How Soccer Explains the World . . .

. . is the title of a rather disappointing book. The best thing about it is the title, actually.

Scott thoroughly enjoyed traveling with Nathan to Kenya for the weekend, his early Birthday treat from our collective parents. They soaked in RVA life, touching base with some of our heros of mission (like a couple who are planning what to do for the Kingdom in their 8th decade . . ), strengthening friendships God has blessed us with over the years with fellow doctors working in Africa, and creating new relationship with a great couple we met through the Barts taking a sabbatical from Duke to teach for the year. But the real highlight was seeing Luke and Caleb play football, I mean soccer, in a tournament. I've only heard the stories and seen pictures, so Scott will have to give more details, but it looked like great community, effort, teamwork and fun.

Tuesday the varsity played their last game. Luke has been a starter most of the season, and recently was moved into a more central position. We talked to him after this last game and were surprised that though they tied 1 to 1, which knocked them out of the semi-finals for the league, he was completely satisfied with the game. The team worked very hard, played the best they had played all year, gave great effort and team-work and had some beautiful plays. He was satisfied with his performance and ended the year (actually his brief school-sports career) on a solid note, not losing though not winning, and focus on the process.

Then last night we got a message: miracle, there was confusion about the schedule and set-up, somehow the RVA team is back in the semi-finals.

I'm trying to take some heart from that story. Often our life is pretty much a tie, 1 to 1. We don't lose, but we don't see as much victory as we'd like either. We play our hardest and take joy in the teamwork, the community created in the common effort, the satisfaction of doing our best, knowing we can't usually control the outcome. But then, sometimes, God comes in and after we've rested from the game and changes the outcome, and we find ourselves unexpectedly in the championships.

Praying for that this weekend. Lots of effort has gone into the head teacher recruitment process, mostly by Scott, but of course many others too. Adverts, meetings, phone calls, poring through applications, prayer, more meetings. The top 7 of the 20 candidates will be interviewed on Saturday. None necessarily jump out as the obvious choice. And much rides on this decision. Staff are nervous. Missionaries are cautiously hopeful. Parents fear loss of control. Students fear increase in rules. We're playing hard, and the outcome seems to be a tie, hanging in the balance.

So please pray for us to reflect our son's mature attitude: contentment in the play, regardless of the outcome. But do also pray for the last-minute surprise from God. Pray we would see Him step in to break the tie and bring us through to the next stage.

Background anxiety

I've been thinking a good bit about anxiety lately:  "be anxious for nothing" used to seem like a reasonable Bible verse, but I admit it is becoming more challenging.  I have an anxious child, who is struggling at night as he tries to fall asleep.  Sometimes it is the hard realities of the world, that even though HE has two parents almost none of his friends do.  Sometimes it is just the uncertainty of what will happen in his classes tomorrow, whether he's done the work or whether a surprise exam will come up.  Sometimes it is just the sadness of family being apart, and then an anxiety that the sadness will increase and overwhelm.  I think it is easier to believe for the BIG concrete things as they happen, but it is the background-noise of life that we notice in the quiet and dark of our beds, that makes us anxious.  

In the last few days alone, nothing particularly life-shattering has happened (to me I mean, I know other lives are shattered by the minute).  But there in the background are the irregular, unpredictable pings of smaller worries.  Another mild earthquake shaking the bed, waking us at 5:25 am one morning, then a single pre-dawn silence-cracking gunshot at the same time the next day, in both cases we are quite safe but lie awake wondering if it is the prelude to real disaster.  My workers killed a small but poisonous snake in our living room this weekend.  The BBC opened their program yesterday with extensive coverage of renewed fighting in Congo.  UPDF are stationed on the mission once again.  We have technology woes as visitors and team try to connect to their email, our bull is down with a serious leg infection which will be a huge loss of 450 kg of meat if he dies, then there are the daily struggle to plow through the ward full of patients when labs get lost or staff disappear to care for sick relatives or records are unavailable or the list goes on and on.  The ever-present potetial of serious team sickness, of interruption in the water supply line, of cultural misunderstanding, of offending our friends.  

I thought I was a person with a good amount of faith.  But I'm not.  By grace, we need faith just as we need everything else.  This weekend we move into the interview process for a new Head Teacher.  The word on the street is that staff are anxious, too.  Scott keeps reminding us that one of the most-repeated communications from God is "FEAR NOT".  Please pray for us.

