Radiating peace into reality

Six treatments down, 22 to go in the first course of external beam radiation therapy (then another 28 in the second). Daily Scott has to be precisely positioned on a table of technology, scans pinpointing the targeted areas of cancer, four humming metal arms emitting unseen rays of energy as they rotate around his body. The procedure is meticulously calculated to maximize disabling damage to the cancer cells and minimize the same to the rest of the body. The radiation itself can't be felt or seen or heard. Healing mysteriously, we hope. 

In the first hours and days post-resurrection, Jesus quietly appeared to Mary, to the women, to questioners along the road, to the gathered group. His initial approach was to ask questions himself, invite reflection. To the sorrowfully desperate women he said "Rejoice" (literally, be glad about grace) and to the gathered group hiding in fearful disarray he said "Peace be with you" (probably literally shalom, that Hebrew peace that communicates depths of justice, the world put right).  Grace and peace, joy and justice.

These are more than greetings, more than polite wishes. The risen Jesus radiates power to change the world. Saying "rejoice" is not a rebuke for feeling sad or a nagging correction to cheer up. His presence and words actually embody the grace of joy, the gift of a different disposition, the change from all-is-lost to all-is-new. Saying "peace" is not a crunchy longing to get away from trouble or a guilt-trip correction to worry, it's a bestowal of an actual remake of the world order.

Scott still has cancer, he will have it the rest of his life. The world is still broken, as we watch our East and Central Africa Area facing multi-country multi-militia scrambles for power and resources that leave the majority of the people poorer and threatened (10 minute video explains some of the back story here).

And yet, change radiates.

Silent and unseen, unfelt, unheard, the waves and particles of energy from the external beam radiation contraption enter the body to resist the evil of cancer, to transform the inner landscape on a personal scale. And on a cosmic scale, the one who said he's making all things new has begun that entropy-shifting reality. We get signposts of hope along the way, for us this week a dramatic fall (99% drop) in the prostate antigen. For the world, we see child survival statistics and a million metrics of shalom. Hours before his death, Pope Frances addressed the global Catholic Church on Easter with the truth that hope is no longer an illusion (he referenced the opening verses of Romans 5, that hope does not disappoint because the resurrection changes everything). A subtle power radiates out from that moment of grave-burst all the way up to this one. From a cave in Palestine to a hospital in Baltimore and a border in Congo. 

Hope becomes a view of the world informed by quantum-physics of faith. Prayer pulls us into the post-resurrection reality . . . we need it, and so does Africa. Thanks for journeying with us.

In between therapies, a walk through Baltimore above, and Easter Sunday with the Harries' (Abby's parents who helped connect us to care at Hopkins, so grateful)

Waving palms, turning tables, and a reversal narrative of more radiation than radiance

Sunday

An artist depicts miraculous research in the radiation oncology clinic

Jesus, palms, and donkey: reversing expectations

In a day of presence, voice, and handwriting (no printing let alone radio, no film let alone internet), what strikes me about Palm Sunday this morning is that enough people had heard of Jesus that the pre-festival inflow of pilgrims to the capital turned into an impromptu parade. A community organized by word-of-mouth managed, person to person, to simply tell the stories in a way that kindled hope. Jesus' followers tried to be media consultants, urging him to sound more anti-Roman, more revolutionary, more like a winner. Instead he chooses a donkey foal, and the hard call to forgive and serve, refusing to promise any platform on which to build nationalism. He never shied away from principles for living together in peace and justice, he told the billionaire to sell everything and give to the poor, he scattered the cheating money tables. But he refused to be put in the position of enforcing laws. He chose to appeal to his listeners' hearts and leave the possibility of refusal open. 

No podcast, no substack, no blog, no call-in show, no appearances on the talk-show circuit, no book or movie contracts or awards, no tik-tok, no tweets/whatever X is called now. The one time the disciples got a glimpse of the outside-of-this-world-and-time glory on a mountaintop chatting with Moses and Elijah, they wanted to build circus tents and sell tickets. Instead as soon as the bright cloud dissipated he went back to his usual theme of upcoming suffering. Shortly later, he chooses the donkey colt to connect his journey to Zechariah 9. The same verse that contains the phrase we hear now, from the river to the ends of the earth, does so with a picture that excludes the war horse and the battle bow, that speaks of Jesus' gentle rule.

