D-day minus 5: Naming the Losses

The TCK book, which I am speed-re-reading as if I can minimize the damage to my kids in this last week, says that Third Culture Kids' (those that grow up in a culture different than their parents', and yet are not fully part of it, so they create their own "third" culture from their origins and their hosts) losses are so often hidden, which makes them hard to mourn.  No one dies, there is no funeral, and for Jack and Julia no graduation ceremony.  Yet they are getting on an airplane with one suitcase and leaving behind their entire life, in a place that is rather inaccessible and completely removed from day to day reality in America.  They won't run into their old friends, or sit on their old furniture, or speak their old language, in their new environment.  Ironically, there was an actual example in the book about a "rock collection", and within a few hours of reading it we came across Jack's bag of rocks.  Which we then packed.

So last night we talked a little about the losses.  For them:  their best friends at school, Charity for Julia and Ivan for Jack.  Star, our dog.  The cows, DMC, Truffle, and Oreo.  Their teachers, especially Miss Anna and Master Desmond right now (found out they made him a card on their own, and presented it to him today).  This house.  Their bikes (though they won't miss being abused on the road as they zip by).  Their school.  Playing football.  That's about where their attention span ended, but we pray that we remember to take time to keep naming.  (They didn't mention their books, but their primary coping strategy seems to be reading, hours a day, all their old favorites, like visits with friends they will soon leave behind.)

As we name the losses, we also look forward, and hold on to the paradox that longing to see grandparents does not negate their love for Bundibugyo; that missing their home here does not minimize the value of their relationships with their cousins.  That being hopeful about a house with fewer roaches and bad smells does not mean we are not content with this one.

And I'm listing as well.  The data-base I keep of HIV-affected children.  413 names, from a few weeks to 16 years old.  Many who represent a big investment of my heart, many whom I barely know, all in need of an advocate.  As I updated and printed today to turn it over, I felt like crying.  Then Assusi told me that she had just come from a workshop on early infant diagnosis, and planned as of next week to start setting up a screening point in the Wednesday clinic to track these kids!  That would be wonderful.  Pray for her!  And Costa, who labors on in spite of this marginal system.  Our team can not just swallow up all our burdens, they have to be carried by Jesus and shared with others, like Assusi and Costa and Olupah.

And so another departure paradox.  Acknowledging that only God can care for Bundibugyo, whether we are here or not.  But also looking back to say that those hours and days and years did mean something, that choices had consequences, often for good.  That our team's actions here DO indeed bring the Kingdom, and that the inevitable cutting back on some of that effort is real, and sad.  Change for good, but not all of the change is good.  A loss that needs to be named.

D-day minus 6

D as in Departure, not Disaster or Destruction or Dissolution, I hope.

Monday we went to our last BundiNutrition Meeting, a nice time of closure to thank Pauline, Lammech, and Baguma Charles for their work. These three competent, committed, skilled people are the hands of World Harvest in our community in many ways, following up on goats, teaching about nutrition, weighing and screening kids, distributing local ready-to-use supplemental food, supervising chickens and eggs and demonstration gardens, encouraging and exhorting. They work hard, and bless many, and we are very grateful to have been their colleagues.

Monday evening, we had a "last supper" with our two houseworkers and their families. Baguma and Saulo smooth out our life here, washing clothes and the breakfast dishes, mowing the grass, keeping back the jungle, sweeping, advising, caring for us most mornings a week. We would not do much else besides survive if we did not have their help. Each of them uses their salary to support a wife and four kids. Though we've left them with an investment to help them become self-sufficient, it will not be easy for them when we leave.

Today we're preparing for our "yard sale", meeting visitors, praying, settling financial details. Still to come this week, last CSB staff Bible Study, last CSB chapel, last team meeting, last NHC staff Bible study, last day of school for kids. Last meal at home, last times with friends. You get the picture.

Please keep praying. God has graciously given us the sense that the timing is His. So many things have fallen together. We are overwhelmed with things to be thankful for. But this is, after all, still the Kingdom frontier. Luke has been quite sick with a fever high enough to cause mental confusion at RVA. Caleb is also not feeling very well. Got word today that one of our key supporters, who had planned to visit in July, had to cancel his trip to have heart surgery on Wednesday! And we sense the need for prayer to have words from God as we say our goodbyes.

So, D-day minus 6, and still very much in need of prayer.