An evening greeting

Yesterday I rode Bethany's coat tails, so to speak, to a village visit.  I actually rode Luke's bike, and she took Pat's, a few miles down a dirt road, talking and greeting as we bumped along in the spitting rain.  Bethany spent several years here as a teacher, and has made regular return visits to work with interns or serve our team, so she is well known (though she did get called Becca once along the way, who taught with Bethany LONG ago).  We pushed up hills and avoided goats, gave a wide berth to a teetering inebriated man, laughed at the message on some houses and schools that encouraged "No sweet without sweat" and "No pain no gain".  Right.  Deep breath and keep pumping.  

At last we reached the "pottery house", a homestead of five women who had all been married to one old muslim man who died in August.  Mud homes, a well-swept courtyard, two smoldering fires under a tiny poled root-only kitchen, pots-in-the-making lined up under the eaves.  The oldest wife recognized Bethany with squeals of delight and called to everyone else as she clapped her hands and hugged Bethany off of her bike.  They pulled up the only two low wooden folding chairs for us, and then some stools for others, while the majority sat on mats.  Within moments at least twenty kids between the ages of 1 and 10 had materialized to watch us, closely, while we greeted the women.  And of course curious neighbors sauntered over to check out the excitement.

This homestead has been an unlikely place of friendship for a series of young women on our team.  They asked about their old friends:  Carol Logan seemed to be most on their minds, Amina a former secretary for CSB now in school in Kampala, Catherine, Kim, Rachel.  We gave news of who was working in Sudan, who was married, who was still in school.  Hard to imagine for these women, the way Bethany disappears to another world then returns, with news of all the others.  I've only visited a time or two, with one of the others.

But the most fun, for me, was to find one of my patients there.  I had forgotten that a daughter of this household came through our PMTCT program and was found to be HIV-infected.  She ran into the house to bring her infant Peter out to sit on my lap, an adorable 5-month old with dimples and the thumb-sucking habits of an early-weaner.  There by the kitchen hut a Matiti-project goat stood tied.  And by the fire was a thermos of recently pasteurized milk.  And judging from Peter's cuddliness, not to mention the volume of urine he peed all over my lap, he's getting plenty of goat-milk to drink.  We had just sent tests on him from Kwejuna project last week, so I don't yet know his status.  But in the evening open-air fireside, holding him, smiling at his young mom, I truly prayed he would turn out to be negative.  Sons are the only security for these women, now widows and orphans.

As neighbors enquired, I could hear the women bragging:  Bethany is our friend, she slept right there in that house.  And Jennifer is the mother of those children, those four.  She's the doctor who takes care of the Wednesday patients.  She is in charge of the ward for children.  If your child is sick she helps you with medicine for free.  It is a good place to go.  I'm used to being muka-dokta, the doctor's wife.  So it was interesting to hear myself talked about by women who knew me as a mom (the thing they were most interested in) and a doctor, at random homestead on a small nowhere road, women of creativity and resilience who were willing to befriend a handful of missionaries, and then found themselves also helped in their time of need.  The world is an interesting place.

Blaming Eve

In a move as old as Adam, the dramas presented by the primary school students on Thursday were disturbing to watch. They enacted two parallel families, each having a bevy of girls. But in each family one of the girls was distinguished by wearing a scarf on her head, and that particular character was consistently portrayed as bad: she did not bow low when greeting her elders, she did not respond humbly to the male teacher, she gave impertinent answers, she did not come straight home from school with the others, she met boys in the market and eventually made agreements to meet them for sex. One of the girls then was shown pregnant, and her mother gave her drugs to abort, and she died. Rather a sobering morality play for 4th to 7th graders . . .

I was disturbed by several things, watching. First, that the blame was put solely on the girls. It was their fault that they ended up pregnant, and then dead. OK there is value in emphasizing that we are human actors with responsibility, that our actions have consequences, that we have choices. But the unilateral nature of the blame was unfair, particularly since girls this age are almost exclusively preyed upon by older men. Secondly, the young girl playing the mother who gave the abortive drugs . . . is my neighbor, whom I help with fees, whose older sister was abused by a teacher two years ago, was pregnant, had an abortion, and then went through severe depression. It is heart-breaking to watch kids act out a drama that is so close to their real life, while the audience hoots and laughs (which I know is nervous laughter, but still). Lastly, that the drama ended without hope, in tragedy.