Such a reversal, conquering by allowing the worst to proceed, by riding peacefully into the trap that has been set, comes with a cost. The crowds who cheer at the novelty and promise of anti-Roman power will jeer when their storyline is crushed. Fame fizzles at the first disappoinment.

Monday

Jesus walked in and out of the city, staying with friends in the suburb of Bethany, but also intentionally and faithfully entering the center of communal life, telling stories and healing undesirables and sparring with the intellectual crowd . . . as the shadow of death loomed darker day by day. 19 years ago this week my Dad let go of life day by day too, as ALS finally sapped his breath on Easter night. For us in 2025, this week marks the beginning of a 6-week phase of daily radiation therapy. Some parallels: staying with friends in a suburb, daily trips in to treatment, removing clothes, strapped to a device, marked and targeted. Separated from the people and life we have cared about until now. A turn towards powerless inaction. Coming face to face with the evil of a fatal disease. 

Scott is not Jesus, but Jesus offers for those He loves to follow in the small imprints of some of his steps. This week we pray to trust that the radiation which kills cells will extend life. That enduring will reap good. 

Note the cherry blossoms and keep reading . . 

I am finding some resonance with the trees that bud before producing leaves. This reversal narrative radiates flowers out of starkly empty branches. To do so, sap must have been stored from better times, and the energy expenditure on blossoms looks like a risky extravagance of faith, a gamble prioritizing the next generation of fruit and seed without a sure extension of this season's life. That seems about right.

The gamble of trees that flower before they can restore their photosynthetic life above.

The parallel we reach to hope for in this season below:

kids we visited pre-radiation, and today's reminder from our Bundi "kids" that the work goes on

 

The Buckhannon River, and the River of Life

John 7:

37 On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. 38 He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” 39 But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified. 

The Buckhannon River has flowed by my life since its beginning, and after decades of distance it is now once again the first thing I can see (and hear if I brave the cold) as the night melts into daylight. (Scroll down two posts if that doesn’t make sense). In Bundibugyo for most of my adult life, we were just up the bank and across the road from the Nyahuka River. Both are obscure waterways that nevertheless mean life to the towns nearby, sources of water and laundry and fishing and escape from the heat, pathways of transportation in the past, threads that hold communities in place. 

So when the lectionary this week included Jesus framing the Gospel as a drink to quench thirst, that certainly sounds like good news. And when the drink is so refreshing the drinker becomes a river of water for others . . . beautiful image of the Abrahamic "blessed to be a blessing".

And yet a river does not generate the water, a river channels the water. Rivers depend on rains. On clouds, storms, snows, melt, that seeps into springs and tickles into streams. A river rises and falls, and it’s not the river’s choice. Sometimes our river is low and murky, sluggish, with exposed rocks and logs, depleted. Sometimes our river rustles past with clarity and peace. And sometimes it is racing and churning, powerful and unpredictable. 

A good reminder for a life of missional service. We are the channel, but not in control of the source. Sometimes we are barely trickling by, and sometimes a prayer for rain leads to a chaos of current. 

In East and Central Africa, multiple countries feel vulnerably dangerously depleted of hope, of help . . yet change could bring chaos. Our DRC team remains evacuated to Uganda, even as Uganda sent their own army into DRC. People all along the Albertine Rift face high prices, lack of food or vaccines or fuel, displacement from their homes (7 million in the broad area, almost a million more since December, and 100,000 who have crossed borders to become refugees). The river of aid feels dry, due to the overwhelming need and the dangers of response but also the American political climate. We are all in a cautious inhale to know if this is the new normal, if the tense search for a balance of incompatible powers . . all he while knowing that a downpour of war could drench us all. 

Every day we try to be supportive at distance, to care and pray and call, work on budgets and meetings and emails. To be a river of blessing for those we love, and those we barely know. Yet our own river feels drained too, by weeks of intense medicines (3 now) and the frequent drives to our appointments, preparing for the next stage of daily intensive radiation. 

Last year I prayed Lord, enlarge my heart. This year the promise of Jesus to simply flow through our hearts sounds more possible. Though we are low, weary, and heavy, we need only to wait for rain, in our Area and in our medical care, through prayers the Spirit can bring life. Let us be waterways.

