Uganda Chronicles

Chapter XXX

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Tue, 05 May 2009 17:02:00 +0000

Uganda Chronicles Chapter XXX By April Dobbs

11 August 2008

Saturday night we received an e-mail from our son Joe that our grandson Rickey had been in the hospital all week due to an exacerbation of some emotional problems. It was right before supper was being served and I cried so hard I couldn’t eat anything. I love my grandchildren so intensely that whenever something happens to one of them I feel like it happened to me. I want so much for all of them to be happy, at peace, joyful and fulfilled. And I feel emotionally very linked to Rickey because I think he gets a lot of his feelings and emotional responses from my gene pool. Rick and I found out later that we had both prayed to God to take the disorder out of Rickey and give it to us. We would both so gladly take it from him! Then, we both got sick—Rick more so than I. The next morning, Sunday, Rick was preaching at the church service and spoke of God’s great love for us. He told of how much we wished we could bear Rickey’s pain for him and that God had done that for us. Everyone prayed for Rickey.

Today, Rick and Fr. David will meet with Bishop George regarding a date for the dedication of the orphanage. I also had a long talk with Fred a few days ago. I wanted to know the truth about him and Jackie and Treasure. Fr. David is so disappointed, and told us a number of things from his perspective. Now that I have talked to both of them and to Jackie, a different picture evolves. Evidently, Fred and Jackie met while both in the choir at St. John’s Bugongi. They became very good friends and remained so after Fr. David was transferred to Nyabushabi. Meanwhile, a friend of Fred’s from college became the favorite of the family as a future wife for Fred. She comes from a good family while Jackie is an orphan whose mother died when she was young and whose father (a Moslem) deserted her soon after. Her mother was a relative of Fr. Jonathan, so she grew up in his family and was baptized and brought up as a Christian. After she was in college, about 2 or 3 years ago, her father suddenly showed up to claim her. Because he was now back, Fr. Jonathan turned over responsibility for her schooling fees to the father. But about that time, Fred had made his choice—he loved Jackie and not the other girl. According to him, he had many well thought out reasons including their respective choices of profession. Jackie wanted to become an office worker, the other girl wanted to go into the hotel and catering industry. Fred didn’t want to be married to someone in that line of work. Fred and Jackie became more deeply involved and she got pregnant. They both know and admit they sinned and want to get married legally. But there are cultural obstacles. They cannot have a civil marriage without casting a shadow on Fr. David as a priest. They can’t get married in the church without a lot of pomp and expense which they can’t manage at this time. Fred says he can’t even discuss it with Fr. Jonathan and family without starting a snowball of events rolling—meetings, discussions about bride-price, committees being formed to plan things. He said that as soon as he approaches anyone about it it will careen out of his control and he just wants to marry her so his family will be legal and right in the eyes of God. So, the situation remains in limbo. Jackie maintains a small room in town but she and Treasure live here with Fred. Everyone just ignores the proverbial elephant in the living room. So, at the moment it’s a stand-off, the family still hoping for the whole culturally accepted ceremonies. The family seems to be softening toward Jackie, and no one can resist Treasure! She is a little doll. Hopefully, there will be a wedding soon. Jackie is a very nice girl, well educated, warm and friendly and a good mom, and she loves Fred very much.

15 August 2008

Early this week we went into town to get a few things. We got postcards, coffee, and still are trying to find the good tea we like, the Africana brand. No luck there yet. When we got home, a nephew of Fr. David’s was waiting to meet us. He introduced himself as Willy and told us his story. He has been HIV positive for several years now and is the leader of the local TASO (The AIDS Support Organization) sub-group. He asked if we would come to their meeting the next day (Wednesday). We agreed, so at 11:00 on Wednesday we arrived at the Kabale Hospital where Willy was waiting for us just inside the gate. We walked with him to the meeting which was taking place on a lawn behind the small building that houses the TASO office. The group has over 500 members and about 75 of them were there. They come from great distances on foot and some are too ill
to make the trip. At the meeting they discuss how they cope with living with HIV/AIDS. They talk about the fear, the stigma and discrimination they face, especially in being able to find work. Many have small children who will eventually be orphaned. Some are grandparents caring for kids already orphaned. We spoke to them about how we have the same epidemic in the U.S., how much money goes to research to try to find a cure and how they face many of the same problems they face here in Africa. We told them we are proud of Uganda for reducing their incidences of new cases so drastically be stressing sexual abstinence before marriage and fidelity within marriage instead of “safe sex.” We also told them about the orphanage. As we were leaving, a woman stopped us and told us her story. Her son and daughter-in-law have recently died from AIDs. She is left caring for their three children, 9,6 and 4. She is also HIV positive and doesn’t know how long she will live. Her husband is dead also, and she is renting a tiny house for herself and these three grandchildren. She begs us to take her name and keep in touch with her so that if she gets too sick to care for the kids, the orphanage can take them. As we left her, a nurse who had been waiting to talk to us came forward to tell us there is a three year old girl in the hospital whose mother left the hospital without her and hasn’t been seen since. The little girl and her grandmother had been hit by a motorcycle. The little girl sustained head injuries and is just regaining consciousness after several weeks. The mother had come to see her when she found out, but then left and disappeared. The staff thinks the mother knew she didn’t have the resources to care for an injured child. The nurse wanted to know if the orphanage could take her when she is ready to be released form the hospital in about three weeks. The really touching part of this story is the care given to the child, Prossy, by the parents of other children in the ward. Kabale Hospital is a public hospital which means it is technically free to anyone. However, that means the hospital also doesn’t provide meals and even some medications. The relatives of the patients bring in all their meals and if the hospital prescribes a medication they don’t keep in stock, they have the relatives go to the pharmacy in town and purchase it. So here was a little girl whose father is gone, the grandmother has a broken leg from the accident (and is also an alcoholic), and the mother has disappeared. The doctors and nurses have her on a feeding tube and are graciously providing the nutrients to keep her alive. Prossy lies in a bed with a rusty frame and a futon-like mattress. The sheet is wrinkled and coming out from under the mattress. All the sheets and blankets are of different colors and patterns. The pillow on her bed is covered with a crocheted cover. Folded next to the pillow are a pair of shorts and a blouse, all her clothes in the world. The window behind the bed is open (no screen), and flies and wasps float through and cruise around the ward. On the sill of the open window sits a toothbrush and a medicine bottle with a syringe sticking in it. Ants crawl across the window sill around the toothbrush and medicine bottle. Several women are clustered around Prossy (not staff) giving her a sponge bath, rubbing her body with herbal jelly to keep her skin soft and supple, and exercising her hands, feet and limbs to keep them from atrophying. These women are angels, taking care of this lost sheep as if she were their own. One tries to feed her a little milk from a bottle to stimulate her to start eating orally again. Prossy doesn’t respond very much. Her eyes are open but she looks around aimlessly and cries a little. When her bath and therapy are finished, the women wrap her in a blanket and place her in bed on her side. They are careful to turn her periodically. I gave her the doll we brought for her by placing it facing her in the bed and touching her hand to it. She didn’t respond, but as I began to move away from her, her eyes followed me. I almost cried, I’m so sure she must have sustained some brain injury and her eyes following me gives me some hope. The boy in the bed next to Prossy starts to cry. He looks to be about 10 years old. He broke his ankle in a bicycle accident. No one is there with him right now so one of the women comforts him. I also talk to him for a moment although he probably doesn’t understand me. The next day we visit Prossy again, and give loaves of bread to the women caring for her. As we walk out, I see a boy of about 2 or 3 with both legs in bandages which are probably casts. Both legs are in traction, held up by a rope tied to a hook in the ceiling. Several beds in the ward have the foot elevated by placing blocks of wood under the legs of the bed. Others have the patient’s head elevated by placing a rolled up mattress behind the patient’s head. Nurses and doctors check the patients regularly, but all personal needs are taken care of by relatives. Just before we leave the room, a father takes the cover off his son’s knee and show it to Rick. Rick said yellow pus was running out of a wound on the boy’s knee. As we walked down the sidewalk we saw people visiting patients by leaning through the open windows at the heads of the beds. Just as we got in the van, an old man came up and told us through the window that he is bleeding from the rectum and there is no doctor available to see him today. He says he has nothing to eat. He has strange looking sores all over his neck. Fred gave him enough money to buy a loaf of bread. Fred told us the sores on the man’s neck are common with AIDs sufferers. We drove home in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

Chapter XXIX

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Tue, 05 May 2009 16:59:00 +0000

Chapterm XXVIII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 23:38:00 +0000

Uganda Chronicles Chapter XXVIII

Still 31 July 2008

Later on, Rick and Fred went to pick up the van. Our plan was to leave this morning. However, when they got there, the van was still minus the back four seats. Those are supposedly being installed as I write this. We are supposed to check out of here by 10:00 but they have given us an extension until noon. If we can’t leave by 13:00, we won’t be home before dark anyway so we’ll have to stay another night. So, I sit here, room filled with packed suitcases, waiting to see if we will be able to travel today. Rick and Fred will call the Guest House by noon. If it looks like we’ll be able to leave today, the people at the Guest House will help me carry all the bags downstairs where I will then await Rick and Fred’s arrival. If it looks like we won’t make the 13:00 window, they’ll let the Guest House know we need to stay another night. I am so anxious to get home to Kabale! We have a lot to accomplish in a short time and I hate just sitting here. There really isn’t anything to do here in Kampala unless we want to pay for a lot of taxi rides. So, I sit here and pray we can leave today.

01 August 2008

My prayers were answered! At exactly noon yesterday Fred and Rick returned with the van, seats in, servicing done and ready to go. We packed up and left immediately. The trip was more tolerable in the van than in the little car, but still rather hellish. I have renamed the Kampala-Kabale road El Camino del Diablo. However, we managed to arrive home just at dusk. It was a joyous reunion—especially with Fred returning home after a six month absence. Emilly was crying, Addah and Constance were jumping up and down. Fr. David just kept smiling and hugging us. We finally got into the house, brought in the suitcases and sat down to dinner. After dinner we talked and brought out gifts. It gave me such joy to see Fred bringing out the things he had so thoughtfully purchased for each person. The girls went nuts over the skirts, blouses and shoes I brought. We showed the slide show I made for Fred. We had to show it on a laptop since the DVD player we brought two years ago has quit operating correctly.

Next morning after breakfast, we went to see the orphanage building. Fr. David got several phone calls and by the time he was ready to leave, Fred was out pacing by the gate wanting to know HOW MUCH LONGER before we could leave. So, we walked down the pathways, over the creek, past houses and people saying hello. But when we came around the last fence and saw the building it was like being in a dream. Men were working mixing mortar, laying the top layer of brick under the trusses, sawing lumber, cutting bricks to size, plastering walls—all by hand. The bricks are cut with a machete after being carried to the site on someone’s head (it is taken off the head before the machete is used). After the brick is cut, it is tossed by hand from the ground to the top of the wall to be installed. There is no sound of power equipment or delivery trucks.

We came home from the site and Fred and I went to town to get some money out of the bank and to purchase a few needed items. I show Fred what I need. Then we leave and he comes back later to buy it. Otherwise I would be charged a lot more than the normal amount for each item. Someday, when I learn the language well enough, I can do my own bargaining. Until then we do it the complicated way. Being at the market was fun, especially seeing Fred greet friends he hasn’t seen for six months.

This morning before we left for the orphanage, we were standing by the gate when a man came up the road leading a group of about eight boys whose hands were all tied together. They all looked between 9-12 years old. Some were crying. We asked what this was all about. These boys were all caught smoking marijuana. Some were orphans with nowhere to live, some had run away from home. I’m still not sure where they were being taken. Fr. David went to them and said any of them who wanted to could come to him and tell their stories after their punishment was over. None of them did. On the walk home from the
orphanage building, we were stopped by a man walking with a boy of about three years. When he saw us he took the boy by one arm and one leg and swung hem toward us saying, “You need to take this one—his mother just died and I am unable to care for him.” I think he was the child’s uncle. Fred said he would talk to him later to hear the whole story.