The next day, I was looking through the records of a 2 year old boy on the ward. The teenage young woman caring for him was wearing the very same type of scarf that the girls in the play had worn. Which caught my attention, a symbol or pattern that may indicate God trying to communicate something. I thumbed back through his book and noted that he had been in our nutrition program as a motherless baby, and I had even noted how distraught his young "aunt" was when begging for help and claiming she could not breast feed him because she had her own baby at home. Without saying anything, I just started talking to the caretaker. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was his real, biological mother. So this girl had totally lied to us two years ago, passing off her own child as her nephew (with a letter from her LC1 to prove it). Something about the scarf though reminded me: if I don't want others to blame the victim, then I shouldn't either. So we talked some more. Two years ago she had been a primary grade 6 student at Bundimulinga, our local school. The father of the baby never married her, he is a trader of some sort in Nyahuka (if we can believe her now . . . ). She dropped out of school, but still lives with her parents. Her child looks great, but here she is, unmarried, raising a child, never finished primary school. Yes, she made poor choices and later she lied to get the help she thought she needed. But she's a victim, too, of some man's desire, of poor parental supervision, of irresponsible adults, of an interrupted childhood, of grasping for a life she though would be good but turned out to be a lie.

In the garden God calls Adam, Eve, and Satan all to account. There are consequences, banishment, struggle, sorrow. But ultimately only Satan will be crushed, and the cost will be borne on the wounded heel of the awaited One, so that Eve can re-enter Paradise. What wounds are we called to bear to pull the teenage girls of Bundibugyo back to life?

Parental Care

Today Scott took off for Kenya via Kampala, to see the boys play in a soccer tournament this weekend, a joint early birthday present from all our parents. Which meant that someone had to fill his place as the Chief Guest at a day-long Parents' Day and Graduation Party for the Parental Care Primary school, which is directly across the road from the mission. Strangely enough, no one wanted to . . . so it fell to me. Here the kids are processing into the Community Center (their school is down the hill in the background). This primary school had the best PLE scores in the district last year, and is hopeful to repeat their performance this year. It's a brand new school, 340 students crammed into a small mud-crumbly compound. But they seem to be doing some things right. We're prayed for years about primary schools in Bundibugyo. This might be one of the answers. It isn't every day that we have a "marching band". The first couple of hours of this event consisted of a church service, complete with songs, robes, readings, communion. At that early point in the day I felt that community glow: this is precisely Paul's vision for this community center, and Sam Gray would have been happy to see the building full of kids and parents, the Gospel being preached, a major event in which we as missionaries were cheerleading from the sidelines only. Many of the parents are people we know well. I was blessed to participate, except for my initial seating inches in front of massive blaring speakers tortured by too-close microphone holding. But then the hours went on. And on. I had originally attempted to cut a deal with Ashley: she didn't want to speak, and I said I had no problem speaking, but I didn't want to sit there all day. So she would sit and I would waltz in at the right moment to speak . . . But the event started hours before she was out of school, and by the time she showed up I had been ushered to the front-and-center stage and referred to umpteen times as "Madame Chief Guest" so I was stuck. And as I looked out at the sea of faces above (500?) I was getting more and more nervous about speaking. Notice the chalk board: my speech is #12 of 13 agenda items, and little half-hour extras like the traditional Bakonjo "kikubba" (chest) dance pictured here were not even considered worth writing up. Choirs, a soap-opera like drama, political representatives, multiple levels of school administration all spoke. And there was almost no English used all day, which meant I had to really work to stay alert and figure out what was going on since at many random moments people would refer to me or ask me something . . . Let us say that by 5 pm, the event which started at 10 am was still going full blast. When I finally got the microphone, I realized it was so late and so long that no one was particularly going to catch my "sermon" points: that parental care involves provision, sacrifice, and unending commitment, which led into the parallel that God's parental care for us is the same. So instead of just talking, I told a story of a parent who was the youngest of 15, who worked hard to provide for his children and pay school fees . . who of course turned out to be my dad. I would not be here as a doctor speaking in front of 500 Africans unless he had provided and sacrificed and stayed faithful. I hope it was an encouragement to the parents, and pointed people to God. In the end I realized that my words were minor, compared to just sitting through the day. I wanted to avoid the day-long commitment and just preach. However, what was heard was my presence. No avoiding the sacrifice needed to just listen, clap, smile, encourage, and be present.