Spring Conspiracy Theories

Equatorial living for all but two of the last 31 Springs (?) renews the wonder of the season. Bulbs planted decades ago, divided and dispersed, erupt splotches of bright yellow from nearly colorless ground before the snow has even melted. And that melt gurlges into the river's hum, augmented by clouds blowing north. The grey trees against grey meadows have buds only seen up close, but now the leaf litter through the forest is heaped and srcatched where deer search for early meals. One morning we realized through the windows shut against overnight frost that cardinals are back, cheeping out territory.

I'd forgotten Spring as a conspiratorial season. March still calls for morning fires in the woodstove, yet some afternoons the sky turns glorious with sun. New life whispers more than shouts. You have to pay attention, to seek signs. Summer's arrival still seems debatable.

The quiet greening of the fields, the occasional trill of unseen warblers, precludes smug confidence that summer is inevitable.

March along the Buckhannon river

Which in 2025's overlap of Spring and Lent reminds us of how the Kingdom comes, how God's will is done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Not by armies, courts, kings, force, drama, sudden "wins".  Not by an earthquake of flowers, growth, fruit and warmth, but by an almost imperceptible progress. By change so subtle one could argue it's not real . . . until one day you realise it's warm enough to swim, and berries exceed thorns.

    

I'd like DRC, Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, Malawi, and all their neighbors to sign peace agreements and abide by them, to have fair-trade mean that every village gets a dividend of coltan and gold profits, to wake up to adequate hospitals and electricity and roads and food. I'd like Sudan and South Sudan to do the same. I'd like Kenya to listen to their people who hit the streets in protest last year and find non-violent paths of change. And like the disciples, as none of that reliably seems to be happening, we wonder why Jesus doesn't bring in a few angel armies. Or at least a theocracy that harkens back to David and Solomon. We wonder why we get budding bulbs, not full-grown grains.

Jesus talks a lot more about wait, delay, seeds, and don't-tell than about winning. Even the proverbial wedding parties have rejectable invitations, not overpowering presences. 

Spring gives us a tangible picture of slow-motion resurrection. 

Praying to keep attending to that by faith. As schools turn out another twenty, another hundred kids who care for their neighbors enough to forgo dishonest gain at their expense. As our ophthalmology trainees in Rwanda surgically restore sight to another hundred, even a thousand people. As our Nairobi Bible Storying team spends a week encouraging another dozen or two dozen leaders who face arrest for their faith. As our surgeon in Malawi visits a handful of prisoners in jail, or our OB in Burundi teaches interns to do ultrasounds. As our theology professor in Kapsowar holds another class. As our team leader in Uganda gathers school kids to learn about God through nature. All tiny specks of incremental good outpacing evil, not by might but by the Spirit. 

Those buds of East/Central African "Spring" represent hours and weeks and years of cost to people who left home comforts, and represent generous decisions by hundreds and thousands of supporters, and represent even less-seen intangible grace in hearts and souls. A conspiracy of change more powerful than rulers or riches. And they give us hope for the change we need, too, the hidden melt of cancer cells this Spring and the the flow of the river of life in Scott. Come Lord Jesus, in all your quiet disguises making all things new.

This bud is in the picture below . . just hard to see in the dust of snow!

Our days are spent remote-working with teams in Africa, then driving back and forth 4.5 hours from WV to Baltimore, consults and plans and procedures and pain and hope.

Went for coffee yesterday next to the clinic and this guy watched over our table.

The Spring Conspiracy pictured here on the road to Baltimore day before yesterday . . heavy dark wet cold clouds, yes, but God is in the cloud, and shines an arc of light to remind us to hope.

So, walking by faith, into the drab woods, towards the sun.

Dust & Ashes, Cloud & Fire

 Today, Ash Wednesday, begins the season of Lent, a 40-day attention to our mortality. God knows we gravitate towards denial. Towards comfort, health, wealth, ease, youth . . . all good things but stale centers to a life purpose. Humanity that denies mortality risks a selfish, world-destroying grab. Whereas a life lived in the boundaries of mortality clarifies the great commandments, loving God and loving neighbor as central seeds that blossom into true joy. 

Even Jesus lived for a defined journey on earth, that ended with the cross.