While we were still in Kampala, we saw little children begging in the streets—some as young as two years old. Their parents put them there in a certain place on the street and teach them to beg. They are told to stay there until they are come back for. The children are usually scared and crying. The woman at the Sanyu Baby House told us they once took in some of those kids believing they had been abandoned. The next day their relatives showed at the gate with sticks and stones threatening to break down the gate if their children weren’t returned to them. They wanted back their source of income.

Today I spent all morning figuring out how to send pictures in between network crashes. And now, that finally accomplished, I can write and just relax. The neighborhood kids are all out in the front yard playing. The women are cleaning and cooking. I have to do laundry and ironing but not just yet. Ironing is done on the floor and I have to psyche myself up to it.

04 August 2008

Sometimes humidity is a good thing. All the things I thought I would have to iron seem to have had the wrinkles “hung” out. Yippee! The past few days have been interesting. I was wondering when attacks would begin—and, as usual, they are from a completely unexpected place. It seems Fred has been married for about two years now and has a fourteen month old daughter. Fr. David and family are not pleased with his choice and very disappointed that he will not be having the traditional Ugandan wedding. Rick and I are also feeling a bit caught off guard, and disappointed that Fred didn’t trust us enough to tell us about it until I guessed the truth a couple of weeks before we went back to Uganda. It is so hard to cross cultural walls with any kind of grace and tact. Fred was afraid to tell us because he was embarrassed and had no idea how we would react. Fr. David didn’t tell us because he was embarrassed also and because he was hoping things would still work out differently. Now we are faced with the family we love being in conflict with each other. Everyone has taken turns getting me alone to tell me the “real” story. Fr. David insists that Jackie, Fred’s wife, is a Moslem. She says she is a Christian. The family is upset because Fred married Jackie in secret and not in the Church. As a Priest, this is really hard on Fr. David. Fred spent an hour telling me why he did this, and I will have to say he seems to have made a prayerful, mature decision, but one that is being taken very hard by the family. Meanwhile, we have a limited time here and a lot to accomplish and this family is our lifeline here. So, I pray fervently for healing and forgiveness on all sides here. The little girl, Treasure, is absolutely precious and my biggest prayer is for her to not reap the fall-out of the family conflict.

We will soon be out of funds to go further on the orphanage. The walls will be up and finished, floors in and roof on. Water is piped onto the property and everything ready to run wiring. Doors and windows will be in. Then, it’s up to God where we go next.

I am feeling a bit of a spirit of oppression this trip. I’m not sure where it is coming from or how to pray against it. It could be as simple as the fact that the weather hasn’t been the sunny and bright type usual for this dry season. It’s been a bit gloomy and last night there was a thunder and lightening storm that knocked out power for a few hours. Or, it could be from the constant underlying realization that Rick and I have put everything we have into this project, and yet it is really out of our control. Satan always manages to throw in the doubts. Is this what we’re really supposed to be doing? Have we made the right choices? We feel so indebted to so may people who are supporting this project and don’t want them to be disappointed. I guess I am (once again) feeling idle and useless. Fr. David has given me a pile of receipts, so I’m going to make up a spreadsheet to record them on. On a happy note, church yesterday was amazing as usual, and we will be celebrating Rick’s two year anniversary of quitting smoking tomorrow.

Chapter XVII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 23:23:00 +0000

Uganda Chronicles Chapter XXVII by April Dobbs

28 July 2008

Finally ! It’s time for us to go see the orphanage for real. We’ve been getting pictures from Katie, our first “missionary” to the orphanage who went to help build for one month. It’s amazing how fast that building is going up now that it’s started.

We arrived at Entebbe last night about 20:00. Fred was there to greet us and had arranged for a taxi to take us to Namarembi Guest House (the Diocesan guest house). It was so wonderful to see Fred there. Only three days since he left California and already I miss him terribly.

At the taxi began the trial of packing three large and two small suitcases into the “boot” (trunk). When it became obvious they weren’t going to fit, I suggested we put one of the larger ones on the back seat where one of us could sit on either side of it. Three men, two black and one white, one from half way around the entire globe from the other two, looked at me with identical glances of dismissal that told me, “there, there, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” So, for about the next fifteen minutes they tried every possible way to stuff the suitcases into the trunk, even tearing a piece of the rubber seal around the edge of the trunk. Then, one of them (can’t say which) brilliantly suggested that we put one suitcase on the back seat. That accomplished, we were off to Namarembi—about a thirty-minute drive. After thirty hours of travel, when we left the airport I felt numb. But as we drove along I began to smell the smoke from charcoal fires, the incense of local flowers, and to hear people talking and laughing as they walked along the sides of the road visiting and stopping into small roadside businesses. Through one door I saw a group of women, one sitting in a chair and the other two braiding her hair. The light inside the room was that peculiar orange glow that comes from one low wattage light bulb and some candles. Vehicles veered around each other honking horns. Out the window, I could see the amazing Ugandan night sky, bejeweled with millions of stars visible even over a major city like Kampala. The travel weariness was replaced by a sense of home-ness, happiness to be here again, happy to be with Fred, happy to hear my husband transforming into the master negotiator/problem solver. His survival skills, street skills, whatever I can call them are even more valuable here than in the U.S. Once again, in this place so totally different than my place of origin and residence, I feel that total dependence on God and the love of fellow Christians settle over me. I am in control of nothing. Praise the Lord!

29 July 2008

Last night I couldn’t figure out what time it was to set the clock. My cell phone has a world clock on it, but amazingly, Kampala isn’t one of the cities mentioned, and, of course, there was no clock in the room. So I chose Cairo mistakenly thinking it was due north of here and in the same time zone. Wrong! It is an hour later here, so if Fred hadn’t knocked on our door at 08:15 we would have missed breakfast which is served from 07:00 to 09:00. He then left us to go further negotiate the day we can take delivery of the car he has purchased. They are telling him the paperwork will not be completed until Friday (four days from now). Last night, at Rick’s suggestion, he called the car dealer and offered him some extra money to have it ready by tomorrow (Tuesday) and is going there in person this morning to further expedite. Rick and I must remain invisible or the price of everything will increase as we are perceived to be wealthy because we are from the U.S. I suppose we are by most standards in the world, but we are certainly not wealthy by U.S. standards. The money we have donated to Shepherd’s Love to purchase this vehicle was our only savings—a really paltry amount when you think of our ages and what we would need to live on when we retire, but savings nonetheless. But the faces of the children are ever before us, and the voice of God Who has been in charge of this from the beginning is always in our ears. We are being obedient, and it has brought peace and happiness for the most part—mixed with periods of sheer terror and uncertainty.

But our God is a God of wonder, adventure and creativity and we are part of that. Life will never be the same again for us, we can never again just go to work, come home, watch a movie and do it all again the next day.
We can enjoy periods of time like that, periods of “normalcy,” when we are home in California. It’s very sweet, like a hoarded piece of candy left from Christmas and eaten in March when I was a child. But soon enough it’s time to get back to work planning, teaching, fund raising—and loving it because that too is sweet and good.

30 July 2008

Monday, when the car guy said the car (van actually) would be ready by Tuesday, we moved Fred into our room to save the expense of having two rooms. The room has two twin beds. Well, last time Rick and I shared a twin bed there was substantially less of both of us. Needless to say, it wasn't a very restful night for us (Fred had a great sleep though.) We finally figured out that if we each slept with our heads at opposite ends of the bed we had more room. I had just fallen nicely asleep in the wee hours when I was rudely awakened by the minaret loudspeakers (a mile away) announcing the first call to prayer for the day. This five times per day blast on the nervous system is hard to get used to.

After breakfast, we walked down to the Sanyu Baby House which isn’t far from here. What an experience! This home for abandoned babies was established in 1929. They can care for up to fifty babies at any given time and had forty-six here today. They take babies from birth to three years old. If a home hasn’t been found for them by the time they are three they are transferred to an orphanage for children over three. The administrator, Barbara, told us the history of SBH. She said the children are brought there by police and social workers mostly. The babies are found abandoned at taxi parks, dumps, even stuffed down pit latrines. They are brought to Sanyu sometimes infested with maggots, mal-nourished and sometimes brain-damaged. She showed us one baby who had been brought in still with his umbilical sack attached, probably about one hour old. She showed us a little boy they think is about one year old. He was brought in recently weighing only about six pounds. His little legs are still skinny and he has to have them gently exercised every day because they were stiff when he arrived. Each baby is examined by a staff nurse upon arrival. Some are taken to the hospital for a few days before they can return. Each baby is given a name and his or her own crib. They are clothed, fed and loved by a number of volunteers and some paid staff. Even the most physically pitiful baby there was responsive to us, most smiled. It was obvious they were well cared for. They are kept in the first stage room until they are able to sit up on their own. Then they are moved to the next area. At this point they go to “class” during the day in a room much like a nursery school room in the U.S. A teacher is always with them and they are encouraged to learn to play, crawl and walk. The toys are rotated daily so the children become used to a variety of toys and also so no one starts to claim ownership of a particular item. This process is true for all age levels. All the babies greeted us in some manner, the ones who could crawl came to us for attention or to share a toy. When a child becomes proficient at walking, they are moved to the next stage where they are taught to use the toilet, clothe themselves, clean up after themselves. They each have an assigned seat at a school table and begin to learn it when they arrive. They are read to, they paint and learn colors etc. There are three teachers in the room. There is a schedule: Breakfast, potty time (the kids are all placed on little potty chairs lined up in a bathroom), devotions, class, lunch, potty time, nap, physical play time, potty time, dinner, night prep and bed time. The SBH also operates a guest house that helps to raise some of the funds for operations. If you stay at the guest house, you are allowed to help care for the babies. We will most likely stay there next trip! They have a laundry room, a clothing repair room and a kitchen. There is also a craft store that sells crafts locally made by volunteers to help support the Baby House. Mainly they rely on donations though, like any other place like it. I was really impressed with this place. It also helped to give us some ideas for Twinomujuni Orphanage. We asked Barbara about adoption procedures for international adoptions. It is a really rigid system in Uganda, but one that insures the children a home where they are really wanted. A potential adoptive couple needs to meet the child, express the desire to adopt, and then visit the child regularly over a three year period (or live in here in Uganda as a foster parent for three years) before the adoption can go through. We left with our hearts and minds very full.

Chapter XXVI

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:05:00 +0000

20 September 2007

Today is our last day here in Kabale. The day was mostly spent finishing up laundry, packing, going to take video of the land we had purchased and saying good-bye to various friends who showed up bid us farewell. That evening, we had dinner, and then stayed up to visit. At some point, Emily came in with a large plastic jerry-can and Fr. David started singing. Emily used the jerry can as a drum to accompany the singing. We sang several songs. There were fourteen people in the room including two babies. The songs became faster, and suddenly Patience got up to dance. This time, I couldn’t resist. I joined her. Immediately, Constance got up too. The three of us were dancing around the room while everyone sang a praise song to Jesus. Soon almost everyone was dancing. Rick was trying to video the whole gathering under the light of one 60 watt bulb hanging in the middle of the room. The video came out very shadowy, but actually authentic to the way it really was. I still watch it often, remembering that “last supper” and the joy and closeness of our adopted family in that totally foreign place.