Top Up

Bundibugyo has what may be the highest prevalence of Sickle Cell Anemia in the world. And the kids who don't carry a sickle cell gene are universally exposed to malaria (which destroys red blood cells and suppresses their production), universally eat iron deficient diets (low in meat and animal products), and universally are infested with intestinal parasites (which suck microscopic amounts of blood constantly). The result is that almost all kids walk around with a level of anemia that would cause a panic in any American emergency room, and the ones who are sick enough to be admitted to our ward would probably be in a high-level intensive care unit in a place with the resources. So in a typical day on a 25-bed ward, we probably are doing anywhere from 3 to 6 blood transfusions. Topping them up, so to speak, getting that hemoglobin up over a whopping 5 gm/dl, enough to keep the heart pumping and brain awake.

I've noticed recently, though, that there is an alternative top-up going on. By my patients' beds I've started seeing bottles of Top Up ketchup. This is NOT HEINZ, shall we say. I'm not sure any real tomatoes are involved. It is a gelatinous goo, a cancer-causing red color, and sweet. But to the very concrete-reasoning patient population, what looks like blood should be good for making blood, so I see moms spooning it into their kids. As if they needed another reason to vomit . .

One of our favorite patients, Aligonilla, has been topped up three times in the last three days, and yet today is still at only a hemoglobin of 4.4. He was barely alive at 3, but once he's over 4 he sits and colors, smiles, talks, plays. This is the child I alluded to in the gap in blood supply this weekend, when he looked like he could have died, and if he had done so he would have been the 6th or 7th child of his father to die, and the 2nd one in three weeks. We've been struggling for his life since he was born, he's been admitted numerous times, he can't possibly live a normal lifespan, but for now he's topped up and back from the brink of death, so we're all relieved.

And all in a day's work: diagnosed a new 4 year old child with AIDS today, her mother is an articulate lady who actually has a job and connections but out of fear had refused testing in pregnancy, but when we saw the girl, moderately malnourished with a chronic draining ear and huge patches of fungal infection on her skin, we sent her for her test, which was positive. That was balanced by another 4 year old whose mother had died . . the Grandmother was sure the child had AIDS too, and an initial test had been positive, but the confirmatory tests were all negative, so we just told her to go home and live a normal life and thank God. Then there was a lady 7 months pregnant with twins who walked 8 hours from across the border in Congo for an ultrasound with Scott: he was packing up to leave mid-day when she arrived, but once he heard the whole story he regretted feeling frustrated with her lateness! So many stories, these are only a few, that we feel over-the-top.

Need a bottle of Top-Up, perhaps, for energy and faith!

On sheep and shepherding

We studied John 10 this week (I am the Good Shepherd), then Psalm 23  (The Lord is my Shepherd) came up in my daily devotional, and this morning at CSB chapel Peter Were commented on one of the songs sung by the choir which the Spirit used to convict his heart about his responsibility as a shepherd.  When the theme comes up three times in three days from three directions, it is always a clue that this is important.  What is God trying to tell us?  For one, that we are NOT the good shepherd, we are simple sheep.  We need a protector and a leader, someone well-armed and far-seeing who can be responsible for us.  There are many animals one can imagine performing noble rescues or learning tricks.  Sheep are not among them.  We are helpless to even find our own sustenance.  We are clumsy and easily swayed, fearful and unoriginal.  The more we see our sheepishness, the more we know our need for the Shepherd.  WHM and Paul Miller use this famous cross chart:  the more we grasp the depths of our sin and the heights of God's holiness, the bigger the cross becomes, the greater our knowledge of God's power and love.  And we're in that sort of a season here:  Friday Scott was summoned to a meeting of disgruntled teachers worried about their contracts after the unfiltered consultant report (which suggested cutting the staff size in half to save money) was inadvertently passed on without a careful explanation that we are not planning to take every recommendation as an immediate plan.  It all ended well, but again with our team, our patients, our ministries, the sheer complexity of the need makes us practically bleat and run for the fold.  And the more we acknowledge that, the more we will see the Shepherd's grace as the true source of success.

So we're sheep.  But we're also called to do a bit of surrogate shepherding here.  Ez 34 says that God will judge between the sheep .. . and those found abusing the flock in their roles as leaders will be punished.  Like the hirelings it is tempting to run when the going gets rough.  When there is no blood for transfusion and a child I've known from birth is about to give up his 8 year struggle with sickle cell right in front of my eyes, I'd rather get away.  When people aren't happy with the way we've planned or managed something, and feel let down or hurt, it is tempting to avoid them.  And like the thieves, I know that my heart often wants to use my colleagues for their gifts or work rather than valuing them for the essence of who they are.  We are NOT the Good Shepherd, the One who sacrificially goes ahead to clear the way of all danger, whose voice leads through the palpable darkness of death's shadow.  