A helpful exercise to stem our self-promoting greedy slide away from love is to intentionally mark the 40 days with habits of discipline, with a voluntary fast from something good.

In 2025, we are "giving up" our last 31+ years of normal life for Lent. Scott was diagnosed just over a month ago with metastatic Stage-IV prostate cancer, spread into lymph nodes through his abdomen and looking dangerously aggressive on biopsy. We scrambled to get into expert care given his advanced disease and relatively young age, which as missionary workers means leaving behind for now our home, our work, our community, our day-to-day life, in Africa and relocating for an indefinite period within range of medicine and testing and care. Dust and ashes mark this day, and this year for us. He began his first injection two weeks ago, but we see the months and hopefully years stretching ahead dimly, holding onto sober reality and faithful hope at the same time.

Dust and ashes are the residue of drought and fire, a reminder that our shiniest works have a temporal vulnerability. 

Dust and ashes keep us humble, realistic, grounded. 

But dust and ashes are not the end of the story. We have needed the 40 days from late January into March to re-orient our life from East and Central African edges of good hard work, to supporting all that through others' hands as we continue at distance.

This lent we've moved from resident in Bundibugyo focused on CSB, team, BundiNutrition, church, Bible translation and more . . . .  to resident in America working by internet. From on-continent hourly investment in our Area's holistic cadre of 80 workers, and many more partners, immersed in education, Bible, medicine, youth, sports, arts, business, residency programs, research, film, the myriad of ways that we inch good towards overcoming evil, to doing all that a step removed. From hands-on presence, to mentoring and writing and zooming. From an equatorial yard of palms and mangoes and banana trees where we have a half dozen visitors any given morning chattering in Lubwisi, to bleakly cold days with hours at a computer. And from an unseen horizon of aging and retirement to one that catapulted us into cancer care. From mortality in the unseen background to mortality as a present reality.

By faith we know: Dust will be reformed by resurrecting rain; ashes fall but leave behind a tested core that can't be consumed by fire. 

God chose the cloud and fire to represent his presence in the wilderness. As we walk into the next 40 days and the wilderness beyond, join us in praying we would see God's presence. That the obscure cloud of how-long, how-much, would shine with the glory of his mercy. That the night of our sorrow would be lit by the fire of his truth.

The path to care at Hopkins, the path to Jesus' hard call on our lives.

And pray for our Area, our work that continues, that is not all dust and ash. So many wonderful people 10-30 years younger than we are, doing way more than we could and way better. We are still team Serge. Cancer is part of our story for now, but not the whole story, so we will try to keep the complex story lines going here.

Breaking meager loaves to feed thousands: LET'S FILL THE GAP

Dear person who cares about kids in Bundibugyo . . . 

Compassion moved Jesus to break bread on the wilderness mountainsides where crowds had flocked to his teaching and healing, attracted to his promising presence that upended their status as marginalized labourers in an occupied territory. Five loaves and two fish became more than enough, because the abundance of Jesus' love multiplied the meager human contributions. In February 2025, we are asking once again for your loaves and fish, that God can abundantly transform.

In 2024, we broke and distributed all your gifts to treat 1,138 malnourished children. 80% were cured, 12% continue into 2025, and 8% did not respond or dropped out. You also fed 75 mothers of premature or sick babies so that they could care for their infants in NICU, and 4 surrogate breast-feeding women. 78 children admitted for severe malnutrition were assisted with antibiotics and antimalarials, in addition to the program strengthening general ward capacity. Every week our team shared Bible stories and prayer and nutrition education at the hospitals, and over the year followed up a sample of 80 discharged patients in 9 sub-counties all over Bundibugyo. They found 80 out of 80 had NOT relapsed, and documented average additional weight gain of 2.7 kg and growth of 8 cm (6 pounds, 3 inches) at home thanks to gardens and hope. You did this with a budget of $42 per child whose life was transformed. . . that's less than a dollar a day over 9 weeks to fund the locally sourced therapeutic peanut/soy/moringa leaf paste we make, and all the medicine, transport, and salaries. 

Feeding hungry children is both morally just, and shockingly cost effective. These kids will contribute to their families and communities for decades, and their health and peace provides a visible assurance of God's awareness of these families' needs.

