Bearing and Inflicting

More Pain for the Congo

"Fierce fighting between government and rebel forces in the Democratic Republic of Congo has caused a humanitarian catastrophe, the Red Cross says." (BBC)  For those whose family members live here on our team, let me assure you that while we are within 10 miles of the Congo border, our neighboring part of the troubled North Kivu province is to this point unaffected by the fighting further south.  Laurent Nkunda leads a rebel force which has over-run numerous towns and now stands at a cease-fire within a dozen miles of Goma, the provincial capital.  The history here is long and complex and I'm sure I don't understand it.  For the last decade eastern Congo has been de-stabilized by the pillaging of both rebel and government militaries.  Some of this relates to the post-genocide flight of the Hutu militias into Congo, triggering the influx of Rwandan and Ugandan troops to protect ethnic minorities, the overthrow of Mobutu, our own frights with the ADF, the rise of Kabila the elder and the succession of Kabila the younger . . . but lots of it also has to do with the fact that this is a monstrous country with zero infrastructure and vast resources being exploited by Europeans, Americans, Chinese, other Africans, anyone who can get a piece of the wealth.  Meanwhile on the ground ladies wrapped in kitengis who look just like our friends (and some are probably related) are trudging down roads once again with anything salvagable bundled on their heads, trying to decide whether IDP camps within range of the Nkunda rebels are less safe, or more safe, than the towns held by the government.  The UN troops stand in the middle hated by all, particularly the population whom they are unable to protect.   And children continue to die of TB and malnutrition and gastroenteritis, on the run, unable to access care that most of the rest of the world takes for granted.  The IRC (International Rescue Committee) has done commendable research to point out that 4 million people in the DRC have died as a result of this ongoing, ever-shifting war . . . and very few of those deaths were battle-ground bullets.  The death toll is being borne by civilians once again.

Corruption Kills Too

"Uganda has lost 25bn Ugandan shillings ($12m) of Global Fund money due to concerns over poor accountability, according to reports this week. The Global Fund has refused to release a second $10m instalment from the $36m pot it allocated for HIV/Aids activities in Uganda in 2003 because it was not satisfied with how initial payments have been spent, reported New Vision. " (from The Guardian)  When the people who are supposed to work for the health of a country divert aid, pocket money, obscure accounts, and generally use the Global Fund as an opportunity for personal gain . . . the poor, once again, suffer.  Donors have cut Uganda out of funds that could assure that children like Mbabazi in my post below receive medicine.  When a culture turns a blind eye towards truth, children suffer.

So missionaries who talk about sin sound pretty old-fashioned, fundamental, out-of-touch culturally, intolerant.  That is because we fail to see the logs in our own eyes, so let me first say that the power and greed and deception that plague Africa are the same germs of evil that plague my own heart.  But that is not a reason to pretend they are not germs.  At the root of today's headlines:  sin.  One group that panics and wants to assure its own survival by raping and murdering another.  Shady cobalt deals that rape the environment and steal from the poor.  A view of reality that justifies using resources for personal ends with no accountability.  We see the same dynamics in families, in tribes, in local politics . . but when they reach proportions of international attention, the effect becomes more clear.  Sin kills.

Pat read us a prayer this week that beautifully sums up the response of the Cross to this mess of a world: Lord, let me bear more pain than I inflict.  Amen.

Today's Needs

We are directed to focus on the needs of each day, one at a time.
Richard, whose body is riddled with painful tumors, being sent to the
bowels of Mulago hospital on a quest for life-saving chemotherapy,
armed only with hope and a hundred dollars. Daniel, whose intractable
vomiting notches his skeletal frame closer to the grave daily in spite
of milk and therapy, 4 years old and 13 pounds, we cry out for his
healing. Basemera, weaned too early, her body swelling from lack of
protein. Mbabazi Kristine, struggling against both TB and AIDS, a few
pounds of humanity frail in the face of those two foes. Kabonesa
Malyamu, in spite of being unable to wrest enough to survive from the
dry breasts of her ill mother, still looks at the world with hope and
trust as she smiles at me every day and sips her milk. For these and
the dozen others whose lives hang on the edge, we ask for today's
mercies, for swallowing without pain, for absorption of food and
medicine, for warmth in the rain and the comfort of familiar arms, for
laughter and respite and safety and wholeness.

