doesn't seem to, or the dates conflict or the advertised fares are not available, it's hard to focus.

High #1: gifts of friendship. Pies and locally crafted ear rings and a funny story from team mates. Sweet cards from my family. Phone calls from a few different countries. And the graciousness of Pat, who allowed me to invite 5 of my closest Ugandan friends along with Amy to a "tea" at her house in the afternoon. What a gift these women are: Melen, first and foremost, with whom we have gone through births and deaths, the deepest and most significant times of our lives here, from the days we arrived until now, strong and faithful and continuing against the odds. Asita, a real neighbor, the practical support of survival and a hard-working testimony that shines in the community. Olupah and Assusi, women of skill and valor, who battle disease with me shoulder to shoulder day by day. And Juliet, sweet humility and family loyalty, a teacher who is also willing to ask and learn. There's a line in "It's a Wonderful LIfe" about no person being poor who has friends like this. I am blessedly rich in relationship here. But that leads us to . . .

Low #3: making my friends cry. Of course what began as pleasant conversation, shared stories, cold lemonade and cookies, ended in tears and prayer. Because the deeper the truth of friendship, the more excruciating the impending reality of separation. These women have poured into my life at cost to themselves, and right now that cost is very high. Amy shared an image from Psalm 1 on fruit, that was picked up by several in prayer, and came up in my reading again in Isaiah (44) this morning, the promise of our legacy in people springing up as willows along the river banks. Weeping and watering and growth.

High #2: "this dinner". That is often a high of the day as we sit down to the table. Not necessarily the food, though often it is worthy of a high. But after the tearful tea, coming home to cheery kids and Scott grilling chicken, lighting candles with Pat around the table, reminiscing. The feast of family that will move, with us. And lastly . .

High #3: faith. Reading in Joshua again, this post-Bday morning, about Achan, one of those sort of depressing, not-so-inspiring, a-bit-too-violent stories that one might prefer to skip. First steps into the Promised Land and he already refused to burn the loot, and instead hid some for himself, burying it under his tent. Where he could not enjoy it, really, but it made him feel secure. And this made God angry. I could sympathize this time with Achan. Because it's really a matter of faith, burning all the loot. It is a way of saying: God will provide, this is His world, we don't need to grasp. It's OK to let go of the stuff, to burn, to lighten the load for the journey, because the land ahead is good. Let me release my grip on old papers and baby clothes and favorite books, in faith. Not that those things aren't good, or important, or valuable. But like the Israelites, the extravagance of the burn is a way of saying that we know God is more than all of this. Which is definitely a high.

Whose side are you on?

When Joshua approaches Jericho, the first city the Israelites must conquer to possess the land they had left for 400 years as slaves, he looks up and sees a Man with a sword.  And in Joshua's mind, the important question is:  are you for us, or for our adversaries?  I can understand that kind of thinking.  When you spend your days bumping up against broken things, pushing for what seems to be the Kingdom, grieving when hard decisions seem to be made in hurtful ways by others . . well, Joshua and I tend to want to divide the world into "people on my side" and "people who aren't".  

But the Man answers:  No, but as Commander of the army of the LORD I have now come.  Not on any person's side, but working for God.

This is a sobering glimpse of unseen reality.  God has HIS OWN SIDE.  And it is not contained by any particular mission, country, church, denomination, family, or tribe.  As much as we want to claim to speak for Him, He remains outside of us, independent.  But not uninvolved.  The Man is, after all, carrying a sword.  

Since I'm reading through the Bible in several places at once, Joshua 6 got juxtaposed with Luke 12, which also "happened" to be the text for our chaplain's talk at CSB yesterday afternoon!  Verse 5:  FEAR HIM, because that sword-wielding commander has eternal power.  Verse 7:  DO NOT FEAR, because that awesome being also knows every hair on our head, every stumble you take, every need.  So while the Commander of the army of the LORD will not be taking orders from me, He WILL be involved to the tiniest detail to give that which is more than life itself.