Our entire Area, and all our Uganda colleagues, are reeling from this week's abrupt cut-offs of American aid, with HIV clinics and the bigger nutrition programs suspending care indefinitely. Our 2025 need will likely exceed the thousand patients we budget for. PLEASE forward this to any friends who might be interested in partnership with BundiNutrition (link here). We know that God's people take Matthew 25 seriously, and want to feed and clothe and visit the hungry, the poor, the alien. This is a solid opportunity to bridge gaps left as USAID withdraws.

Gratefully and expectantly,

Dr. Jennifer for Bwampu, Ivan, and Clovis,  and all the BundiNutrition team

PS This was the letter we sent to our mailing list of people who had donated recently . . . grateful for the kind giving, and grieving the chaos left as other programs that had commitments and funding were summarily stopped. Please share this link and spread the word. As a bonus, enjoy this article written by me, photos by Scott, published a couple months ago in Christianity Today's Globe issue.

Watch, Pray, Shine: Christmas Candlelight

 Candlelight in Bundibugyo in 2024 flickers more from necessity than for atmosphere. The rotting power poles in this tropical rainforest mean the entire national grid connection, which is less than 15 years old, already fails regularly, so the power company has decided to shut down transmission all day every MWF to work on pole replacement. This has been happening for the last month or two. Since we had only solar panels for limited lights and computers for the first couple decades, we're not totally unprepared. . . .but no extra Christmas lights this year as we've become spoiled by more appliances and higher expectations.  A long digression to explain that candlelight it not just a quaint metaphor, it's a living picture.

So when Director Patrick returned to Bundibugyo this week for a few days of staff enrichment, fellowship, consultation, leadership and encouragement, and asked me to start off his Monday seminar with a devotion, I chose the image of candlelight. It's the first week of Advent after all, and John 1 talks about the light shining in darkness as he begins the story of Jesus' coming. 

End of Year CSB staff seminar 

The candle illustration

The previous post, Christmas Apocalypse,  alluded to second coming teachings of Jesus which are also part of Advent, lightening and signs in the skies which call for a posture of faith in times of cataclysm. Times of waiting. Times of change. Times like this. 

So today, the Christmas Candle as a picture of how we live by faith in the midst of dark uncertainty. 

That's a challenge for Christ School staff (never enough money, materials, supplies, time), just as it is for all the plodding workers in our Serge Area. We know that multiple times a day every day, we all feel like today's lectionary reading: Jesus is asleep in the dark tossing boat of our lives, and we just might go overboard into the sea. I imagine those waking him up lighting a candle, and hear his rebuke, why are you fearful? Darkness and chaos are no match for Jesus' calm. Instead of panic, He calls us to watch, pray, shine.

A candle allows us to watch, a frequent admonition to God's people. Watch. Look. Notice. Lighting up reality leads to both lament and thankfulness, gratitude and grief. We pay attention to the world's broken edges, to the sorrows, to the storms. And we also pay attention to the subtle signs of God's presence. Alertness is a perquisite for praise. So we hold our flickering candle ahead to see the terrain, to understand our calling. To be present, engaged, awake.

The word watch in these Advent passages is frequently paired with pray. Watch and pray. And in the tabernacle, the temple, and the word images of other dimensions, the fragrant flame, the rising smoke, symbolizes our prayers. The candle reminds us that we are not alone in this terrain, that we have a Heavenly companion who cares. Our lament and our gratitude both have a direction, a listener.

Lastly a candle in Jesus' illustrations shines. People see the light, and find hope. It is a beacon to find one's way home, a lamp that should not be hidden under a bushel. We pay attention to the real world around us, we commit all we see to prayer, and then we act. Shining little lights, making small things a little better. Bearing testimony to the great light that is driving out all darkness.

Final prayer walk of the year

The candlelight of Bundibugyo: CSB staff

A candle in the wind was a song in my growing-up days, and alludes to the truth that those who do watch and pray and shine sometimes are taken from us too soon. Yesterday, when I sat down to start writing this post, was the 17th anniversary of losing Dr. Jonah Kule to Ebola Bundibugyo, a then-new variant of the deadly virus that surfaced here in 2007. He modelled walking by faith into dark uncertainty as well as anyone, a thoughtful and insightful observer of culture and community, a prayerful person of courage, a doctor who worked in spite of steep barriers to care for the poorest. 