After an early breakfast and many hugs and tearful goodbyes, we pulled out of the yard. Our plane was to leave at 18:30, so we insisted we be on the road no later than 08:00 – English time. It’s a 7 hour drive under the best of conditions. Well, we got about one third of the way there when then inevitable happened. While driving about 60 mph, Rick was confronted with three rapidly approaching potholes, any one of which would not be good to hit. However, there was no way to avoid all three of them without running off the road and into an embankment on one side or having a head-on collision with a vehicle coming the other way. So, Rick chose the least of the potholes to hit, thereby netting us only a flat tire instead of something much worse. We pulled to the side and went about the adventure of changing a tire on the two-foot wide shoulder of a winding mountain road. Fr. David rushed to put rapidly collected bush branches in the road (the Ugandan version of those little orange cones used in the U.S.) Fred and Rick took off the flat tire and put on the little donut tire that comes with most cars the last couple of decades instead of a real tire. We proceeded to limp into the next town, and stopped at a tyre shop. Three attendants swiftly ambled out to see what we needed. It took much consultation to figure that the tire itself wasn’t really damaged – the impact with the pothole had bent the wheel and broken the air pressure seal of the tire thereby rendering it flat. The stem had also broken off. So we needed a new wheel which they had there, but they didn’t have any stems. A contingency was dispatched on foot to run down the street to buy a stem from another shop. They returned about 20 minutes later, it took about another 20 minutes to replace the wheel and put the tire back on. We had now lost 45 minutes of our precious time. We got on the road again. Now, the brakes had been not working right for the last two days. In order to stop the car, Rick had to pump the brakes and sometimes even pull up the emergency brake. This is very exciting when driving down a mountain. We were about two thirds of the way to the airport when I noticed a police check-point coming up. I said to Rick, “you better start slowing down for the police checkpoint.” He replied, “Oh – they never really stop anyone.” At which point they stopped the car in front of us. Rick wildly pumped the brakes, time distorted to slow motion, the car stopped with the side mirror on my side of the car (no exaggeration!) 2 inches from the back of the car in front of us that was stopped for the police checkpoint. I could have reached out and touched the trunk of their car. The police quickly waved the other car on and came to my window. Leaning in the window, he said, “Is there something about this car that makes it unsafe to drive?” I stared stonily ahead while Rick and Fr. David simultaneously said, “Oh – no, of course not!” The policeman then proceded to look at the insurance documents which are placed on the windshield in Uganda, and came back to the window. “Did you know the insurance on this vehicle has expired?” he said. “Who is the owner of this car?” Fr. David, who was fortunately wearing his clergy collar (a status still respected in Uganda), leaned forward and said he was the owner. No, he was unaware the insurance was expired but he would take care of that immediately upon reaching Kampala. The policeman then turned to Rick and said, “Well, it’s illegal to drive a car with expired insurance. It doesn’t matter who owns the car – the driver of the car is responsible to check if the insurance is current before beginning driving.” Looking right at Rick he then said, “Can you give me any reason why I shouldn’t take you to jail right now?” Dead silence reigned in the car. I finally looked up at the policeman to give him a desperate look, falling back on female tricks I hadn’t consciously used in decades. Inside, I was dying to yell at him, “I don’t care WHAT you do with this guy who wouldn’t slow down when I told him to – just let ME go so I don’t miss my plane!” But, remembering my wedding vows, I just gave him a pleading look. As I looked him in the eye, I noticed a distinct twinkle and a barely contained smile. He was playing with us! I had to look down immediately to keep from breaking out laughing. He kept up the suspense for a few more minutes, and then gave a final warning and let us go. We made it to Kampala with no more adventures. When we were just outside of the city, Fr. David phoned ahead to get a driver to meet us at a gas station just inside the city and drive the car the rest of the way to the airport. Driving in Kampala is only for people who have grown up there, people with no fear and most importantly a really quick horn honking reflex. Even Rick, an extremely expert driver anywhere else, didn’t want to drive there. And so, we arrived at the airport with one hour to spare.

Chapterm XXV

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 18:10:00 +0000

Chapter XXV (still at St. Luke’s)

We walked back up the road to the church where people had begun arriving. The Lay Reader showed us what they have done with the donation from St. John’s Roseville from last year. They have bought a piece of land with hopes of expanding some day as the land their church is now on is small. They have also begun collecting building materials (brick and rock) for the permanent structure to replace the crumbling present one. Inside, they have concreted half of the floor and added pews so everyone can now sit in church without bringing their own chair from home. We began with prayer, speeches and song. There were not the normal amount of people since we were actually expected yesterday and today a Christian organization was handing out sacks of beans for planting and many church members were off receiving their beans. But there were enough for a couple of drummers, a shaker and a bottle cap instrument, and the music and singing was as heavenly as usual. After Rick gave a message, and Fr. David spoke for awhile, we gave the gift from St. John’s Roseville – another 860,000 UGS ($500.00). They erupted in joy – now they can continue building their permanent church. One of the men went outside and came in with a large chicken to present to us as a gift. This was the third gift of a live chicken since we’ve been here this time. The chicken, which had its legs tied together so it couldn’t escape, was put behind the pulpit while we concluded the service with speeches from the Lay Reader, the Senior Warden and the Head of the Building Committee. But then, someone else came in and presented us with a small wall hanging and a drum. I was really happy! I have wanted a drum since our first time here but never got around to buying one. This drum is a used one – much better in my opinion. Every time I touch it or play it I will be touching the others who have played it before me. I will feel the presence of the wonderful people of this poor rural church in the mountains of Africa who have blessed us so much. When we were leaving, the chicken went into the trunk of the car for the trip home. I don’t know if I’ll ever de-sensitize to hauling live animals around in the trunk of a car. After coming home for lunch (and freeing the chicken from the trunk to await his final reward as our dinner tonight), we went to St. John’s School at Bugongi to give gifts and see the library they built with our donation from last year. They had also been expecting us yesterday so were not prepared for our visit today. Yesterday the headmaster, Joy, had tea ready for us and the children were ready to perform. By now, Fr. David was getting anxious to get home to prepare for the Bishop and his wife to visit our humble home for the first time tonight. But the people of the school were not letting us off with a short visit. We presented our gifts from St. John’s Roseville Church and School, visited the library, and were entertained by the choir and a recitation of a poem about the importance of health and nutrition. They were as good as always and we enjoyed everything very much. As we left and started driving back down the road, we had to stop and greet Fr. David’s sister, Morrie, who found out we were in the area and climbed down to the road to intercept us. It was good to see her. On the way home through town we stopped at the Royal Market to get ingredients for the American dish I was requested to cook for the Bishop’s visit. It’s not easy trying to think up a dish that represents American cooking. Most everything in the U.S. seems to have come from somewhere else. Rick suggested macaroni and cheese, which I think was a good idea. I just hoped I could prepare it over a charcoal fire. I bought a small wheel of cheese, a little box of milk, some real butter and a can of Pringles potato chips (which cost $2.50). As I was walking toward the cash register I suddenly noticed on a shelf something amazing! Diet Coke! The first I have seen outside the capital city. We remembered that Laura, the Bishop’s wife, said she likes Diet Coke and wishes it would come to town. Se we bought 4 cans (at $1.75 per can) so there would be some for her at dinner.
When we got home, I began to strategize how in the world to make white sauce, grate cheese and drain macaroni in a kitchen with one dull knife, charcoal pots, no measuring cups or slotted spoons or colanders. I first brought the butter and the little box of milk from the refrigerator (power is on today – hallaleujah..) The milk box was one of those with the little straw attached to be stuck into a small hole on the top. So, after melting the butter in a pan, I stuck the straw in the hole to open it, removed the straw, and then “milked” the box which caused laughter to Constance and Emily who were watching my every move so they could learn to make macaroni and cheese. I had to ask them to start two charcoal fires for me because I have yet to master that skill. No Kingsford briquettes, no starter fluid – just a bunch of pieces of charcoal in a small clay pot. After they had the fires going, I started boiling water to cook the macaroni. Then I got everything else ready in a circle around me so I could do it quickly – there is no turning the burner up or down. There is one heat level – all the way hot. Fortunately, last time we were here I brought pot holders. I melted the butter in a large skillet, added the flour and milk mixture and began stirring to make the white sauce. Stir, stir, remove from the flames for a minute, back on the flames, stir, stir, off again so it didn’t burn. By now the macaroni was cooked but there was nothing to drain it in. So I held the pot with the potholders and poured the water into the white sauce – pour a little, put the pot down and stir, pick the pot back up, pour a little, stir. Finally, the white sauce was the right consistency and miraculously un-scorched. Now I began stirring in the cheese that I had “grated” with a dull knife, one little slice at a time. It stirred in nicely and the sauce was done. Since there is no oven to bake it in, this was stove-top macaroni and cheese. So I mixed the sauce with the macaroni, and then melted the remaining butter in the skillet and crumbled the Pringles potato chips into it. The resulting topping was spread on top of the whole thing. It was actually pretty good! As a reward for a job well done, Constance, Emily and I finished off the unused Pringles.
Meanwhile, the implacable Fr. David was becoming a nervous wreck. It was actually kind of fascinating to watch. I mean, it was just the Bishop and his wife coming to dinner. He (Fr. David) kept showing up in the kitchen door to see how things were coming. The kids (every one of them, even the adult kids) were banished to the “not seen OR heard” realm for the duration. Then there was the following conversation. Fr. David – “shouldn’t we have that stuff you have before meals?” (Appetizers) Me: “Why? No one ever has them here.” Fr. David: “It’s the BISHOP. Is ice cream a good appetizer?” (The power was on that day and he had purchased individual cups of ice cream which were in the freezer) Me: “Uh – no. Usually it’s cheese or crackers or cut up vegetables. Ice cream is a dessert.” Fr. David: “OK OK – how about putting out the drinks before dinner.” Me: “I’ll do whatever you want – this is your house.” Fr. David: “I want it like you do in America.” Me: “Alright, we’ll put the sodas and glasses out now for when they get here.” Etc. etc. Finally, the Bishop and Laura arrived. They were ushered into the room, sat down, and – everyone disappeared except Rick and me. Bishop George was his usual personable self, Laura delightful as usual and we had a nice visit, but where were Fr. David and Constance? After an African while, they appeared carrying in the many dishes that are traditional for dinner – always at least 6 or 7 choices. There was the macaroni and cheese, matoke, rice, green beans and a few other things. I had expected to help Constance while Rick and Fr. David visited with the guests. So then we got down to talking about Fr. David and Constance’s impending visit to the U.S. Bishop George and Laura told us some really funny stories about their first trips to other countries, and had some very useful advice for Fr. David and Constance. It was really interesting to hear their first impressions of things like key cards for hotel rooms, the one-knob twistable water faucets in the tubs, how it feels to be looking for a “toilet” and see nothing but “restrooms.” It was a really enjoyable time, Laura appreciated the Diet Coke, and we parted with hugs as usual. As soon as their car drove away, all the kids materialized to eat the rest of dinner. I know two of them had been sitting in Fr. David’s car but where the rest of them kept themselves for 2 hours is still a mystery.

Chapter XXIV

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 22:18:00 +0000

18 September 2007 - Tuesday

This day began with another pouring rainstorm. I brought the laundry in (still damp) last night and I guess I won’t be putting it back out today. Fr. David was gone somewhere and breakfast was sitting out covered with a net. We ate and had coffee and watched the rain pour down. I was wondering how we would visit three different places up winding, muddy mountain roads in this downpour which had no appearance of stopping any time soon. Fr. David finally returned and sat down to eat with us. He explained that there was a clergy meeting at the cathedral that he needed to attend at least for a few minutes before we went visiting. We had an appointment with the attorney at 11:00 and were supposed to be at the school at Nyabushabi at 13:30. It was now 10:00. I asked David if we could come to the clergy meeting with him so we could just proceed on from there. He lit up and said he would love to have us come and observe a clergy meeting here in Kigezi. He said he had not asked because he thought we “feared” the rain. So we tromped out to the car in the rain. Rick and I both sat in the back seat because the passenger side window in the front seat was stuck in the down position and rain was spraying in. By the time we got to the cathedral it had let up to at least normal rain. We were introduced to several priests as we walked in. Fr. David asked the Sub-Dean, who presides over clergy conferences, if we could attend. He said yes, of course, and then joked with us that however most of the proceedings would be in what would seem like a “heavenly language” to us. The agenda turned out to contain, as item #4, the discussion of transfers of lay readers within the Diocese. This is a huge item as the lay readers can be reassigned by the Sub Dean each year and some are known to be much better than others and campaigning goes on to transfer away unwanted ones and get the good ones. So it was very important for Fr. David to be there because his Lay Reader, Richard, is one of the best and he didn’t want to risk losing him by not being there. When we realized how important it was, we told him to be there as long as he needed. So, we arrived at our 11:00 attorney appointment at about 15:00 because the clergy meeting went on until 13:15 and then they insisted we stay and have lunch with them. Fortunately we didn’t eat much because we then came home for lunch before proceeding on to the attorney’s office. We had to collect the property owner first. He owns a shop in the large marketplace so we had to drive back in through the narrow, muddy streets crowded with people walking, bicycles, motorcycles, delivery trucks and an occasional goat. After picking him up we went on to the attorney’s office. The attorney has his office in the third floor of a building just off the main road. We walked up several flights of very steep cement stairs and through a very interesting medley of odors. The attorney had the papers ready so we signed, took pictures, and accomplished a major step toward beginning the orphanage. From there we dropped the owner back at his shop, where Fr. David purchased two area rugs as a surprise for Constance to spruce up the sitting room and also because the Bishop and his wife will be coming to dinner tomorrow night. We discussed the best way to arrange the rugs – Constance wanted them side by side to form a square, but David insisted on putting them end to end through the middle of the room. So, we put them end to end. We had a little ceremony celebrating the new rugs where Constance and I danced down the length of the new rugs followed by David and Rick. A little later, David and Rick left to meet with an architect and a surveyor. While they were gone, Constance and the girls rearranged the rugs into a square (much better arrangement in my opinion) and they will most likely remain that way.
Fr. David and Rick arrived home several hours later having accomplished quite a bit. The architect will begin to design the orphanage per our desires, and the surveyor surveyed the plot and will register it and get us a plot number. This turned to be quite and unexpected expense. I hope there won’t be too many of these!