More Nostalgia

This is a week of remembrance, and several glimpses of the
orchestration of a light-clothed heaven-stretching Being, working
above and beyond and behind the scenes of time (Psalm 104, from Pat's
prayer meeting . . . ).

My neighbor's oldest wife, who stays in Congo most of the time, came
for a visit, trailing her 10 year old twin boys. As they kicked a
soccer ball around in the yard with Jack and Julia, it dawned on me
that these boys were born in our car, delivered by Scott who had been
trying to get them to the hospital in labor all those years ago.

In chapel the S6 students came forward for prayer, before they begin
their final period of University-qualifying exams. There are only
about a dozen of them, and many have been with the school all six
years and we therefore know them well. One is one of our sponsored
boys. Another is a former m'lm orphaned boy who became a Christian at
school. One of the girls is the daughter of one of Bundibugyo's
freedom fighters, a man who led the rebellion many years ago that
threw off the domination of the Toro Kingdom, and who has inherited
his charisma and leadership. But I was mostly focused on three girls
who were in my cell group for several years in their O-level days. I
am not a very notable evangelistic missionary. In all my years here, I
have only had the privilege of being present with about 10 people as
they became Christians. That's OK, we are a body and I am more of a
hand, touching, feeding, healing, typing, than a mouth or a head who
preaches and sees conversions. But those few are important to my
heart, it is a remarkable experience to watch over months and even
years as a girl weighs her beliefs and takes the courageous step of
change. Two of those three girls from my group who stood yesterday,
nearing graduation, were among those who made professions. I have
seen genuine faith slowly blossom in both, and I am grateful.

Physical and spiritual new life, a good legacy. And the two come
together sometimes, too, in Kwejuna project. Yesterday was a very
trying day at the health center. We are in the midst of Child Health
Day outreaches, meaning that most of the staff has been deployed to
villages to dispense vaccines and vitamin A and deworming tablets.
The malnourished and HIV-infected seemed to pour in in their absence,
lots of new admissions and new patients. I was very stretched by the
onslaught of patients and the exodus of staff, if Pat had not plugged
on I might have given up. So it was another gift from God to review
two of our last patients together, bright spots that made our tired
and hungry and grouchy faces smile. Sera Sedrack had been admitted
last month in a pitiful state of starvation, which led us to discover
that his mom was HIV-infected, his sister had TB, and he was somehow
free of both diseases and just hungry. Now many packets of milk and
days of monitoring later, he's unrecognizably rounded, from 5 kg to
7kg as he returned for follow-up, and his mother and sister are
getting treatment. The second was Crispus, whose PCR results just
came in. His HIV-positive mother had been screened in pregnancy, took
her drugs, delivered her son, fed him only from the breast for six
months, and brought him for viral testing as instructed. He was
negative! In fact all the results just in from last month's Kwejuna
batch were negative. So he will wean while he's safe, and hopefully
live a long and joyful life. And his mother will be followed and
treated and hopefully get to live many of those years with Crispus.
And these families will hear the good news of God's love for them at
the same time they see the evidence in the care they are offered.

Which brings us back to Psalm 104, the transcendent God who rebukes
oceans and spins moons, also directs rains for the grasses and trees
and vines that make the oil and wine and bread that bring beauty and
joy and strength to the heart of man (14-15 in the middle). Decades
ago he new that Nalongo would be in labor, that Winnie and Farida
would be searching for truth and meaning, that Sedrack would be hungry
and Crispus would be threatened by HIV, and He brought together the
people and fuel and pills and money and books and love to reach each
of them.

Fifteen Years

October marked our fifteen year anniversary of living in Uganda. As
the month draws to a close I was thinking about this, about the
changes in our neighborhood over the last decade and a half. More
mbati (tin) roofs instead of grass. More vehicles, motorcycles, and
bikes. More kids. More schools. More people wearing shoes. More
buildings, shops, paths, roads. More trash. More choices, for us and
others. More expenses. More organization. More communication. More
obligations.