Instead of figuring out whose side others are on, we are called to throw our full treasure, our total lot, in with the only side that will survive.  On a day when problems seem large, may we see by faith the the Commander controls the battle.

Some things I'll never get used to . . .

No matter how many years go by.  

Rats.  Taking a shower last night, drying off, turned around to see a very large rat.  He was a bit sluggish, which was why I could trap him under a bucket, hold it down with my foot, get clothes on, and then call for help.  Scott and Julia killed it.  No matter how many years I live here, my startle reflex does not diminish.  

Bodily fluids.  Talking to patients bedside, and getting a warm feeling . . . literally as the baby on the bed behind me soaked my back with a well aimed stream of urine, mom oblivious.  I jumped, mom jumped, baby stopped, I moved out of range (or so I thought) and he let loose in the new direction and got my feet!  At least his hydration shows he's drinking plenty of his milk. 

Dysfunctional families.  Getting histories on the four new "nutrition disaster patients", as Heidi put it, that came in yesterday, plus one more for today . . I hope I never see this as normal.  Happy Malioni is NOT HAPPY.  In fact she's a stunted little toddler, curled up under a sheet with distended weeping skin, and I know my frustrated lecture to her dad about why he disappeared for a WHOLE YEAR since her last admission did not really accomplish anything.  Nor did calling to task the teenage mom of the starving baby in the next bed by begging her parents to take charge.  Nor did finding out the next patient was one of 17 children of 4 wives in her father's home, with not enough food to go around.  Then there are two little girls with severe brain damage, one from a difficult delivery and the other from cerebral malaria, and in a place where kids need to fend for themselves at an early age, those who aren't able tend to slip away.  As much as caring for these kids feels like beating my head against the wall . . .I hope I don't ever stop knocking. Because it's not right.  Hunger season is upon us.

Death.  Heard that one of the nurses from our health center delivered a baby Monday after a long and not-so-well-managed labor, severe gasping distress and unable to be resuscitated.  So today I stopped to say sorry, and pray for her.  The investment of her body and heart for 9 months, and left with nothing but grief.  From there ran into another nurse friend who told me one of our long-term patient/neighbor/friends had died in the night, a teenage boy with a seizure disorder and developmental delay.  His competent, caring, patient mom had brought him to us for many, many years for anticonvulsants.  So I biked up there with our summer intern Anna, to sit hip to hip in the mud-floored house, trying to comfort this lady who was weeping as she gently held the dead hand of her son.  My teenager is about to graduate from high school and go to Yale; hers is dead.  Tears.  Part of almost every woman's life here, the loss of children.

Burdens.  I thought that in these last few weeks, it would be easier to NOT pick up the burdens.  So many things are no longer in our hands.  And I've cut back to only seeing patients one day a week.  But I still care, it is not possible to live here quietly observing without being drawn into the pain, and without trying to bear some of the burdens.  Scott carries even heavier ones, helping dismiss a teacher this week who was causing many difficulties at school, counseling about pregnancies, fixing electricity, sorting out budgets, and on and on.  We may lose another teacher who is trying to get to California to go to a church-based year-long supernatural-ministry training, which will be a blow to the senior students he's preparing for exams this year.  As our team reminds us, God's timescale is LONG.  He's not finished in Bundibugyo, not at all. 

And so while much of life feels very normal (the raucous weavers in the early morning, Asita's laugh as she brings a cooked dinner of beans and pumpkin into the house in pans stacked on her head, Jack and Julia working on a math problem together) there are still some very broken parts of this place that I hope I will never, even when I'm gone, accept as inevitable or tolerable.  

Quilting Closure

Today, Julia and I finished her quilt. It has become a family tradition to make each child a quilt as they leave home. For Luke and Caleb, I scrambled to assemble quilts in the summers before they started boarding school at RVA. Since we're ALL leaving home this year . . I had hoped to make Julia and Jack each one, but Jack's will have to wait. He's only 12, after all, and we do have some more life to live before he separates from us I hope.