19 September 2007 – Wednesday

With urgent business taken care of, it was the day to have fun giving gifts. When we first woke up, the humidity was horrible. The sheets were damp. I took a dress off of a hanger and put it on – it felt like it was wet. Rick and I were also waking up with strange insect bites on us which I believe may be from bedbugs. These, along with mosquito bites, were itching and burning. I was so miserable I felt like crying. Again I began to wonder – why am I such a wimp? Other people seem to be able to work right through all their miseries and aches and pains, but when I am physically miserable I can’t even think. So I prayed to God to give me the grace to be a blessing to others even though I felt miserable and grouchy. God is so wonderful! About ½ hour later, the sun came out, and a breeze began to whisper through the eucalyptus trees across the road. I walked outside to put the still damp laundry out once again and it was so beautiful I stayed outside sitting on a low brick wall, eyes closed, praising the Lord for His mercy and grace and His love for me.
Soon, it was time to leave and go to St. Luke’s. We drove up, up, up over bumps and ruts. Fortunately, after Rick showed Fr. David how to clean the air filter on the car, it began being able to climb hills again. We had been concerned because it had been gasping and stalling every time we started up a hill the day before. So, we arrived at the beautiful Lake Bunyoni area. We were supposed to have been there yesterday so they were surprised we were there but immediately set about beating the drums to summon people to the church. While we were waiting, a young man named Andrew arrived. He is one of the students sponsored by someone at St. John’s Roseville. He was dressed very nicely and so happy to meet us. He spoke good English. He is very thankful for the opportunity to continue school. His parents have both died and he lives part time with an uncle and part time with his ancient grandmother, Beatrice, whose only son was Andrew’s father. Beatrice wanted to meet us so we walked down the road to her house. She greeted us leaning heavily on a walking stick and moved so slowly toward us I decided to go to her. By now she was trembling with effort. We greeted her and helped her to sit down on a small stool. As she tried to sit, she cried out in pain. Andrew explained it was her hip which has begun giving her a lot of pain recently. We laid hands on her and prayed the Lord to ease her suffering and heal her body. How she lives there alone most of the time I don’t know. There is no running water or power and she can barely get around. Family and friends do come to help regularly, but she must be very lonely. She blessed us repeatedly for helping Andrew. He said he wants to be an engineer or a business owner.

Chapter XXIII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 17:47:00 +0000

17 September 2007

I was so depressed Saturday most of the day. Then, about 15:00, Fr. David said we were going to visit another sponsored child. I didn’t even feel like going but I knew I should. So we got in the car and drove down some more truly horrendous roads until we couldn’t drive any more and got out to walk the rest of the way. Waiting for us on the pathway was Isaac, the boy we were going to visit. He had been on his way somewhere when he saw us coming so he was able to lead us to his home (up a narrow dirt pathway, down a steep embankment and over a few more winding pathways). There we came to a small mud hut with a thatched roof and no windows. The hut probably measures about 10 feet by 12 feet. There is no power, no running water. No beds – just straw mats on a dirt floor for the mother and her three children. The father died in 2000. Janet, Isaac’s mother, doesn’t even have a plastic basin to wash clothing in. She had a piece of a large tire she was ingeniously using as a basin to do laundry when we arrived. Isaac is 18 years old and in fifth grade because he has only been able to afford school fees ($8.00/term) for 5 of his 12 school-aged years. Isaac is about 4 feet 8 inches tall and suffers from a disease of the bones he was born with. No one has a name for it here – but it looks to me like severe scoliosis and kyfosis. His back is humped and hunched and slightly twisted. He is the only child I have met here who refused a hug from me – whether from self-consciousness or because it’s painful for him I’m not sure. But he proudly informed us he is first in his class in all subjects. He brought out and proudly displayed his school uniform and shoes. By then, the inevitable gathering of neighborhood children had arrived. There were about 8 girls and boys, and several of them began shyly stroking my arm, turning my hand over, touching my hair. They had never seen a white person before. My depression evaporated. How could I have possibly been so down because of a few set-backs? Here was s boy deformed from birth, 18 years old before he put on his first pair of shoes, proudly going into the 5th grade at 18 years of age. He has lived all his life in a little mud hut on about an eighth of and acre of ground – just enough for the hut, a small external kitchen, outhouse and a tiny garden. He has lived without running water, shoes, medical care, electricity, or even a mattress to sleep on. And his situation is not unusual here.
Sunday, 16 September, was a good day. We went to church at Emmanuel church. We saw a young man baptized. We heard the wonderful music, the singing of people who love to sing and praise the Lord. Rick preached, I sang (this time with some very welcome help from some of the youth) and we were able to give our gifts from St. John’s Uganda Fund - $500.00 to the orphans group and $300.00 to the church for Communion supplies, and two soccer balls for the kids. Rick had given Richard (the church Lay Reader) a package of 12 pens the other day. Richard got up and ceremoniously gave a pen to each Warden of the church. After church we had a time of greeting people who have now become friends and also many people who wanted their pictures taken with us. We met several more sponsored children and gave them the gifts from their sponsors. We then retired to the parsonage for lunch. While there, Richard and his wife, Jenifer, arrived with a large rooster to present to us as a gift. After lunch (rooster in the trunk), we went to watch a soccer game in which Isaac Rurihoona was playing. It was fun and very interesting. Once the ball was kicked out of bounds and a big chicken came flapping and loudly protesting from the disturbed clump of grass. Another time the ball was kicked out of bounds into a flock of goats who were feeding on the sidelines. A group of children clustered around us as usual. One of the girls was holding a small baby of about 6 months. The baby turned towards me, looked in wide-eyed amazement at this wrong-colored apparition (me), screwed up her little face in terror and began screaming. This is hard to get used to since I love children so much, and many times the little babies here are terrified of me. They had to take her away to another group of people to quiet her.
Later in the evening we had dinner at Patience’s house. This was our first visit to her home since she was married last December. Her home is well kept and she served an excellent meal. I was also happy to find out some of her sisters and/or girlfriends often stay there with her. I was concerned about her and Retreat being alone the whole year Emmanuel is studying in India. Patience gave me a tour of the house. It is built in a long rectangle with the living room right inside of the front door. You pass through the living room into a hallway with 2 bedrooms off of it. The hallway continues into a small mud room and the back door. Outside the back door is a detached room used as the kitchen. The house is in a triplex type arrangement with an enclosed courtyard in the back into which all three apartments open. In the courtyard are the doors to the kitchens, several shared-use shower stalls and latrines. A naked little boy was splashing in a basin of water in the courtyard, and lines of drying laundry were stretched out on clotheslines. It kind of reminded me of some of the places we saw when we went for visits with my mother’s family in Brooklyn, New York when I was a little kid – the communality of the situation, the easy way the neighbors accept each other’s closeness, clothes flapping on the lines. Patience explained that a “self contained” home (one with its own toilet room) would cost much more and since they are newly married they are trying to be responsible and save money for the future so they are living in this arrangement for now. I told her I was very proud of them.
Friday, when I was feeling so depressed and useless, I got out my sewing kit and began patching holes in the curtains and one of the girls gave me a blouse to repair. I also did some of our laundry – mostly socks and underwear. That was Friday. Today is Monday and they are still not dry. Hopefully today they will dry as it is currently sunny and breezy. I hope it remains that way as I now have more laundry to do.

Chapter XXII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 21:47:00 +0000

14 September 2007

Still no power, and now no water. Evidently electric pumps are part of the water delivery system (go figure!). Last night a man came by with news of another piece of land for sale. So, after breakfast, we took off on foot across country on little dirt pathways, crossing streams on logs. The song “over the mountain and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go” kept going through my mind. After a long trek up and down hills, down dirt pathways and other roads, we came to the plot for sale. This one is actually better than the first one because it is level. It is right next door to a secondary school and around the corner from where a new health clinic is being built, and very close to a good road. We walked home, got a drink of water, and walked to town to change some money and check on the car. The mechanic showed us the damage and then informed us he can’t fix it until the power comes on because the welding unit needs electricity. So we hired a taxi to take us to visit the homes of sponsored children. He agreed on a price of 15,000 UGS (about $8.50). We got in and started off – going to visit the children who live in Bugongi. We passed through Bugongi and started up a road – one of the worst we’ve been on. We finally got to a point where the driver refused to take his car any further so it was get out and walk the rest of the way. It was, of course, up a mountain to the boy’s house. We climbed up and up, getting short of breath and rubbery legged. I wanted to start saying “are we there yet – pant, pant,” but didn’t want to complain. Finally, we reached the house. The mother of the boy, Baram, had met us halfway down the mountain and walked up with us. The house was a nice size and appeared well built. The view from the front door was incredible. We must have climbed up to about 7000 feet from 6300 feet. Inside the house which has mud walls and dirt floor, it was cool. There was a couch and two chairs and a wooden coffee table. We sat down and visited for a bit and took pictures. Then Baram presented us with a chicken as a gift for his sponsor. This brought tears to my eyes. The family is extremely poor and this was a big gift. The mother had also given us each a soda to drink, but she and Baram had none. Fr. David told me later that the mother is HIV positive. There are so many! It breaks my heart. We hiked back down the mountain where the driver was waiting, put the chicken in the trunk, and took off back down the mountain with the chicken squawking loudly in protest. Next stop we hiked up another mountain and visited several more families. By the time we got there I was ready to lay down in the dirt and refuse to move, but I kept remembering we were so very lucky to get to meet these children and their families in person, to get pictures for their sponsors – and that the children make this hike daily to go to school. All the kids are children of widows who also must walk up and down the mountains to get water and anything else they need from town, to go to church or visit friends. Children followed us everywhere. We visited about 9 children and their mothers and went home sore, tired, and very satisfied – but absolutely filthy. Still no power, still no water, so we stayed dirty and ate in the dark again. I haven’t been able to use the internet for three days now and feel cut off from the world. That night, we drew up a floor plan for the orphanage by candlelight.