Our newest team mate, Nathan, will land tomorrow. When we landed 15
years ago this month, we sat forlornly on our pile of bags outside the
somewhat decrepit old Entebbe airport as the sun rose and smoking
cooking fires filled the air. Luke was an infant being swarmed by
what I thought were malarious mosquitoes (they were lake flies,
harmless, just annoying). We had no phone, no contacts, and no plan
for what to do if our team did not pick us up. Several Ugandan
drivers approached us, but we kept hoping that someone who knew us
would show up. We had heard of the Sheraton Hotel and so were about
to try and hire a taxi when a blue pick-up pulled up two hours late,
and Atwoki, the Ugandan mechanic who served our team over many years,
jumped out. It turned out that both Dan and Betty were sick with
malaria and therefore had to send him. . . we went back to the
Namirembe Guest House, back then a very simple place with common
bathrooms and hostel-like bare accommodations and Ugandan food, to set
up Luke's pack and play and try to get some jet-lagged sleep in the
heat. No A/C, no fans even. To make a phone call telling our
families we had made it we all went to the lobby of the Sheraton
(which was why we had heard of it before arriving), a past-its-prime
somewhat dingy place at that time, where the only international line
was located for pay. No cell phones, no internet. No bottled water,
few sodas. Then Lynn Leary took us shopping--no grocery stores, no
mall, just a 4x8 foot duka, opening onto the sidewalk, where we bought
flour and oil and salt and sugar. The biggest treat was Ribena, a
juice-like drink. I think I still have the shopping list Lynn wrote
us in pencil on a legal pad, detailing all 20-some items available for
sale in the country. Thankfully the Herons went to Kenya in those
days and came back with huge rounds of cheese, which a thousand
kilometers later we divided up to share. When we finally got into our
4-wheel-drive vehicle to drive west, the road soon petered out into a
dirt track. It took two LONG days to get to Bundibugyo. People waved
and stared. A passing truck was a rare event then. We waved back.
This was to be our home, and I remember how stark and National
Geographic it looked.

But I also remember driving into the mission for the first time, and
looking up. The mountains. My heritage is Appalachian, West Virginia
Hills. Somehow in all the anticipation and discussion it had never
dawned on me that we would be living at the foot of Africa's third
highest mountains, the Rwenzoris, where equatorial snow rises above
the palms. Some people feel a sense of belonging in the city, by the
ocean, in a suburb, on a plain. For me the ridges populated by
insular clans, the rivers running down, and the green hillsides rising
up, felt like a gift of beauty and security. My Dad's favorite Psalm
was 121, which happened to be my reading today in Peterson's year-long
Psalm devotional. Driving into Bundibugyo 15 years ago with a baby
and trunks and little else, the hills reminded me that our
transcendent God gives unexpected gifts.

And that, though much has changed in 15 years, He has not. The
glaciers have receded but the mountains stand, unmoved.

Arm youselves

Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger, is one of our favorite all-time books.  Jack is currently reading it, and left it on our bed (ever a favorite nesting spot) so I picked it up and re-read the first chapter in which the narrator describes his near-disastrous entry into the world as a blue and lifeless newborn baby until his father knocks over the non-resuscitating doctor and picks him up, commanding him to breathe.  The chapter ends with these great lines:

If he were to begin the account, I believe Dad would say what he said to Swede and me on the worst night of all our lives:

We and the world, my children, will always be at war.

Retreat is impossible.

Arm yourselves.

Real Risk: Roads

From today's Ugandan newspaper (New Vision) with a front page picture of a car smashed by a bus:  

According to Police records, the death toll from road accidents shot to 2,334 last year, up from 2,171 in 2006. In the last 10 days, 90 people have died and hundreds sustained injuries in bus accidents.

The Police blame reckless driving, speeding, defective vehicles, environmental factors and poor roads. 

Puts Ebola in perspective.  We keep the angels busy when we drive.