Independence Day, the 4th of July

The infusion of new Americans, the spirit of the World Cup USA National team, and our impending return to visit America for the first time in 3 1/2 years . . .all led to a 4th of July celebration such as has not been seen since the days of Joanna Stewart. Amy did face paint and provided the party, Anna had the kids make headbands and batons and march to a Wee Sing America album, the team pitched in creatively to come up with hamburgers and cole slaw and baked beans and watermelon and even home made ice cream. There was a hoola hoop contest and a three-legged race in which Julia + Anna-the-intern narrowly edged out Jack + Anna-the-teacher. No one but Aidan wanted to run with me, so we had a good time cheering on the sideline.

Since the day fell on a Sunday, Travis asked us to think of songs and Scriptures along the theme of "freedom". And the song that keeps running through our minds with that word is a Michael Card ballad about various disciples leaving their fishing nets to come to work with Jesus . . "It's hard to imagine the freedom you'll find, from the things . . you leave behind." That's the freedom we're pursuing, the freedom in Luke 14. It's the cost-counting freedom of choosing discipleship over any human relationship, or community, or work, or income, or place. It's the freedom that still feels elusive, though I'm down to one 16-kg red duffel to carry with me, and about five trunks of random papers, books, clothes, pottery, sewing and art materials, and other stuff to come later on our first trip back.

How does freedom from the tyranny of possessions fit with American Independence Day? I think the link is . . war. Something besides God always wants to dominate our time, our hearts, our thoughts, our priorities. And freedom-to (worship, vote, work, move) only comes after freedom-from. And the freedom-from only comes with struggle. That's the cost we count. That's the war that was fought by colonists, not that they did everything right, but that they were willing to lay down lives for a cause they saw as just. That's the daily taking up the cross, the boldness to say that something intangible is more real and more important than whatever we're called to crucify.

Independence is not really the goal of our lives anyway, but dependence upon the right things: prayer, friendship, community, family . . truth. Jesus said: you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. So this process of purging is really a process of truth, the truth that our life is not found in this stuff, the truth that following Jesus is worth more than keeping hold of this life we've worked so hard to carve out.

Happy 4th of July.

Sails to the Wind

This quote came in a prayer-email from Rose Marie Miller this week:

"I am seeing more and more that we begin to learn what it is to walk by faith when we learn to spread out all that is against us; all our physical weakness, loss of mental power, spiritual inability--all that is against us inwardly and outwardly--as sails to the wind and expect them to be vehicles for the power of Christ to rest upon us.  It is so simple and self-evident--but so long in the learning." ( Lilias Trotter, missionary to Algeria. A Blossom in the Desert.)

This leaving process has been a journey into weakness.  We are exhausted.  And treading territory we do not know.  We're irritable and discouraged a lot. We know we are letting a lot of people down.  Scott found a file that included the proposal we wrote up in 1992 prior to coming, when our vision was to have trained a thousand community health workers and ten doctors within 20 years.  Reality has not quite matched our dreams, and much of that feels like our failure as we pack up.

But Rose Marie's quote from Lilias Trotter boldly states that all that weakness, physical (another trunk to lift!), mental (decisions, decisions) and spiritual (sadness and mistakes) forms a huge billowing sail, which we raise and spread to catch the wind of the Spirit.  Perhaps God is about to blow into this place in gale force.  Or into us.

So, sails to the wind, we display all our messiness, and hope.

President Museveni Visits Bundibugyo

Last night we heard rumors that "the President is coming" . . which seemed unlikely since we knew he had been in Congo the day before for their 50th anniversary of Independence, and since the rebel situation across the border in Congo makes traveling that route a bit risky for a Head of State. But when Scott was at the bank this morning the town was abuzz with preparations. And though he had no intention of going to the rally, a persuasive friend convinced him to stick around, which we would normally do as our good-citizen-NGO-representing duty, but this time he felt like he just couldn't manage to spare the time. But this guy pushed him hard to come, so he went to the market to buy a quick pair of decent pants (he was wearing jeans, definitely not OK for a presidential visit), and hunkered down in the crowd to wait for the Big Man.