So what can we do?  This morning in church the preacher referred to Jesus as the Lamb of God.  It struck me that the Good Shepherd became a sheep, the one sheep who would be sacrificed, bled, cut, eaten.  In order for us to grow from sheep towards shepherd.  To follow, yes, but to lead others as well, not based on our quality wool or spiffy hooves, but on the power of the life of the Shepherd in us, drawing others into His paths, being led together by Him.  So let us be shrinking sheep, aware of our feebleness, but whose lives embody the wisdom and power of the real Shepherd in such a way that HIS grace automatically exudes from us for the good of those we're called to lead.

The Struggle Continues: Snapshots of Kwejuna Project

276 HIV-positive women, plus several hundred more children, aunts, neighbors, husbands. 122 children evaluated, weighed, reviewed: 16 newly confirmed to be NOT infected, two newly diagnosed HIV-positive. 5 tons of beans. 300 kg of salt. 4 prayer warriors interceding on the side. A couple of dozen volunteers, missionaries and Ugandans, registering, weighing, carrying, testing. 600 cups of porridge, to bide the crowd through the long day. Untold angels enjoying the spectacle of the happy terminally ill meeting together. Pat shared with us the testimony of two of the women: they thanked God for their HIV-infection, because it was the reason they came to know Him. Scott with his check-lists and organization moving the whole process along. Two supporters in New York who never see the blessing they bestow by funding this effort.

This is Dieu-Merci. Her mother quipped that she did not become infected through an HIV-positive husband: she became infected through SOMEONE ELSE"S HIV-positive husband. Hmmmm. When this baby was born, she looked like she needed God's mercy in more than just her name. She was tiny, and hospitalized with a serious infection of her miniscule leg and knee joint. Though her mother had never settled down much before, she took seriously the responsibility of this baby that she never expected to have. She was persistent and aggressive in seeking care. Because of her life-threatening early infection, I had little hope that the baby would turn out to be HIV-negative. But today she had her third and final negative test. She escaped. God's mercy.

Biira Latifa's mother sat at my station looking confused. She did not know the child's birthdate, or even age, and seemed confused on the name. She could not come up with any paperwork to show any previous care or testing. Her vagueness came across as deceit to me, and my quick-to-judge heart suspected fraud (we do get people lying about who they are or their kids are, to try to get food .. . ). I spied an immunization card in her bag and made her pull it out, expecting to prove mistaken identity. But it was the right kid, and the mom seemed embarrassed that she was so flustered. She did not look so well herself, and other women began to tell her what to do. Perhaps she was anxious, or perhaps the HIV has affected her mentally. We sent Biira for testing. An hour later they were back, waiting for the result. I told her that Biira was negative, not infected. She clapped her hands above her head, loudly, praising God and attracting attention. But then she bent down, covered her face with her hands, crying. It made me get tears, too. Here was this mom that I thought was deceitful and incompetent, but she was trembling with relief about her daughter, thankful.

These are two small snapshots of a day full of noise, bustle, facts, figures. Real people with real stories, too numerous to tell: Byaruhanga with his mom Luci, back from months of disappearance. Mumbere with his faithful grandmother, feisty as ever, infected but thriving on ARV's. Another careful mom who begged for yet one more test on her child, too scared to believe the good news until she had it in triplicate over the course of two years. Broken-hearted women asking for prayer for their children left with grandmothers and fathers, because they've been chased away from the family, stigmatized with their infection. Women smiling at each other's children, greeting old friends. Women who have been with us for five years, pressing on. Small struggles in a continent-wide battle against AIDS.