Parenting-Stretch

On the rebound from across-two-country parenting, and back to the almost-parenting we lamely offer our sponsored boys. We got a call this week about the youngest, Ivan, who is finishing his final year of primary school in Bundibugyo Town and about to sit for the all- important Primary Leaving Exam (PLE), a two-day four-subject test that will qualify him to enter secondary school. The teacher said "Ivan has fractured his leg". What??? I was imagining Ivan lying shattered, bleeding. When they put him on the phone (his English skills are excellent, so it is easier to understand him than the teachers . . ) it sounded like a sprained ankle. He had been accidentally pushed over in the dark two days prior by two boys running from each other out a door . . and twisted his ankle as he tripped over a stone. We sent our oldest "boy" Ndyezika anyway to take Ivan for an xray. The ankle was fine, just lots of swelling. Just to be sure, when Scott was in town Friday, he stopped by the boarding school to examine Ivan. To his concern he found that in addition to the sprained ankle there was point tenderness further up his leg. He came back and looked at the films, and sure enough, there is a small fracture visible in the tibia, hard to see because the xray tech had written over that part of the film! So we brought Ivan down for a plaster cast and crutches yesterday, and a good lunch and encouragement from his friends and prayer. He sits for exams Nov 3rd and 4th, and his preliminary results on practice tests have been encouraging. Pray for his healing and for scores that will allow him to join the others at CSB. It seems that our injury and illness cloud these past months is extending from our biological children to encompass our school boys. So now we have Basiime on chronic glaucoma therapy, Luke beginning to return to soccer, Julia healing her stitches, Jack still impaired, and Ivan on crutches. A family of the wounded.

The last Sunday of every month CSB gates are opened to parents who wish to visit. This morning we attended the early chapel and then invited our five boys to have a "tailgate" brunch. It was a good time to hear about the ins and outs of exams and school life, to bring them some news of their neighborhood, to fill their stomachs with a hot meal and sweet banana muffins. Mutegheki (far left) is about to finish O level exams as he completes S4, and Birungi (far right) will soon enter the month of A level exams which mark completion of S6. Kadima and John are in Caleb's S3 class, and Richard continues S5 after graduating with Luke from S4 last year. Through various circumstances God has placed these 8 boys in our lives, from Ivan up to Ndyezika. Four have no father and so we function as the responsible fee-paying parent. Four do have a living father, but we have embarked upon sponsorship over the years either out of friendship or awareness of the students' potential or taken pity on boys whose fathers are alcohol-impaired and unable to provide for them. All have been in our lives for a most of our time in Uganda, which accounts for most of their young lives as well. I'm thankful for them but painfully aware of how stretched we are, and how little we provide of the real love and guidance and support a child needs to thrive. Still we pray that our belief in them is a seed watered by the celestial calculus of grace so that an unexpected family tree blossoms.

Myhres out of mire, onto the wall

Psalm 40 echoes the verses from Micah which God put on my heart earlier in the week, was the text Heidi chose for prayer meeting on Weds, was quoted in the chapter of a Piper book we read for team meeting devotions, and then, of all the unlikely places, appeared in a secular TV show episode we happened to watch last night (24!). When one text out of thousands jumps out from four different directions, four times in a row, in four days, one should listen. So today I've ben thinking of the wall-standing image in the context of the mire beneath. Here we stand, on the solid rock of the stone wall, surrounded by evil muck. And here we call, for help from the One who set us here. We didn't climb out of the mud on our own, nor can we respond with mercy and justice unless we are delivered.

This week the stand has taken me to our two outpatient nutrition programs, where we monitor and treat moderately malnourished children using a locally produced peanut/soy/moringa paste. This is an expensive and labor-intensive proposition, but the results have been fairly good. Over the last few months some of the volunteers and health-workers involved had begun to complain, to push for more benefits for themselves, to threaten to quit, and to accuse each other. Heidi and Baguma Charles had patiently put up with this and I finally realized I had to spend the time to go hear their issues and hold the line. So I did. While it is never pleasant to have to be the tough guy, in this case the outcome was encouraging. The troublemakers were revealed and we were able to see that the nurses in each center, Robina and Babika, actually take pride in their work and want to continue. And in each place it was a good reminder to see the patient grandmothers and the skinny babies, the listless toddlers and the too-young mothers, all waiting for hope.