15 September 2007

The power came back on late Thursday night so I was able to send a request to the bank to transfer money to buy the property. However, the bank replied no, I have to come in in person to do that. Meanwhile, the power just went off again. It’s cloudy and humid today. I am beginning to feel discouraged. Maybe the Lord wants to see how serious we really are. At this moment I have thoughts of forgetting the whole thing, going home to California, retiring in 2 years and vacationing in warm, dry, sunny places with power and fresh water the rest of my life. I feel trapped right now. I am not in my own house so I can’t just go work on a project, or leave and go shopping. If I go lay in the bedroom and read I feel rude. I forgot to bring any knitting supplies. And through it all, I’m beginning to fee dull and unimaginative.
I am fascinated at how a little deprivation of creature comforts can affect the spirit. I realize how pampered my life really is. Here in this place I am truly a stranger in a strange land. The water was off for 2 days – becoming dirty made me irritable. I need to do laundry but it looks like rain and I also know the clothes won’t be dry for two days. It is so humid it’s hard to breathe, and just sitting in a chair for awhile gets you a damp rear end from the moisture in the upholstery. I have to take allergy pills because of the molds caused by the dampness. As a guest, I feel obligated to be alert and entertaining, but I feel dull and tired. I get irritated at Rick because he just goes to sleep when he’s bored and I think that’s rude. But I wish I could do the same thing. The combination of the altitude and humidity makes me feel tired all the time. So – do I only want to do God’s work when I’m comfortable? Is it disgusting of me to feel so miserable I’m ready to give up when the children we want to help endure all this PLUS hunger, illness, abandonment, lack of clothing and countless other miseries and still have enough joy in their hearts to sing and play and dance? What is wrong with me!? I have a good husband, incredible children and grandchildren, a wonderful church family, a great job and have spent my whole life with adequate nutrition, hygiene, medical care and education. Less than a week of less than ideal living conditions and I am a grouch. I can also begin to understand why people are so willing to risk so much to cross the border into the U.S.A. What I can’t understand is why they get there, begin to enjoy the benefits, and then start complaining about it and say they aren’t being treated well enough. How unbelievably short are our human memories! We are all, every one of us, like the Israelites complaining about the Manna from Heaven and wanting to go back to slavery in Egypt just to have a more varied diet. How pathetic.
Rick and I prayed this morning for God to show us the way. His hand has been so obviously in this from the beginning. He whispered the idea of the orphanage in our hearts at the same time. He spoke a prophecy to me through a stranger that we should buy the property. He provided the funding to begin from an unexpected source. But now we are here to do it, we seem blocked from accomplishing anything. Our bank in the U.S. says the only thing we can do is write a check for the land. Our bank here says that would be– shall we say – not so smart of us. They say we should do it my e-mail. Our bank in California says no. So far it is a standoff only God can break.

Uganda Chronicles Chapter XXI

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 18:16:00 +0000

13 September 2007

Today we sent into town fairly early (around 10:00) to take care of some banking. We had to sign a bunch of papers to be officially on the Good Samaritan Orphanage Care account. Then we had to go across the street to get our pictures taken because the bank needed our pictures for their records. We had taken the money out of the account to give the gifts to St. John’s Bugongi School, Nyabushabi School, Emmanuel orphan’s group and St. Luke’s church. We didn’t have to be at Emmanuel to meet the sponsored children until 14:30 so we had time to shop for some things we wanted. We had to get a button up shirt for Bob, a dress and shirt for a couple at church, and a few more things for ourselves. I love the dresses here – they are beautiful colors and made for women who actually have flesh on their bones. We also needed a calculator, some envelopes, and I wanted to find a book on the history of Uganda. We met Fr. Francis in town and had a nice talk with him. It was about 13:30 when we were finished, so Fr. David said we should go home and have lunch before going to Emmanuel. As we walked back to the car from the other end of town, a man was riding by on a bicycle loaded down with three giant bunches of bananas. Fr. David stopped him and negotiated a price on the bananas and told him to meet us back at the car. Somehow he had arranged for pineapples to be brought also. So we started home with a trunk full of bananas and pineapples but we still had to stop to buy several cases of sodas to take the children and their guardians at Nyabushabi. We arrived home for lunch at about 14:00. I astutely ascertained we would not be arriving at Emmanuel at the appointed time of 14:30. We had lunch, got in the car and started off. After stopping for petrol, we arrived at Emmanuel at about 15:45. Most of the sponsored kids and their guardians were there – kids playing and guardians visiting. Some still had not yet arrived. They walk amazing distances up and down steep hills and across streams and through tall grasses and undergrowth to get there. We assembled in the church and as we walked in a song was sung. Fr. David prayed and then explained why we were there – then each child and their guardian came forward and introduced themselves and told a little about themselves. Rick video taped it for the sponsors. After that, Rick and I spoke for a few minutes to the children and guardians. We are so incredibly lucky to get to meet them! The kids then sang some songs for us, and then the guardians sang and danced. It was joyous – the singing, dancing, drumming, birds flying through the rafters, the rain pattering on the metal roof and a cool breeze blowing through the open doors and windows. The children were all clean and dressed – some even wore shoes. Isaac Rurihoona, who was assisting in any way he could, took pictures, opened soda bottles and passed out the drinks. He is such a nice young man – full of curiosity about everything, and always willing to help. He is in his last year of secondary school and a candidate for the last 2 years of high school. He will board at the school this year as they have evening counseling and advisory sessions to plan for their futures and also don’t want to be distracted in their studies by things that are happening or need to be done at home.
Before we left the church, Fr. David had a woman named Ruth come forward and tell her story. She has deformed feet and seemed to be of advanced age. Her husband and all her children are already dead. She is alone in the world and a few months ago her mud house began to crumble and the thatch roof began to leak. Fr. David had the roof repaired by members of the parish and the walls patched, but now her outhouse had caved in. We had a time of prayer for her, and then Rick said why don’t we go see the extent of the damage. So we started off to her home, which was “just near” like everything else here. We hiked single file down little trails enclosed on both sides by tall grasses and bushes and trailing vines. I felt like I was in a Tarzan movie as I brushed vines aside and moisture dripped from the vegetation. We finally emerged into a small compound of mud homes, some with iron roofs, some with thatched roofs. Ruth’s home was the smallest mud hut with a thatched roof. Next to it was the remains of her outhouse. Fr. David suggested I step inside the house to see what it was like. Just inside the door was a room about the size of a walk-in closet with a hallway leading back to what was probably a bedroom. It was dark in the house even though it was still light outside. There are no windows in the house so it is pitch dark 24 hours a day. The whole house was about the size of a child’s bedroom in the U.S. Rick asked how much it would cost to construct a new outhouse and was told about 50,000 UGS (about $30.00). Rick gave the money to Richard, Fr. David’s assistant, who will see it gets built for Ruth. (It was done the next day). We then processed back down the jungle trail to the church as it began to rain. Finished with the program for the orphan’s group and done with our side trip, we said our goodbyes and got in the car to leave. About a third of the way home, we hit a bump and heard “THE SCRAPE,” the one that means the fuel line was scraped by the bump. Sure enough, the car stopped running. We all got out and Rick, David and a young man passing by jacked up the car and fixed the problem. We drew a crowd as usual – kids, women walking by carrying loads on their heads and babies on their backs – all stopped to watch the repairs and to visit. Fr. David, in his black clerical suit, white shirt and collar, was lying in the dirt under the car, Rick kneeling in the dirt beside him, Constance and I standing at the side of the road in the rain. Finally it was fixed. We got in the car, started it up, and went maybe 100 yards when it quit again. Repeat performance – men under the car, spectators, me and Constance in the rain. Back in the car – 200 yards – repeat of all of the above. We finally made it to the relatively smooth main road and to a gas station just as it was getting dark. We pulled into the repair bay so someone could walk under the car to fix it better. However, there was no light in the bay (power still out) so once again my mini flashlight came off my key chain to provide the light by which to repair the car. The guy under the car sent another guy to get something to fix it with. Guy #2 proceeded to amble slowly around looking through piles of un-identifiable stuff until he pulled an unidentifiable something out of a pile and gave it to Guy #1. Car fixed once again, we went home. The car was still acting weird – pulling strangely to the left and something rattling loudly in the wheel area. Once home, we ate dinner, visited, played guitar and sang. About 21:00 Fred left to drive Patience and Retreat home. Ten minutes later Fr. David’s cell phone rang. It was Fred saying the car had suddenly “refused to move,” and was listing to the side like it had a flat tire. However, nothing that simple would happen. The real problem turned out to be a broken A frame – in layman’s terms, the metal part that holds the axel together and the wheel on was cracked. I’m not sure how Patience got home, but the car had to be left there on the side of the road. The next morning a mechanic came and somehow got it to the repair shop.

Uganda Chronicles Chapter XX

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Wed, 28 May 2008 18:11:00 +0000

Chapter XX

10 September 2007

We are again home in Kabale. We arrived Saturday to the usual round of adventures. First, we went to the money changing counter only to find out that $200.00 of the money we had brought with us couldn’t be changed because the bills were older than the year 2000. (This was the first time we knew of this rule) Then, Fr. David was not at the airport to greet us, and of all the things to forget to bring with us, I forgot to bring my church directory which includes Fr. David’s phone number. So, while Rick sat on a metal folding chair in the airport parking lot with all our luggage, under threatening thunder clouds (and in the midst of hundreds of hopeful taxi drivers), I went in search of the information desk. The airport is in the middle of major renovations because of the approaching CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting) conference which will include a visit by Queen Elizabeth II of England in November. The gate we arrived through is in a temporary building and the main terminal where the information desk resides is in complete shambles with workmen moving around, sounds of hammers and drills, and dust flying. At the information desk I attempted to communicate the need to find a telephone number. Somehow the message got through the pounding of hammers, buzzing of saws and the language barrier of English spoken in two radically different dialects. The very helpful woman, Edith, was able to get me a number for the Diocese of Kigezi after 15 minutes of calls to different places. Then she tried to call the number from her airport phone and couldn’t get through. So, we walked next door to the air-time seller and I paid for time on her cell phone. There was not a writing instrument to be found between the air-time seller’s office and the information office, so I provided a pen from my purse to write numbers down. While Edith was still trying to find the numbers I needed, I asked to see a telephone book so I could look for some numbers myself. She handed me a book about the size of a Newsweek magazine. I asked if this book would include numbers in Kabale – she told me this was the telephone book for the entire country. I couldn’t find anything I was looking for, so we used her phone to call the Diocese of Kigezi. Fortunately, the Bishop’s secretary was in on that Saturday and I was able to get Fr. David’s cell phone number at last. I called him and found out the car had “betrayed” him, was at a mechanic’s shop, and Fr. David was in a taxi on his way to the airport to get us. Now, all this was achieved in African time – so I was gone for over 45 minutes. When I finally returned to the parking lot, Rick was about to have a meltdown. He had last seen me walking through a crowd of strangers at a foreign airport and had no idea where I was all that time. Finally, Fr. David arrived and we piled everything into the taxi and went to the Namirembe Guest House, a guest house owned by the Diocese in Kampala. It was now too late to drive home and arrive before dark and driving in the dark is suicidal. The guest house was really nice and we had a good night’s rest and our last hot shower for awhile and breakfast in the morning. After a few more car repair delays, we got on the road about 11:30 and by the grace of God arrived home about 30 minutes before the sun set. It was so good to see everyone – especially our new grandson, Retreat. He is adorable! We had a great time catching up and giving gifts. We had dinner and visited some more. In the morning all the neighborhood children were laying in wait to greet us. It was fun to see them again. At one point, all the kids were whispering together and laughing and all of a sudden they all rushed Rick and almost knocked him over with a huge group hug.