Playing to Heal

When we admit malnourished children, their wilted spirit often mirrors the condition of their body. Most do not bother to protest my exam much, they are listless, apathetic, resigned to a lethargy that began as hunger and is now the atmosphere in which they live. Over days and sometimes weeks, as their sapped energy is replenished by nutritious milk, eggs, and beans, the resurrection which starts from the cellular level eventually expresses itself in eyes calm and widely open, or at long last a smile. We tell the caregivers that this process of recovery requires more than just calories: the children need warmth, human contact, care, love, interest, and play. Their mind and spirit need to be reached even as their body is reviving. Occasionally a nurse will have the time or energy to hold one of the kids, or we might get hand-me-down toys or books from boxes from home, or from team mates. Because most kids don't become malnourished while living with particularly energetic or upstanding adults . . . the caretaker's indifference can be part of the problem. So this month we are happy to welcome a visitor who is a marriage-and-family therapist in the States. Today Karen sat on the floor of the ward, with the bag of toys she brought. Around her were gathered some of our most pitiful little friends: Azibu with AIDS who has increased her size by 50% in the last month after dwindling to near-death levels, or Aligonila with sickle cell disease who has spent his entire life a step away from death, weeks and weeks in the hospital for blood transfusions. Others who I've only seen lying in bed now sat and held a doll. The adults were curious, attentive. We hope that Karen can model healthy playful interaction, in a way that encourages continued work with these children after she leaves. We've asked her to teach at our staff meeting on Friday, too. And meanwhile her husband Dan is absorbing all he can on rounds and in the outpatient department, his training as a PA about half done. They are a couple we would love to see God calling back into Kingdom work in Africa.

And there is a side-story of redemption in these pictures, a staff member who seemed hostile, who seemed reluctant to work, passive-aggressive. In my self-righteousness and judgment I condemned her work-avoidance. Then I talked to another friend for insight about what was going on below the surface, and was reminded that this lady had an infant who died this year, and neither we nor many other staff went to her home to console her or attend the burial. Ouch. Here I am ticking off missed days, and there she is in mourning, feeling bitter. Instead of nagging her, I began to invite her to join in our nutrition work, and one day brought her some books to use in her health education efforts. As she softened, and even smiled at me, I asked her if she'd like to work with Karen this week, and she agreed. Hard to remember sometimes in the midst of chaos and too-much-work, that our colleagues are also human beings, and need the same TLC that the malnourished patients do to draw out their true selves. Not easy for harsh and demanding doctors like me! Lord have mercy.

Monday

Monday, the launch of a new week, feeling portentous after the rumbling introduction of Sunday's earthquake. On the cell phone with SIL (Wycliffe translation team) by 6:30 to confirm the lack of rain so that their early AIM-Air flight could land by 8 am. Several Americans and Ugandans stretched their legs and smiled tentatively as they climbed out of the the Caravan airplane, glad to be on the solid ground after the cloudy sky. We loaded up 3000 new copies of Acts in Lubwisi and with Pat transported the team to their first venue. There is a translation consultant here for two weeks to check the book of Romans: like our CSB consultants this summer, a mature Ugandan man, not a foreign missionary, who will go chapter by chapter, verse by verse, through the book with our two translators. Also along for just the day, a literacy group following up on the use of an AIDS-prevention story booklet, and another group of Ugandans who will help develop a Lwamba orthography. Yes, the Lubwisi Bible still leaves out a significant minority of Lwamba speakers, so SIL is launching plans for a second translation project! We left all this in Pat's hands and saw patients for a couple of hours . . then back to the airstrip for the arrival of another flight, this one bringing the smiling faces of Dan and Karen Thrush. Dan is a Physician Assistant Student, and his wife is a marriage-and-family-counselor, and we hope they are both potential long-term Africa missionaries in the future . . at least if a few weeks with us does not discourage them too much. We left them in Nathan's capable care, the hospital in Scott Will and Heidi's hands, and then spent much of the rest of the day at the special welcome ceremony for the new Bishop of the Rwenzori Diocese for the Church of Uganda. This occurred in a a semi-outdoor all-day church service with singing and preaching and prayers. I know some of the theology becomes distorted as we hear it from the periphery . . but from the Bishop himself we heard a humble and Biblical message. In fact the theme of weakness came through again, as he said it was not his wisdom or power that enabled him to serve, but the power of Christ in him. And he challenged the assembled hundreds of people to respond to God's grace by presenting themselves, separating from sin, leading transformed lives, that demonstrate the Gospel (Rom 12:1,2). Probably 80% of the congregation stood and came forward for the altar call, which is frequent here as people respond en masse and feel compelled to do so multiple times. From there it was back to the airstrip to pick up the pilot who had spent the rest of the day in Sudan, some interactions with team mates, and dinner. Ran into CSB teachers who had been monitoring exams . . .Monday was also the first day of O-level exams, the all-important month-long 20-some papers of testing that students must complete to graduate from hight school. And our day ended when we heard our dog making strange choking noises about 10 pm, ran outside to find her straining at her chain because she was being attacked by biting ants. THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS of them! All over our yard. Scott got out with industrial amounts of ant-killer and did battle. The Kingdom goes forward in outreach, translation, conversions, dedication, health care, schooling . . . but the ants remind us that we're still in enemy territory.