In 2024, we feel pummelled by the injustice we struggle through every day. But Advent is a season to remember that the darkness is where we belong, that in the storm Jesus cares even in sleep to preserve us. We watch and pray, and hope to shine. (Bonus post here from Center for Formation, Justice, and Peace).

Christmas Apocalypse

 Apocalypse comes to us via Latin "revelation, disclosure" from Greek "to uncover, reveal". . . but in 2024, the connotation of a world-ending cataclysm layers our perception of the term. And no wonder. Apocalyptic days have moved from movies to the newsreels. Sometimes it's not clear if one has stumbled upon CNN or a cinematic tragedy, as we see a people group decimated (in the literal sense, losing 10% of the population) in Gaza or Sudan, or the posturing threats of annihilating nuclear weapons in Russia or North Korea aiming at Ukraine. 

On a small personal scale, we are ready to turn from November to December today. The last month+ seems to have stacked more conflict, more tears, more discouragement, more misunderstanding, more defeat in our sphere than should be possible. Both cross-culturally and within our work responsibility, I can't remember another stretch with SO MANY hours of meeting to listen and discern and grieve and struggle forward. From couples in hurting marriages to teams at loss for how to draw good out of scarcity to colleagues missing each others's hearts to credible suspicions of skimming funds or failing jobs, to unjust unexpected tax and documentation demands. . . each day has seemed to boil up in a new crisis that has significant implications, but goes unsolved and then overshadowed by the next. Not to mention the roiling politics and church of our home country this Fall. 

Today begins Advent, and it turns out that the traditional readings for this first Sunday and first day of December are from Luke 21, and Matthew 24. Jesus, who habitually collapsed timeline gaps in the foreign territory of being time-bound, stood with his people in the last days of his life and talked quite a bit about why he came, but also about coming again. Advent is a season to ponder the first coming, and whet our appetites for the second. And those passages DO sound apocalyptic in the cosmic sense of dramatic signs, and in the sobering sense of inescapable tragedy. 

Not so much in those Bible chapters about baking or decorating, about warm gatherings and luxurious gifts. The primary word is "watch". Be alert. When the world spasms in wars and earthquakes and meteors and hunger and floods, remember the story. 

The story of Christmas Apocalypse, in all senses of the word. God revealing God-ness in human flesh, a new living entity that discloses a nature of mercy and truth, of love and justice, of transcendence and presence meeting in a baby. A Christmas uncovering, revealing the framework of a bigger story of the world, one that overcomes evil in apparent defeat, one that passes through the messy danger of birth to the cross and the grave, but ends in glory. A Christmas cataclysm, history's inflection point, set in motion.

Watching forms the essential prerequisite to thanks-giving. Giving thanks that even in this month, this year, of desolations, God's Spirit quietly transforms. We've also seen relational and physical healing, generous funding, a miraculous visa, a massive tax relief, genuine kindness, solid reasons to hope.

This year, let's start Advent right where we are. It is into the darkness that the light shines. It is into the reality of Palestine then and now that Jesus comes. It is into our own struggling, hurting hearts that the assurance pours: watch and pray, be found faithfully serving, by endurance possess your souls. Hold on through Advent 2024. Christmas is coming.

The light filters through the clouds of our life.

And sometimes that sorrow refracts to beauty.

Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat . . in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of our world, we experience that God is present.

Picked up Patrick McClure and drove him back to Bundi, former CSB Director and now working with Association of Christian Schools International Kenya branch on our Nairobi team, to pour that serving into our staff this week. And the day before, spent a delightful but strenuous day of we senior types working out better understanding and collaboration for our junior types . . . Ambassador Ezekiel of the Free Methodist Church in Burundi, with yours truly the Serge East/Central Africa Area Directors. 

Cocoa makes our world go round in Bundibugyo these days . . . just in time for Christmas we have good rains, good harvest, and good prices.

CSB S1,2,3,5 (the continuing classes after the S4.6 seniors finished national exams) on today the final day of the 2024 term! Faculty seated in front. Patrick preaching for chapel this morning below. 

And we leave you with a fun Christmas photo . . the new Kampala thing is for hotels to have a photo spot, so when we met our Burundi partner we couldn't miss the chance to wish you a Merry Christmas.