Fr. David was in the village taking three small boys to the clinic. Their mothers had brought them to our house early this morning because they were feeling ill. It turned out that two of them were suffering with worms, and the other had malaria. They had walked four or five miles through some rough terrain in this condition to get help from Fr. David. It gave me a good feeling to know that the money for their medical care was available through a generous contribution from a member of St. John’s Roseville. Without donations from outside sources, these children would continue to suffer, and possibly die. While Fr. David and the boys were gone, I visited with the mothers of the children. Only one spoke a little English, but they managed to communicate that one of them had been struck by lightening as a young woman and suffered what seems to be serious neurological trauma. She perceives her physical and mental abnormalities as being tormented by demons. I asked her if I could pray for her and she said yes. Isaac told me later that prayer had already brought her much further towards healing than she had ever been expected to come. Three of the four women are widows, all seem to be in their 30s or early 40s. They all wanted me to take pictures of them for their pen-pals. That was fun. They all had a good time seeing the pictures on the digital camera screen. When they left we all had heart-felt hugs.
Later in the afternoon we walked some distance through the neighborhood to look at some property for sale. We walked up and down narrow dirt pathways, crossed a stream on some logs, greeted many people walking, and eventually came to the property. It was like most property here – rolling. There is a hill where we would build the orphanage and then it slopes down to an area of bullrushes which looks like a swamp but actually isn’t. The parcel is a little over an acre and ½ and the price is 10,000,000 UGS (about $6,000.00 U.S.) I told Rick we will probably get mixed reactions when we explain we went to Africa to start an orphanage and bought a swamp for 10,000,000. We looked at several properties with some houses already on them, but it became clear that buying the land and then building would be much cheaper and also everything would be new and the way we want it. Also, the property is not inside the town – it is in a more “suburban” area where the children would have a nice play area and could raise animals and have a garden. So, now we need to meet a lawyer and arrange a purchase contract and meet an architect before we leave in 10 days. During this 10 days, we will also meet the sponsored children and visit 2 churches, 2 schools and the Bishop.

12 September 2007

Yesterday we couldn’t do anything. It began to rain in late morning. Maybe rain is the wrong word – deluge is more like it. It poured sheets and sheets of water for 30 minutes at a time, let up for a few, and then began again. Two or three times the sky let loose a barrage of marble sized hail. The neighborhood children kept running out from under the shelter of the overhanging porch roof to grab the balls of ice and pop them into their mouths (and I noticed some went down the backs of shirts). They were all soaking wet within seconds but didn’t seem to care. Hail is the only ice they ever see or have a chance to taste and/or throw at each other. Soon the lights began to flicker and the power went out. That was about 16:00 yesterday. It’s now 09:30 and still no power.

Chapter XIX

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 17:04:00 +0000

December 16, 2006 (continued – still at the wedding reception)

Over the next few hours there were a number of dance and song tributes to the bride and groom from various groups – the Mother’s Union, different parts of the family clans, a youth group. Then began the SERIOUS speeches. Many people got up to speak. One of the groom’s former high school teachers gave a glowing recount of his (Emmanuel’s) entire high school career including grades earned and awards won (this was the portion in English, there was at least an equal part in Rukiga). Various relatives of the bride’s spoke both on their own and in behalf of David and Constance who weren’t allowed to be there personally. Then the father of the groom got up. And stayed up. He welcomed each guest by name and with an explanation of who they were in relationship to the family. When he got at last to introducing the woman who had been the flower girl at his own wedding 30 years in the past, I thought surely he must be finished. But NO! There was more to go, both in English and Rukiga and by the end of this speech I was in that place where you are mentally listing the names of foods in the local grocery store by aisle just to keep from either going crazy or falling asleep. When I was aroused with a start from my trance by the sound of applause I thought, “OK, he had to have been the keynote speaker. The speeches must be finished.” But NO – it was now time for the bride and groom, matron of honor and best man, to arise and go to stand in the middle of the crowd near the table containing the cakes. To cut the cake? – I thought recklessly?! But NO – now it was time for the best man to recount each moment of his friendship with the wedding couple. And THEN, the groom’s turn to speak. By now I was swaying on my feet, tempted to grab hold of Patience to remain standing, but knowing it would be very bad manners. I thought – surely the groom won’t want to talk too long. And then I saw him pull a notepad from his pocket with two pages of notes written. Back to the grocery store aisles – “produce section – apples, pears, oranges, kiwis……” Finally, he closed the notepad, spoke for about five more minutes, and it was time to cut the cake. We proceeded to the cake table (slowly) to the strains of the Wedding March done in a very strange key and with a whistle being blown at various intervals. The cakes were absolutely beautiful and arranged nicely on the table. The bride and groom placed their hands on the knife, pressed down to make the traditional cut and – candles on the table similar to July 4th sparklers were ignited. If I hadn’t still been in a semi-trance from the speeches, I probably would have jumped a foot in the air to the great delight of all around, but I didn’t. Until the shaving cream began flying all over the place. That was a shock. People all around the table were spraying the wedding party with shaving cream. I had big globs all over my dress, arms and hair. It is evidently standard wedding reception behavior there because everyone else took it in stride and cheered and clapped. Maybe I should take a few cans of Silly String with me next time and start a whole new trend. The rest of the reception was much like the one the day before at the Give-Away. Patience and I took pieces of cake to the members of the groom’s family and knelt to present them. Then we got to sit down while the rest of the brides maids took cake to the rest of the people. Patience presented whole cakes to various people who were special in the wedding preparations, and one to me! That was a real surprise, and brought tears to my eyes. I certainly never expected that. By the time the cake was distributed and eaten & the gifts presented and appreciated, the sun was beginning to go down. Remember, the sun comes up at 07:00 and goes down at 19:00 – every day of the year. So, it was now almost 8 hours after the wedding officially began. It was finally time to go home and people began drifting away, back down the mountain to various cars and trucks where as many bodies as possible were squeezed in to transport everyone back to Kabale Town. There certainly seemed to be less vehicles here now than there were before, and no one here ever seems to feel responsible to provide rides home to the people they brought here. So there was a lot of knocking on car windows and pleas for “just one more person” to squeeze in. And, finally, we were back home with David and Constance and it was time to collapse.
We had mentioned to Fr. David that it might be nice to purchase a small home in the area to stay in when we were there for longer than a few weeks (after we retire), and also for anyone else from our church who may want to visit Kabale. Right across the road from Fr. David’s house, there is an almost completed home made of brick on a relatively small lot. The walls are built but there is no roof yet. We asked him about it, and were told it was the home of the professor whose funeral we had attended back in August, and that he had not finished it before he died. He said he would inquire of the widow if it was for sale and also check on lots for sale that we could maybe build on some day. As Rick and I had decided to pay the fees for Mary to go to school, we spent the next day seeing the school where she would be going, and buying her uniforms, sweater, shoes, book bag etc. That was so much fun! She was very happy and came over to model her uniform for us after we got home.

We pretty much rested the last two days there, and then began the marathon trip back to Kampala. Again, I amused myself by thinking of things I would rather do than make this trip – being locked in a room with a boom box blaring rap “music,” having nothing but buttermilk to eat or drink for the rest of my life, etc.

Finally on the way back to the U.S., we were on a layover in Washington, D.C. when we noticed an unusual number of white couples with black infants and small children. The children all seemed very comfortable with the adults and the adults called themselves mommy and daddy to the kids. So, of course, I had to ask one of them what was the scenario. I was told they were a group from Washington State who had all gone to Ethiopia to adopt AIDS orphans. I asked how long they had been there – how much time they had to bond with the children before bringing them home. Three days!!!! They had all arrived in Ethiopia on Wednesday, been given the children they had pre-arranged for, and were back on a plane home on Saturday. I couldn’t believe it. They all seemed like family already, the children and the adoptive parents. One woman told me a heart wrenching story. She and her husband have taken 18 month old triplets to raise. The Ethiopian father had died of AIDS, and the mother was very sick and ready to die soon also. The mother had signed over her triplets to this family and said goodbye to them forever because she knew she was dying and wanted a good life for them. The adoptive mom said it was one of the most emotional things she had ever been through – saying good-bye and seeing the mother part from her children. I continue to pray for all these husbands and wives who went to so much trouble to do what they could for these hurting people.

Once home, we began to get pictures and descriptions from Fr. David of various homes and lots for sale in the Kabale area. He was not going to let us forget that we had discussed having a home there some day. Soon, the homes in the pictures began to get larger and larger until he sent us the picture of a hostel in downtown Kabale that was for sale. Eleven rooms, kitchen, bathrooms, courtyard, enclosed compound – the works. For about $25,000.00. Well, we didn’t have that kind of money. I said to Rick – “for Heaven’s sake, some of these places he is sending us pictures of are big enough to start an orphanage.” There was a long moment of stunned silence as we looked at each other, looked away, looked back, the same thought dawning in both our minds at once, both of us trying to not give voice to it. And neither one of us did actually say anything out loud at that moment– but from that moment on, we knew we were destined to build an orphanage in Kabale. Somewhere in my mind I could see Fr. David dancing around, hands raised in the air, knowing his prayers had once again been answered. God had evidently told Fr. David what we would do before He told us. We had absolutely no idea how we would even begin to do this thing. And then, in the mail, came a completely unexpected windfall check. Now, for the last 20 years, Rick has yearned for a Harley Davidson motorcycle. So, when the check came, he bought one. A month later, he sold it and bought a less expensive motorcycle, putting the profit into the bank to start an orphanage. He then sold the nice almost new truck we had just bought a few months before and bought a cheaper one. That money went into the orphanage fund. A few weeks later I was visiting patients in the hospital. A man approached me and asked me to come pray for his brother who was dying of cancer. The dying man had already lapsed into a semi-coma. There were several family members in the room when I came in. I laid my hands on the man and prayed for him, for peace and comfort and for God to help the family through this difficult time. The man was talking aimlessly to no one in particular about old school friends and past events. We finished the prayer and I began to turn away to say something to the family. I felt a hand on my arm, and turned back to the man in the bed. He looked right at me and said plainly, “Buy the property and use it for what it is intended.” And then he returned to his semi-coma and random ramblings. I had chills all over me, felt short of breath, and don’t even remember what I said to the family. I hastily excused myself and ran to a phone to call Rick and tell him what had just happened. I knew then there was no turning back. We soon booked a flight for another trip to Uganda – this time to buy land and start planning an orphanage.

Chapter XVIII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 16:59:00 +0000

Friday, December 15, 2006

Finally the time came – time for the bride’s family to formally present her to the groom and his family. The youngest brother of the bride, Isaac, came for her and escorted us across the grass to where her mother and father, Rick, and other members of the family were standing. Patience was now crying and holding hands with Isaac on one side and me on the other. We drew close to the family and stood there, Patience near her mother and father, while speeches were made by the men of the family including Rick. The speeches, as usual, were long. The Groom and the men of his family walked across the lawn to us, and traditional words were said between the families. After this round of speeches, gifts were presented including several goats. After the gifts, more speeches (sigh), but then it was time to cut the cake. As this was the Give-Away, not the actual wedding, the brother of the bride, in this case Isaac, stood next to her and cut the cake with her. She told me later it is a tradition that lets the bride honor her family for nurturing her through her childhood and up to the time of her wedding. After Patience and Isaac made the first cut in the cake, the rest of the cake was cut into small pieces and Patience and I took the plate over to the groom’s section and (kneeling) presented pieces of cake to the groom and his family. After that, all the rest of the bridesmaids took cake to the rest of the guests, except Patience and I took it to her family and the Bishops who were in attendance. We then resumed our original seats and there was more entertainment. Patience was looking pretty drained by this time. It was quite an emotional day for her. As I sat there, alternately watching the dancers, looking up at the majestic scenery, watching the sun go down behind the mountains, I just couldn’t believe I was here doing this. I felt like I was in an adventure story, a story of someone else’s adventure, it just couldn’t be me in this totally foreign place participating in this completely alien cultural event. It was thrilling, like living out a dream. I looked over at Rick and Fr. David in their ceremonial robes, listened to the hissing sounds the dancers were making as they shook their spears and pointed them at us. I still don’t know what that dance signified, and why it was done at a wedding event. It seemed to me like a war dance with the drums and shakers and fierce looks and spears, grass and rattles tied around the ankles of the dancers. But then, it was over and time for us to process back to the house. We walked slowly through the wet grass (it had rained several times during the afternoon), up the stairs and into the house past all the food set out for the guests, and back into the little room. The door shut behind us. Now it was dark outside, and there was no power in the house. We changed out of the formal dresses in the dark with a lot of giggling and talking. I had a small flashlight with me, and we used it to open gifts and also make sure everyone had their own shoes etc. as all had been left in a big pile in the room when we changed for the ceremony. I was released from the bridal room again to go find my husband and have something to eat. The whole house was full of people and was lit by candles. The air was warm, shadows flickered on the walls and conversation was in a language I didn’t understand. By now, I was worn out and ready to go to sleep so I just sat in a chair against the wall and dozed until it was time to go home to Kabale to sleep quickly and get ready for the wedding the next day.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Today was the wedding of Patience and Emmanuel –long awaited. They met when they were children and their fathers, both Priests, worked at the same church in the town of Kabale. Since housing is provided on the church property for the clergy, the children of the two Priests played together. Somewhere along the line, Patience and Emmanuel fell in love. This love survived their families being transferred every few years to different parishes, some very far from each other. They waited until both of them had finished their schooling, well into their twenties. Patience received a diploma in Business Studies geared toward bank employment, and then she went to work for several years in order to help put her younger brothers and sisters through school. Emmanuel became a high-school teacher and was working in Kampala, a 7 hour drive from Kabale at the time of the wedding. He had already rented a small apartment in Kabale for them to move to when they were finally married. Patience had taken Rick and I there to see it several days before the wedding.