Before long, however, he'd been escorted to a front-row seat in the "religious leaders'" section. And then assigned to give the opening prayer! So a week before we are to leave, Scott found himself in the center of Bundibugyo in front of a few thousand people and the President of Uganda, praying for God's blessing on this place, and for integrity in leadership. Such a prayer is not just a token speech. It is a real opportunity for impact, for good, for change, for the Spirit. I decided at the last minute to join the Johnsons and the Anna's in driving up to town, but we arrived late (the Johnson-mobile seems to have caught the dread flat-tire-every-outing disease we struggled with for so long). As we stood on the fringes of the crowd we listened to President Museveni speak in Runyankole and Rutooro, related languages to the local one here but a bit more difficult for us to follow. He stood on a platform on the back of a truck, wearing his characteristic floppy sun hat and a dark suit, relaxed, making jokes, enjoying the crowd, telling proverbs and emphasizing his points. The masses were kept at bay by well armed soldiers and careful protocol. We were just enjoying the scene, seeing Scott sitting up front. But my ears perked up when Museveni started talking about ebola. He turned around and pointed at Scott and said "yes, and then I called Dr. Scott and talked to him about it . . ."

Well, let me tell you that if you live in Bundibugyo you are pretty excited when the PRESIDENT mentions someone you know by name, and even admits to having talked to him. Our friends took it as a personal affirmation that the President knows their doctor.

And I have to say that we asked again for prayer this morning, because it's been a hard week. Scott went into the day very discouraged by a combination of things (issues with CSB staff, loose ends on contracts, the oxygen concentrator dying, the already-evident dip in morale at the hospital and exodus of patients, struggling to lift a bunch of trunks into an attic and finding more stuff there that we thought we'd already cleared out, sadness of throwing away files that represent years of work, that kind of thing). He told the team he was in a "funk". So we sent a quick pray-now request to a short list of people. And what an unexpected answer, to be allowed to pray for the country and to be affirmed by its leader. Doesn't God do the most out-of-the-box things to answer prayers??

At the end of the ceremony we all stood to sing the Ugandan National Anthem as President Museveni left. It made me teary again. "Oh Uganda, may God uphold thee . . ." , singing the familiar words with thousands of people, and really meaning it, and knowing we won't be in the middle of such days again for a long time, if ever.

Love Languages

From two cards stuck into random files, found yesterday.

I love you daddy and mommy cuse you love me.

I will try to couse no trouble to you. But I can't promese. I will oh bay you I will get everthing you nede.

From dinner last night, sitting around the table with a couple who have been loyal friends over these many years. . .

Bamparana and Donatina are about our age, though they've been married longer, and have befriended us since our arrival (he remembered meeting us in Kampala when we came in '93, Luke was an infant, we had gone to the only place to make an international phone call in the country, the Sheraton hotel lobby). Bamparana and his wife's memories of being loved centered on a time her mother was sick and almost dying, and Scott treated her, and the healing was a miraculous gift in their eyes. Another time when he was in a serious financial situation and Scott gave him a job. And the two years we spent paying one of their kids' school fees. Love in practical, hands-on, tangible gifts.

My outstanding memories of them . . .

After the disastrous Baptism party for Jack in which our hired musicians sang tribally divisive songs accusing the Bakonjo of being behind the ADF, and Jonah stormed out with his family . . Bamparana was the only church leader who went to say sorry, to smooth things over with Jonah. After Caleb had a horrific night of emergency surgery in Bundibugyo hospital, Bamparana was waiting at our house, praying when we came back. And when Scott's death was announced on the radio during Ebola and everyone was so afraid, Bamparana and Byarufu risked their lives (it seemed) anyway to come to our house and find out the truth. Love as loyalty, presence.

My love for the people of Bundibugyo . .

A paltry token of doing yet another day of rounds. Of bearing the burdens, making the phone calls, helping with transport, so Heidi and Travis can take a day away. Of noticing a little girl sitting in a peculiar way, patting her back and confirming that she had a classic deformity associated with TB of the spine, tracing her family and finding out she was a sibling of a newly admitted malnourished child whom we had suspected of TB, now the case was much stronger. Of another day of helping the staff not give up, of standing against apathy and dissolution. It pains me to see how quickly the care is diminishing as we at WHM pull back and give less input. I'm tempted to feel all was in vain. But I know it wasn't, that there is a slow but sure change in expectation, that the staff skills are triple what they were a decade ago, that this is a small step back that will eventually turn around again.

A patient's love for me . .