Julia was intimately involved in her quilt's creation from start to finish, choosing, ironing, holding, pinning, advising. We decided on this triangular pattern because it reminded us of the Rwenzoris, our home. Each peak is comprised of a fabric with a story. Miss Bethany's superwoman T-shirt she bequeathed to Julia, the sling I made her when she broke her arm, costumes from her Phantom Tollbooth Birthday, a dress she had that matched her doll's, our couches and curtains, pillows we used in the truck when traveling, left-overs from her favorite two skirts made locally, her characteristic bandana, school uniforms and soccer shirts, and even the matching outfits our team wore just this month for our dance-skit at the WHM retreat (Lisa Wood has it on video, pretty impressive). These are set against a subtle old-fashioned background: a rose-patterned cotton that has its own story. When we first came to Uganda in 1993, one of my dear friend and supporters, Judy Schenk, who rode on the rescue squad with me when I was in college and sensed the need for beauty in any life, donated this fabric from which I made our first set of curtains in our house. So we have the colorful pattern of our Rwenzori life set on the background of loving supporters.

The narrow pink border is my love, surrounding Julia's life. It was cut from our "Happy Pants", matching mother-daughter capris we inherited as hand-me-downs from my sister and niece. They were so wild and bright we felt happy just putting them on, and since they were culturally inappropriate to wear out of the house we often celebrated "family nights" at home in them.

And the wide outermost border represents the ocean of God's love, in which we live. It is a hand-dyed fabric I bought from a women's self-help group on Bushara Island, Lake Bunyoni, and calls to mind depth, water, billows, movement, infinity.

After months of work slowly by slowly, it is spread on the bed beside me now, soon to be packed. And now that it's done, I see the parable of our life in the process. Snippets and fragments, bits and pieces from here and there. Cut. Sometimes painfully. Sometimes inexplicably. But in God's hands the pieces are rearranged. One color contrasts and sets off another. The random shapes fit together. The juxtaposition of American and Uganda creates something new. From a pile of scraps a thing of beauty and warmth emerges, useful and pleasing. What was once a dress or a curtain becomes a blanket, changed, both old and new, with a story to tell. A bit like us, I hope.

And at least 3 of 4 kids have a good physical reminder of the only home they've known. . . someone hold me to my promise to not forget Jack!

bitterness for peace

I said, In the prime of my life I shall go to the gates of Sheol;

Deprived of the remainder of my years . . 

I have cut off my life like a weaver,

He cuts me from the loom. . .

What shall I say?

He has both spoken to me,

And He Himself has done it.

I shall walk carefully all my years

In the bitterness of my soul. . . 

Indeed it was for my own peace 

That I had great bitterness;

But you have lovingly delivered my soul from the pit of corruption,

For You have cast all my sins behind Your back.

This poetry comes from Isaiah 38.  The King has just been rescued from certain doom by the angel of the LORD killing a camp-full of Assyrian besiegers, but his great joy in deliverance is muted when he falls prey immediately afterwards to a fatal illness.  Hezekiah is having a very bad year, but he throws himself once again on God's mercy through prayer, and God decides to give him 15 more years of life.  This is poem is Hezekiah's response.  As I woke up early this morning feeling sad, unsettled, and anxious, this phrase really sunk in:  It was for my own peace that I had great bitterness.