This morning dawned beautiful, birds singing, sky blue with white billowy clouds. And now it was back to the beauty salon to have yesterday’s hairdo taken down and today’s created. The tradition is for the entire bridal party from the bride to the flower girls to be prepared with hairdo, makeup and clothing right there at the salon. The place was crowded with women and girls getting ready for the wedding. The woman who owns the salon doubles as a hair dresser and tailor. She has a tiny bedroom in the back of the shop where she sleeps and also sews. She rents wedding dresses and outfits for bridesmaids and alters them to fit each person. The wedding was scheduled to begin at 11:00. Around 11:30 several cars arrived at the salon to pick up the bridal party. We piled into the vehicles, me with an 8 year old flower girl on my lap, and headed for the church. The wedding began promptly at 11:45 with a procession down the isle. The rest is a bit fuzzy in my head. I remember standing next to Patience, holding a microphone to her lips for her to recite her vows. I remember the choir sang beautiful music, and that one of the choir members had to sit down to nurse a baby in the middle of a song. At one point, I and the Best Man stood next to the bride and groom with offering baskets and the guests all came forward singing songs and placing money in the baskets for the Bride and Groom. The entire service was conducted in Rukiga, so I understood only intuitively what was being said. The only words I recognized were “Mukama (God),” and Patience and Emmanuel’s names. After the vows were said, rings exchanged, prayers said and messages given, the Bride and Groom stepped up to a table accompanied by their God-Parents to sign the wedding documents. This was quite a ceremony, concluding with Patience folding the wedding certificate and placing it in Emmanuel’s shirt pocket to much applause. And now, time for the recessional, in slow time. Then many pictures and piling back into the vehicles for the 30 minutes trip to the reception which would be held at the home of the Groom’s parents, Guster and Joyce. At this point, the Bride has become a part of the Groom’s family and the parents of the Bride do not attend the reception. So Rick and I were off to the reception without David and Constance. We were in separate cars, I still had the flower girl on my lap. It was a long ride, especially up the incredible 45 degree driveway to the house there at Kihara. We were ushered into the house and the Bridal party was directed to a small side room where we all sat shoulder to shoulder and were brought food. All the other guests would be eating outside from buffet tables. The whole yard was decorated with the traditional pavilions and folding chairs for all the guests, except the Bride & Groom, Best Man and Maid of Honor (me) had sofas to sit on and a long coffee table in front of us for drinks to sit on. So, after eating lunch, we processed slowly through an aisle of smiling guests, through wet grass, over a small rivulet running through the lawn, and to an arch of flowers with a ribbon stretched across the pathway. Here, Emmanuel and Patience cut the ribbon, signifying their entry into their new life. Cheers erupted, and we continued the procession on to where the sofas were, and took our seats. As we sat down, I looked around and realized there were several hundred people seated in chairs, standing, & sitting on the lawn. The sun was high overhead, slightly beginning it’s decent to afternoon. It was about 13:30 by now. Time for the speeches to begin. I looked over at Rick, sitting with Medard and Henry, one of Fr. David’s brothers, and we exchanged a smile. Here we were again, the only white faces, (we were later thanked for ‘adding some color to the celebration’) the only ones who didn’t understand the language being spoken, but feeling incredibly included and loved and so very blessed to be sharing this adventure together as husband and wife.

Guests continued to arrive and place gifts in the big pile next to the table that held the six wedding cakes. The Emcee took the microphone and began the afternoon with a relatively short speech. The reception had officially begun.

Chapter XVII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:15:00 +0000

December 13, 2006

Today we went to St. John’s Bugongi. We had brought Christmas gifts for the kids – coloring books, crayons, rulers, colorful pencils, small kaleidoscopes, compasses and, best of all, soccer balls. When we arrived, there was a large group of mothers and children up on the hill near the church building. It looked like they were having a meeting or a class. As we got out of the car, the children saw us and broke away from the parents, came running down the hill and swarmed us. I had four little children holding on to my legs, putting their arms up to be held. I picked one of them up and he put his arms around me and hugged me tight. Then one of the little girls started pulling on my skirt – it was her turn. I put the little boy down and picked up the little girl. And so it went, child after child. I was just trying to walk up the hill towards the church where we were to have a visit with Fr. Francis, and children were all around me, crying to be picked up, hugging me, and I was overwhelmed with emotion and asking God, “what do these children see in me, a stranger, to make them do this?” And then I was humbled and grateful and overjoyed at the same time as the answer came, quietly, from the Lord, “they see Me.” Oh, how I have prayed for that again and again – that people could see the Savior through me, that I would be a reflection of His love to those I meet, that I could be a conduit of His grace, and be willing to give all the glory to Him. I could hardly see through the tears. I looked toward Rick, and saw that he was equally inundated, and my heart swelled with love for this man God has given me – a man who would share my love of Jesus, who loves children, who would quit smoking to be a better witness, who could walk these hills and love these people.
Both Rick and I were brought up in homes filled with bigotry. In my home, there was an ethnic slur-word for every group of people, but the worst was reserved for the black race. Rick came from the South where bigotry was a way of life. And the Lord sent us to Africa and filled us with incredible love for these black people! Way to go, God!!
As we arrived at the group of women, they broke into song – that amazing Ugandan type of song that needs no accompanying instruments except clapping hands. The voices harmonized and each song was about Jesus and His love and power. We were introduced to a young woman who was conducting the class, which turned out to be a class on parenting given by Compassion International. This international group guides mothers, from the time of pregnancy, on good nutrition and hygiene, infant and child care. They also sponsor some of the children to go to school and provide some medical help. It was a contribution from St. John’s, Roseville, California that built the Compassion International office that is on this property (St. John’s, Bugongi). These children were all obviously better dressed and cleaner and happier than most of the other children we had met. Thank God for groups like Compassion International, World Vision, Christian Children’s Fund and others. This day was such a blessing – a true mountain-top experience.

15 December 2006

The day has finally arrived! The day of the beginning of the two-day wedding ceremony. Today’s ceremony is called the Give-Away. At this event, the bride is officially given away to the groom’s family. After a morning of preparation at the hair salon, we were all squeezed into the car and taken to the house at Nyabushabi where the ceremony was to be. Preparations had been going on all night long.
Last night, Fr. David took us there to see some of the things done to prepare. UNFORTUNATELY ☺, we arrived too late for me to witness the butchering of the cow and goats for the feast, which disappointed Fr. David, but I was able to see the mountains of firewood, the large pots of simmering foods already begun for a feast that would start the next day. There were stacks of green bananas to be peeled and steamed for matoke, mounds of Irish potatoes and sweet potatoes. Inside the house in one of the rooms were large pots containing the skins of the animals just butchered, and many pots of the sorghum “porridge” that is so popular here. Men were setting up pavilions and tables, women were preparing food, and everyone was talking and laughing and sharing the work. Children were running around caught up in the general feeling of celebration, and, of course, Rick was in the middle of them. It reminded me of times long ago when I was a child in Indiana and my father’s whole clan would come together for a holiday celebration or family reunion. I remember being one of the children seeing my cousins, a little giddy from the party atmosphere, allowed to stay up longer than usual, getting foods we didn’t get every day. I miss that. Constance and Patience would be staying here tonight while Fr. David, Rick and I went back to the Kabale house.
And now here we are the next afternoon. The grounds have been transformed with four pavilions in a large rectangle with a big grassy area in the middle. All the decorations are in the lime green and white colors selected by Patience. One pavilion was set aside for the groom’s clan, one for the bride’s clan, one for the bride and her party surrounded by many guests, and one to cover the cakes. It had been raining a lot the last few days and the ground was muddy, but the area where the pavilions were set up was grass. When we arrived, we went into the house to get dressed and then have lunch. Patience and I (the Matron of Honor) and the rest of the bridal party went into a small bedroom to dress. Much laughter accompanied my attempts to arrange the many layers of traditional clothing correctly, but fortunately, with help, I was finally dressed correctly. The bridal party would stay in the small room and have food brought to them while the bride’s family and guests visited and had lunch in the rest of the house. I, however, being a mzoong (white person, foreigner, special guest), was asked to leave the room and help to entertain the two Bishops in attendance. I walked out into the living room area to see Rick seated with the two Bishops. Rick was wearing the ceremonial garment reserved for the elders of the clan. Being an adopted Mugyes (moo-HESS), and Fr. David’s Best Man, he was one of the three honored to wear this garment. So, we visited with the Bishops until lunch was over and it was time for the ceremony to begin. I went back into the Bridal room, everyone else went outside to the pavilions for entertainment. Finally, we were summoned. Now, remember, I had no clue what was expected of me. Every time I asked someone, in the days preceding the Give-Away, “what will I be expected to do?” I was told with a smile, “don’t worry, you will know.” I was not confident with that advice but it appeared to be the only instruction I would get. Rick had attended a give-away last time we were here. His advice from his observations at that event was to “keep straightening the bride’s clothing and gaze at her adoringly the whole time.” This did not excite me. But no further directions were forthcoming from anywhere, so, as we started out the door for the procession, I handed it over to Jesus. (I do that a lot here!) All processions here are done in the traditional “bridal walk,” slow in other words. I am a fast walker and had to restrain myself from speed walking down the aisle at my own wedding. Out the door we marched, one inch at a time, down the steps, long filmy garments floating treacherously in the breeze. At the bottom of the steps the muddy, slippery ground lurked. Stepping gingerly onto the mud I turned to make sure Patience didn’t stumble, only to be told sternly by one of the other attendants that I should NEVER turn around while processing. So, I went even slower so Patience could be beside me where I could keep an eye on her. Little by little we approached the pathway created by the Mother’s Union – standing on either side for us to walk through them as they sang a joyous song to the bride. As we came out the other end of the pathway we processed across the lawn to the chairs set up for the bride and her party, and finally were seated. I breathed a sigh of relief – no one in the bridal party had fallen in the mud, sprained an ankle or lost a shoe. Now I could relax for awhile and look around. The majestic scenery of the Kigezi region was all around us - green, terraced hills, azure sky and white billowy clouds. Across the lawn behind where the pavilion coverings fluttered in the gentle breeze, on a hill, sat all the people who weren’t part of the 300 plus close family and friends. Thunder rumbled in the background, but no one worried because, here, it is considered a blessing if your event is rained upon. The atmosphere was festive, children ran barefoot on the grass, adults chatted and laughed together, and the bridal party sat appropriately staring solemnly ahead. Entertainment came in the form of traditional dancers who were extremely energetic and a lot of fun to watch. The dancer’s costumes all reflected the bridal color theme. I kept looking to see if Patience needed any “arranging,” but she continued to look perfectly beautiful, although I noticed she was clutching her little beaded purse very tightly.

Chapter XVI

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:14:00 +0000

09 December 2006 (Friday)

I am sitting the car, sweating, as several African mechanics, Rick and Fr. David try to figure out why the car quit running properly after the last giant speed bump crashed against the bottom of the car. (It turned out the speed bump knocked the fuel line loose and petrol was leaking out instead of getting to the engine. This happened several more times before we got home.)