When I got back from the morning at the hospital, I remembered that one of my patients' moms had phoned asking to see me today, and had not shown up. But there she was in the kitubbi, waiting. I admit my heart sank. This child was born with posterior urethral valves, and the saga of obtaining surgical correction for him filled two years and untold phone calls, trips to Kampala, letters, contacts, complaints, threats. It put me up against a corrupt surgeon who for a while was the only person in Uganda with the requisite skills to fix Paulo. The story had a happy ending when HOPE Ward helped him connect with an alternative consultant at last, though I saw him a half dozen more times for issues in wound closure post-op. Anyway this is one of the most persistent moms in Uganda, and together we brought Paulo through a problem that could have killed him. Now he's a normal 6 year old. So I was dreading what could be wrong now. But nothing was wrong. She had dressed Paulo in a classy striped suit, and brought me a huge stalk of bananas, a live chicken, and a local woven chair her father made himself, to say thank you. I was floored. It was a gift from them, but also a gift from God, a representation of all the kids over all the years.

Community love for the hurting . . .

And finally, just back from a very depressing burial, the 2-and-a-half year old child of CSB's cook. He went to a semi-private health center for treatment of his sickle cell yesterday, rather than the hospital where he could have been transfused. And did not live long enough to be transferred. At the scene of mourning, this is what love looks like: body to body closeness, hips touching, scrunched, a small room, the boy's mother flailing her arms and hugging his dead body as she wails and faints, the no-nonsense take-charge touch of older women holding her up, spooning her sugar water, loosening her wraps, catching her wild arms. The house surrounded by more women, holding their own babies, quiet tears recognizing that they too are vulnerable. Men sitting a bit further back, in the shade of the cocoa, together on benches.

The love languages: words, gifts, focused time, service, more gifts, and physical touch. All seen here today.

But there are language barriers here, too. The Babwisi I believe are most fluent in the language of gifts. This is the way they sense love. Every relationship, from marriage to parenthood to neighbors is cemented by gift-giving. And their second language is touch, the no-personal-space proximity of the communal crowd. For me, the languages of focused time and words speak more clearly. Which can lead to problems, as we Americans resent being expected to give gifts and judge our relationships based on time and conversation, but our African friends use a completely different measure.

So as we leave we must try to communicate love in a way that is heard.

Countdown Days

Just what we need in our last ten days . . . another animal. Scott is the kind of farmer that tries to leave the loose ends tied up . . so we are "renting" the services of a handsome bull, hoping that Truffle (who is now old enough) and DMC (who is pouring out the milk, but needs to be pregnant again to keep it up) will tolerate his interests and bless the team with two more calves in nine months. Hysterically, this bull (whom we are calling Shadow, because he is smitten by Truffle and has become her shadow) had to be accompanied by his own little herd to the pasture. Yes, we had to pay an extra two dollars so the group of a half-dozen could be herded to escort him to our house, just like a traditional introduction party. They stood outside the fence, he was herded into the pasture, the gate shut, they went home. A simple but traditional marriage.

We're living off the milk basically. There is so much of it. Making very thick yoghurt and using local honey, for a taste that reminds us of Greece and the dreamy promised land descriptions in the Bible. Lunch is often an avocado from our tree, combined with lemons (which are green in Uganda!) from another tree. I know we're heading to a land of abundance, but we'll miss the food that comes right from our yard.

We sort out files in our office, burn 90%, and then try to explain the remaining 10% to Travis and Amy. Life is so much more complex than when we started, so they have to jump in full steam ahead where we had years to gradually build up to this pace. I hope lots of people are praying for them. Garnering more prayer has to be one of our biggest priorities in the five months stateside.

Meanwhile Heidi braves the hospital with Assusi, giving care and the dignity of listening and touching to the ill and dying. I feel guilty preparing to leave while children are such terrible condition. But the truth is only Jesus can heal them, through others as well as through me, and in His mercy He's calling a good number to Heaven these days. As Travis and Heidi keep reminding us, if Heaven were here already, we wouldn't need to be. OK, you're right. It's a long, slow process. And it will have to continue for many, many more years.

And lastly, CSB staff Bible studies, chapel, meetings, chats. Very encouraged by Eric's teaching from 1 Corinthians chapter 1. Paul writes glowing things to a church that later in the letter turns out to need reprimands for immorality, idolatry, strife, disorder, all kinds of mess. Because Paul knows that God's grace is at work. We don't have to pretend that Bundibugyo is in great shape to justify leaving. Bundibugyo is a mess. We are a mess. The world is a mess. But the Kingdom comes, slowly, surely.

The Feast and the Cross

Sort of stuck in Luke 14.  A good place to be.  After meditating on how we steel ourselves for battle only to find out that the draft letter is really an invitation to a party . . . kept reading and the whole analogy shifts from the FEAST to the CROSS.  So death is there after all.  