This is the promise I am clinging to right now.  Because these days are bitter.  In church this morning the children's choir was announced, and I turned to see the 8 or so kids coming up.  Aligonilla met my eye, and smiled.  There he was in his best clothes, a rumpled white button-down shirt and worn tennies, hands in his pockets, mouthing a few of the words and concentrating on the steps of the shuffling dance.  He is a pale, shrimpy, little belly-distended 8ish year old boy whose life I have fought for untold times since he was born, one of the last surviving siblings in a family devastated by sickle cell.  Singing.  In the church choir led by his uncle, a fine young man who has been friends with and helped by many missionaries, now in a teaching job with Melen's Alpha Nursery and Primary school.  Aligonilla is as weak as they come, Byamuntula is one of our hopes for a redeemed Bundibugyo.  And they are both hard to leave behind. Though we are peripheral in each others' lives, we are present, and threads must be cut as we part.  This weekend we've had lots of visits, my widowed and disenfranchised neighbors who value our belief in them, one of our first house-workers who looked stricken to find out he wouldn't have another chance to say goodbye to Luke, one of our sponsored "sons" who chatted at length about school and life, and on an on.  And then we turn from visits to a trunk of old stuffed animals, each with a story of being given and being loved.  This is a life that has held together against many odds.

And is now being disentangled, cut from the loom, with an unraveling of the place we've been given in our community.  It is a bitter process.

But Hezekiah saw that the bitterness he was given was for his own peace.  Not just sadness, but sadness with a purpose and a meaning.  I miss Luke and Caleb.  A lot.  Leaving here brings us towards them.  I have not seen most of my family or Scott's in well over three years (except my mom, who visited here two years ago).  That's a long time in these days of short terms and quick trips.  Gently God is trying, at times, to remind me that it is for my own peace that He is giving the present bitterness.    

Bitterness for peace, and the hope of fifteen more years, different ones, but good ones all the same.

More Uganda-in-the-News

This piece was written by the secretary-general of the United Nations, Ban Ki-moon, about AIDS in Uganda this week, a topic close to our hearts:

At Uganda's largest AIDS clinic recently, I witnessed a remarkable celebration of life. The performers were a troupe of young African singers, drummers and dancers, ranging in age from 8 to 28. Rarely have I been so profoundly moved.

"This is a land," they sang,

"Where beautiful people

"Laugh and dance in harmony.

"Africa. O Africa."

Listening, it was hard to imagine that they easily could be dead - and would be, save for this clinic.

Each of those splendid performers is living with HIV. Some arrived at the clinic so ill they could scarcely walk. Others showed few symptoms but, having tested positive, came to be treated. They were mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children and grandparents. All were alive and healthy for one reason only: the Joint Clinical Research Center, in Kampala, and the drugs that it provides them.

Uganda was the epicenter of the AIDS epidemic. There the scourge began in earnest; there (as elsewhere in Africa) it exacts its highest toll. Yet Uganda also is a success story. A decade ago, fewer than 10,000 people were on the new generation of antiretroviral drugs that suppress the disease and offer the promise of a normal life. Today, that figure is 200,000, thanks in large measure to generous support from the United States and the Global Fund in Geneva.

We have seen similarly encouraging progress elsewhere. Botswana, among others, has invested heavily to offer universal treatment and now is well on its way to ensuring that no baby is born with HIV - a reality in developed countries, but not so in Africa where 400,000 children are born with the disease each year. South Africa, with the largest number of people living with HIV, has spent nearly $1 billion over the past year in an ambitious counseling and testing campaign to roll back the epidemic.

And yet, there is a new and growing danger that these advances might not be sustained. Dr. Peter Mugyenyi, who runs the Joint Clinical Research Center, told me why. Part of the problem is the sheer weight of numbers. In Uganda, he explained, only about half of those with HIV/AIDS are being treated. Meanwhile, money for treatment is drying up. Because of the global recession, some international donors are threatening to cap their financial support.

In Kampala, Mugyenyi has begun placing new patients on a waiting list. Countries such as Malawi, Zimbabwe and Kenya, as well as Uganda, are requesting assistance for emergency drug supplies. As many as 7 million Africans with HIV who should be getting treatment are not. Worldwide, the number is about 10 million.