This week the stand has also occurred closer to home, listening and hugging and encouraging not only Jack (who is doing better but still struggles) but also several team mates. It is hard to be far from the familiar. Sometimes when our families are in crisis, it seems even harder, we wish we could be present to lend a hand to the sick or unemployed or depressed. Other times when our families rejoice, we feel left out, missing weddings and births, celebrations and changes. Saying goodbye to team mates only accentuates loneliness. And living in Bundibugyo can impact our freedom to invest in our own relationships (team and family and friends) the way we would like, always having to make hard choices about who gets our attention. I was reminded this week of a spiritual epiphany which occurred in our first or second year, when I was pregnant with Caleb, and had a pretty bleak history of miscarriage and preterm labor and hospital visits and medications that would lead one to doubt the wisdom of being pregnant in Africa. I saw that in my heart I wanted to say: because I'm a missionary now, this pregnancy should be smooth, as if God owed me a healthy baby . . . but instead I saw the path of faith had no guarantees that my family would thrive in the way I longed, but I still wanted to walk on it. Now I'm in the position of trying to stand on the wall beside my fellow team mates, testifying to the cross, but not deciding for them in just what way God calls them to bear it. Wisdom is needed. Some might miss family events. Others might miss opportunities for marriage. Others might miss opportunities for more children. Others might miss the kind of education or experiences we all want for the children we already have. These are hard, hard things, and it takes courage to stand, to not wish for a smoother higher wall further from the mire.

And this week the stand requires advocating for the voiceless. Little Daniel has wasted away before our eyes, a third of his weight lost over the last month, leaving the skeletal essentials, his weakened body unable to swallow and digest the milk we try to give. We cry out for his healing, and daily insist that the staff and his parents keep trying. The ward is packed full again, floor space only, Heidi and I process through, looking for a stand to take for a Congolese child with what will probably turn out to be a malignancy,whose bewildered mother I can not imagine navigating our national referral hospital's hostilities. Or a mother we diagnosed HIV positive today who is terrified to share the news with her husband. Or the jaundiced child whose blood we are sending to screen for hepatitis, a strain of which has spread out of control in northern Uganda. Or twins whose mother died and whose no-nonsense aunt has them sitting in unnaturally quiet cooperation during hours of rounds. One of our potential new doctors, posted but not yet paid, spent the afternoon venting on his frustrations with the corruption and apathy in the district political system, the unfulfilled promises and the financial obscurity. What to do but empathize, and point him to the mercy and justice of God?

Psalm 40 ends with the juxtaposition: the incredible and improbable truth that God "thinks upon me" . . . and yet the desperate plea "Do not delay, O my God." The testimony of mire-extraction, but the awareness of teetering upon the exposed rock, calling for help.

On the wall

Heidi wrote a post weeks ago, reflecting on a movie which referred to
respect for the marines because they are the guys standing on the wall
that allows the rest of us to sleep safely at night. For some reason
that image has stuck with me, as a paradigm for our role. The Gospel
is supposed to tear down walls between people . . .but sometimes I
sense that our calling is to stand as a wall that limits evil in some
small way. To say this far, and no further, to the myriad of harms
that swarm Bundibugyo. To wrestle a modicum of order from the descent
to chaos. To insist that a lab be done, that a medicine be given,
that staff members complete their work, that food be distributed. To
cook another meal or listen to another problem. To confront brutality
or abuse. To pray. To not abandon the post.

From a walk to a run

Luke called to say that he met with the orthopedic surgeon today, and was at least cleared to begin practicing again. He's supposed to pace himself back to full activity over a period of a few weeks. So he re- entered the JV team today, not doing everything, but finally off the bench. Hooooray! Interestingly, the surgeon showed him his MRI and explained how deep and large the bone "bruise" was, and showed him where there was a slight ligamentous tear (sprain). Both of those findings help him understand the ongoing intermittent pain he has experienced. But there are now no findings on his exam that would indicate a meniscal tear or need for surgery (parenthetically, the official radiology report DID mention the meniscal tear, so we are doubly and triply and umpteenly glad that God put an experienced orthopedic surgeon in Kijabe this year who made his own interpretation of the films). This has not been an easy time for Luke, but we see God's mercy in the reprieve, and a toughening and growing maturity through the disappointment and pain. A few weeks of actual exercise and fun would be nice now. We all sense a lifting of the burden, and a hope. Many thanks for the many prayers on his behalf.