For any missionaries out there, I'm sorry to tell you, that you don't finish with verse 26-27 when you leave America and land in Uganda. . . . thought we checked that box off, only to find it coming back around, again. The same leaving, letting go, counting cost, applies again in the other direction.  In fact, it is a life-long process, this consciously agreeing to suffer for something better.  To carry the means of our eventual death right in the footsteps of Jesus.  I know we have only a shallow glimpse of what this means.  

The table is spread, but it is set up by candlelight in the valley of the shadow of death, right in the presence of the Enemy.  The feast is offered, but this course at least is served on the battlefield.  

A cost is paid because we value the item we are buying more than the money we spend.  Cost costs.  It hurts, for a while.  But the forsaking all to be a disciple is the best bargain ever offered.  Bitterness for peace, we keep hearing, by faith.

Our team prayed through this chapter for us this morning, interspersed with many of my favorite team worship songs.  Hard and beautiful.  The chapter ends with a prayer for saltiness, which is going to be our prayer for our time in America.  First, that we would be seasoning, a preserving flavor that is noticeably different, never bland, that we would give people a thirst for Jesus.  Second, that we'd be sprinkled in small doses that lend interest and life (hope no one wants to spew us out if we over-stay!).  

Salt is necessary at a feast . . and also goes on wounds.  Let us hold together the communion paradox of the celebratory meal in the presence of death.

Bundibugyo ebolavirus, the official story

This was published on a CDC website this month, authored by the team from Uganda's Ministry of Health and the World Health Organization who responded to the crisis:  http://www.cdc.gov/eid/content/16/7/1087.htm

A friend sent me the link today, and I have read it with a mixture of memories, the stomach-pit reality of those 39 deaths returns quickly, the fear and uncertainty that once gripped this place still feels very fresh.  But the list of authors also reads like a list of heros, the men and women who descended upon Bundibugyo and set up isolation wards and contact-tracing methods and burial teams, who ferried blood samples and held daily briefing meetings.  

So let us pause and remember the fallen.  And remember those still picking up the pieces in the wake of tragedy, like Melen.  And thank God for those who persevere in seeking out the source, and the cure.

Party Planning

What if you had to list 421 friends, and then plan a meal that will realistically satisfy 600?  While we've been talking about a "farewell" for the last week or two, today we finally got serious.  Pat is calling the committee together tomorrow.  Our theme is "Basaija bya Kusiima" (OK we're going to check the Lubwisi), "Testimonies of Thanksgiving" for what God has done in the last 17 years that we and Pat have lived here in Bundi, and we're pushing against a few stiff post-colonial official-function norms by having lunch first (not at 6 pm when everyone is starving and exhausted), by allowing open-mike times of praise in various categories instead of a set schedule of big-men's speeches, by inviting four choirs to present new and original local-language praise songs and dances.  It is intimidating to undertake such an event.  I'm not really sure we'll pull it off.  Prayers appreciated, for July 11.  

My Bible reading today fell on Luke 14, the parable of the great supper.  A man prepares a feast but when his servants distribute the invitations, everyone has an excuse.  Not a very encouraging reading for the day of party planning, I'm afraid.  But what is so interesting is that the excuses in Luke are the very ones offered in Deuteronomy 20 as reasonable exemptions for particular soldiers entering battle.  Since God is fighting the wars for them, He graciously sends home those with new lands, new vineyards, new wives.  Which seems to mean that in Luke 14, the guests mistake their dinner invitation for a draft-letter into battle.  The host, representing God, has prepared a sumptuous and good event.  The people, representing us, sense a risky conscription to war, and balk.  

So how does that fit in our life right now?  It's complicated, so hold on.  We're the party planners in Bundibugyo, yes, but not the host in the Kingdom story.  We're actually the invited guests.  This party, this packing, this departure, this new season of service, is what God is inviting US TO COME TO, and in my heart I'm hesitating, gathering excuses.  Because I see it as being drafted into a dangerous situation of potential loss.  When all the while God is trying to give me something good.  We think the taste will be bitter, but God knows that He's dishing out peace (Is 38 again).

And meanwhile I do think of July 11 as more like walking into the valley of death (goodbyes, tears, potentially hurting anyone left out, chaos, not enough food, rain, etc. ) than as sitting down to a great feast.  Faith still needed, even in this final stretch.