Compounding the problem: Donors also have been shifting their focus from AIDS to other diseases, where there is a sense that more lives can be saved more cheaply. In other words, at a time when we should be scaling up to meet the AIDS challenge, we are dialing back. In our global war on AIDS, the international community is on the verge of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Those who rallied to the fight are alarmed. They fear the impressive gains of the past decade will be lost. "We are sitting on a time bomb," Mugyenyi told me. Every day, he is forced into moral choices that no one should have to make. How do you choose, after all, to treat a young girl but not her little brother? How do you turn away a pregnant mother, sitting with her children, crying for help?

Surely we can do better. In Kampala, I promised I would do everything I could to help. In Washington recently, the United Nations rolled out an action plan that should dramatically accelerate progress on maternal and child health, including HIV. At the International AIDS Conference in Vienna next month, I hope the international community will rally around UNAIDS' launch of Treatment 2.0 - the next generation of HIV treatment, which must be more affordable, more effective and accessible to all. As chair of this year's replenishment of the Global Fund, I urge all donors to see to it that countries such as Uganda get the support they need, so that Mugyenyi need not make those difficult choices.

Yes, times are hard. That is all the more reason to act out of compassion and with generosity.

• Ban Ki-moon is secretary-general of the United Nations.

Uganda, national day of repentance and prayer

It was announced in church, and in the newspapers today, that President Museveni has listened to prophetic warnings about impending bloodshed and disaster for Uganda, and called for a day of repentance and prayer, following the example of Abraham Lincoln in 1863.  Here is and excerpt from the press release:  

"Accordingly, I have declared that on Sunday June 20, 2010, at 9:00am at Kololo Independence Ground, we shall gather together for a special day of prayer and repentance. This is so that together we may thank God and seek his mercy and forgiveness for this great and chosen nation," the president said.

According to a programme released by the planning committee chaired by Ethics minister Dr. James Nsaba Buturo, the list of sins Ugandans will repent of includes corruption, tribalism, Idolatry, Bloodshed, political injustices (election malpractices, violence, abuse of human rights), unholy priesthood, selfishness, pride, sexual perversion, witchcraft, ancestral worship among many others.

Let us join Ugandans in examining our own hearts and pleading for God's mercy.  In 2011 both Sudan and Uganda will hold elections, potentially pivotal for good or for evil.  Both are places where oil resources could bring great blessing or continued unrest, where the struggle between national African governments and corporate interests outside of Africa threaten to harm the people on the ground.  Kenya was just rocked by violence during a protest rally concerning the vote on a new constitution.  Congo plans for its 50th anniversary of independence on the 30th of June, and is sending the unpopular MONUC armies out.  All these countries surround us, and are places with strong Christian influences where the people of God can lead the way in blessing the nations.  

Going Out, Coming In

Yesterday I sent an email out, desperate for prayer. Three weeks and a day until we fly out of Bundibugyo.  The last push.  Hard.

The daily Psalm that morning had been 121, my Dad's favorite.  It ends with: The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in, from this time forth, and even forevermore.

Going out of Bundi  . . . we ask for grace to bless others as we leave, as we say thank you, as we encourage, as we acknowledge what God is done while not pretending that His work is complete.  Coming in to America . . we ask for grace again to bless others as we come, as we say thank you, as we encourage, as we tell the story of Bundibugyo and ignite more prayer.  Already we've glimpsed God's preserving.  Without our asking, a family in our main supporting church offered us use of their car while we're on furlough.  Another friend offered to contribute to our airfare.  We're being kept, preserved, in the coming and going.

Our team listened to a sermon by Tim Keller from September last year, as Redeemer in NYC celebrated their 20th anniversary.  Something like our time now (well, only by a generous stretch of the imagination can we compare ourselves to Redeemer!).  The topic was HOPE, real Christian hope.  Real confidence that the last 20 years have brought permanent change, and that though the immediate future might involve suffering and even death the ultimate future is a guaranteed GOOD thing.  Living in a way that is different, that calls people to believe . . . but that also says clearly that we will sacrifice to make this place (Bundibugyo or New York) a great place for you to live whether you believe or not.  

Trying to keep that in view, as we go out and come in.