We arrived at Entebbe on Tuesday evening and went to Medard’s house. As will happen often with plans here, Pastor Mike did not meet us at the airport as he had insisted he must, but he had made a hotel reservation for us which we declined in favor of staying with a friend. He was going to contact us the next day, but that never occurred. Wednesday morning, the car went into the “shop” for a few repairs. Those few repairs turned into shocks, brakes, calipers, replace a broken tie rod and a few other “little things.” That took two days and Fr. David had to stay there the whole time to monitor the work. Finally, Thursday evening, the repairs were done. We left about 09:30 Friday morning. However, nothing is ever as it seems here. We found out this morning we would be transporting a passenger, a family friend who wants to go home to Kabale for the wedding. That involved some extremely creative packing of the car to fit all of us and the luggage in. Then, since Fr. David doesn’t know the way from Medard’s house to other places in Kampala, we had to hire a driver to drive us to the tyre shop to get two new tyres (which turned into 3). This necessitated our passenger, Pamela (pronounced Pah MARE ah), to take a boda boda (bicycle taxi) to the place near the main highway where we would eventually end up. Off she went on the boda boda, off we went through the worst Kampala traffic I have seen yet. It took almost 1 ½ hours to go what was probably about 10 miles. At the tyre shop, Fr. David realized all the suitcases had been packed on top of the spare tyre in the trunk, so we unpacked it all there in the parking lot and repacked it when the work was finished. Finally, we were on the road – just a simple stop for petrol still needed. At the petrol station, they backed the back driver’s side tyre(one of the newly installed tyres!) up onto a cement block to tilt the car sideways, then several men rocked the car to make sure every last drop of petrol was squeezed into the tank. We then drove around a bit to locate Pamela and finally got on the road about 13:00. Only four hours to get out of town! But still time to make it to Kabale before dark – until that darn speed bump. So now I sit here with about 5 children hanging through the car window saying “hi – how are YOU?” I say, with a smile through clenched teeth, “I am FINE!”

11 December 2006

I have been reflecting on the importance of hospitality. I have always wondered why it is so highly prized in many cultures, especially in the Bible. Sure – it’s nice to be nice, to entertain people in your home, to offer friends and family a place to stay when they are visiting. It seems God put a certain desire in most people to want to offer hospitality – to sort of “show off” our homes and possessions and children and pets. But since being in Uganda a new meaning has become real to me. Sometimes, many times in past centuries, hospitality can be the difference between life and death. In desert cultures a person can die with no water or shelter, and a person refusing a traveler either of those things could be condemning that traveler to death. When I first moved to Phoenix, Arizona in the late 1960’s, there was a law on the books that stated it was illegal to refuse anyone a drink of water if they asked. Living there, I definitely understood that. Here and now though, on this trip, I have realized how different our experience would be if not for friends here and their hospitality. This culture is very different from ours. The people are friendly, but we have no way to know if something we say or do is offensive. We were all created the same, as tribal people. People who live together in societies develop traditions and rules to live by so there will be order and prosperity. When a stranger comes among them, people are naturally wary until they see if that person will be able to fit in and not create chaos by ignoring the rules and traditions. Hospitality plays an important part in helping to introduce strangers to a different society. The host is showing the community – see – this person is acceptable to me, I trust them and I am responsible for their actions while they are here. When we first came here to Uganda, Fr. David taught us some of the words to use to greet people, to say thank you, (there is no word in their language for “please”), etc. Because we were with him, others knew they should not try to overcharge us in the market. If we had just arrived at the airport on our own, we would have been at the mercy of many people’s hospitality – to be shown how to obtain transportation, where to change money, to find lodging, to even buy a meal. Because we had a host, all these things were made easier. We were under his protection. And because of that, we were able to begin serving God immediately instead of wasting a lot of time just learning our way around. And so, I have a new respect for the concept of hospitality.

14 December 2006

Today we visited St. Luke’s, the small church in higher up in the mountains near Lake Bunyoni. When we first arrived we were given refreshments in the home of the Lay Reader. His home is about the size of a U.S. living room, with dirt floors, two very small windows for light, no electricity or running water. We sat on one of the two wooden benches to drink our sodas and have some time to visit, and then walked up the hill from the house to the church. As we stood outside greeting people, we watched the men carry the wooden benches out of the Lay Reader’s house up the hill to the church so there would something for us to sit on in the church. I had been asked to give the message today. The first thing I noticed when we walked in was the addition of a brick pulpit that had not been there last time we visited. So, after much singing and dancing, I spoke to them about the awesome power of God, and the love He has for us, and how we should tell everyone about that power and love. Then there was more singing and dancing outside and then we took our leave of those beautiful people. As we traveled down the road, two women waved us to a stop near the side of the road because they had some wedding gifts for Patience. Fr. David got out and spoke to them. Rick was driving and I was in the front passenger seat, and we just talked to each other while Fr. David spoke to the women by the road. He opened the trunk of the car and put in the wedding gifts, we said goodbye and thanks to the women, and began the twisting, bumping, dusty drive back down to Kabale Town. As we drove, I could hear the bleating of goats by the few homes we passed. Then we started through an area where there were no homes. But I still kept hearing the bleating of a goat. It started to filter through my consciousness that there were no goats along the road anymore. I asked Rick, “do you hear a goat?” He said yes, that’s strange because there aren’t any along the road in this area. Suddenly it flashed in my mind – the two women Fr. David had been talking to had been holding a small goat on a rope. It came together – the goat was a wedding gift to Patience, and that goat was in the trunk of the car! My animal loving American heart crashed painfully into the African cultural wall – here, animals are either to eat or to perform some service for humans. There are no pets. I listened to the poor little goat bleating in what I imagined to be pain and terror in the trunk of the car and tried not to cry. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and I asked Fr. David, “Is there a live goat in the trunk of the car?” He said yes, it was a gift for Patience. I asked wouldn’t it die before we got it home? He said no, it would not die. I asked wasn’t it scared and in pain? He said, don’t worry, it will be fine. I kept repeating to myself, this is not Kansas anymore, shut up before you insult someone. But I began imagining the distance between where we were now and home, mentally ticking off the minutes before the little goat would be freed from the trunk. I calculated probably about 20 more minutes. Finally, we emerged from the mountain road to the main road of Kabale Town. Almost home, almost relief for the little goat! Just then, Fr. David said let’s stop at that hotel and have lunch. I couldn’t believe it! But I didn’t want to be rude so I decided to pretend there was no goat in the trunk until we were finished lunch. Finally, back in the car and headed home. But no, Fr. David said now let’s go visit the Bishop – he is expecting us this afternoon. WHAT ABOUT THE GOAT?! It wasn’t bleating anymore. It must have died of a heart attack brought on by the terror of being enclosed in the trunk of the car and being banged around on the mountain roads for miles. So again, I put it out of my mind while we visited the Bishop. Finally , four hours after we put the goat in the trunk, we arrived home. The trunk was opened, the goat was lifted out and placed on the ground where it immediately stretched and began eating grass like nothing had happened. Fr. David smiled at me and gave me a “see, I told you” look. Just another day on another planet.

Chapter XV

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:13:00 +0000

Chapter XV

It’s one of our last few days here, and the mixture of feelings – sadness about leaving, excitement about arriving home – has started. Yesterday, we went to a large cave way back on the side of a mountain. Walking into the cave made me feel like I had been transported into the Clan of the Cave Bear book. We had driven there which was an adventure in itself. We drove until the road ran out, and then drove down a footpath only about half as wide as the car. Even way out there, there was a crowd of children running after the car. Some of them followed us all the way to the cave. The cave has a huge mouth and a high roof that slopes gradually back about 30 feet. At the back wall there are two indentions, almost like alcoves. The roof is blackened by fires over the centuries. But what the cave has been used for in recent times was hiding out from Idi Amin. People running from his regime of horror would live there in the cave. It was really fascinating. We stayed for quite awhile, just lost in our own thoughts.
Later, when we got home, I noticed that I was feeling really itchy under the waistband of my skirt. REALLY itchy. I thought I had finally gotten a few mosquito bites. However, I woke up in the middle of the night with giant welt-like hives all over my body – scalp to toes. I took a benedryl, went back to sleep, and woke up with them all still there. I showed my arms to Fr. David and Fred. My arms were really broken out. Fr. David said nonchalantly something about one of his children used to get that way from eating potatoes. I thought – wow, he doesn’t seem very concerned. (I found out a few days later he had contacted a friend in Kampala about having me airlifted to a hospital, which is a bit OVER concerned). I kept monitoring myself, making sure I wasn’t wheezing or feeling constricted for air. No – no swelling of the throat or inside of the nose. All seemed to be on the outside. Weird, but extremely uncomfortable. Finally, I asked Fr. David to take me to a clinic to have it checked. So, off we went to a clinic in town. The door was open, but no one was there. So, after waiting for a few minutes, we left and went to another clinic. The Dr. wasn’t in, but the nurse looked at me and decided to give me a shot of hydro-cortisone. I thought that was a good idea. She also gave me some prednisone tablets to take, and some other tablets that didn’t say what they were so I didn’t take them (I found out later they were de-worming pills – worms can cause hives and other allergic reactions – yuck). So I got the shot, went home, took the pills, and woke up in the morning still covered with hives. We were supposed to go to a Revival that day and be guest preachers. I said I wasn’t going covered in horrible itchy hives, so Fr. David and Rick went off alone seeming rather irritated with my decision. When they got home, nothing had changed so I asked to go to the clinic again. This time, Fr. David called the Doctor (who is a friend of his) and arranged to have him meet us there. That seemed really great, until we got there and realized it was a power shedding night and there was no electricity in town. It was pitch black inside the clinic. The Doctor lit a lantern, took me in his office and held the lantern up to observe my hives. He agreed I had hives and gave me some more pills to take. I’ll have to admit, it’s a little scary to be ill in a foreign place, especially a Third World foreign place. Rick and I had a couple of Epi-pens with us incase he got stung by a bee, and I told him, if I start gasping for air, please use one of the Epi-pens on me. He said, well, he didn’t know if the side effects of the epinephrine might not be worse than the allergic reaction. At this point, his extreme analytical side almost put him in danger of being strangled by a wife crazed by itching hives and only wanting the reassurance that he would try to save my life if I began suffocating. But I remained calm and just slid an Epi-pen under my side of the mattress.
We were leaving in the morning for the drive to Kampala and the airport. When I woke up, the hives were receding finally, and we prepared to say our good-byes. We were unprepared for the formality of the good-byes. The family appeared, all dressed in beautiful clothes and bearing parting gifts we were totally not expecting. We wound up having to re-pack a whole suitcase. Several family members made very nice farewell speeches, and we all took pictures, hugged and cried. The family gathered around the car and prayed for us and sang a song. It was really wonderful. And then, we were off. I spent much of the next 7 hours in the car making a mental list of the things I’d rather endure than this car trip – bamboo under the fingernails, chemotherapy, Chinese water torture – and sticking my arm out the window to feel cool rain on the remaining hives.

September 4, 2006
And so, we are on the plane, flying over Newfoundland. We’ve been flying now for about 14 hours with one hour on the ground in Nairobi and one hour at the airport in Dubai. I wish they would hurry up and invent a transporter so we could beam places like on Star Trek. We have flown today over Kuwait, Iraq, Iran, Warsaw, Moscow and Oslo – unbelievable. While staring out the window over Iraq I prayed for our troops. Strange being on an Arab owned airliner considering the world situation. They are so blatant – all the maps of the Middle East on the air trip monitors contain not one reference to Israel! To them, it doesn’t deserve to exist. The newspapers carry articles about all the Jewish terrorists beating up on poor, defenseless Lebanon. It will be good to get home. I’m trying to just drift here because I’m getting that incredibly sad, depressed feeling that happens after all these hours squashed into this little space. Everything aches, and my mind has started ticking off all the things I have to jump right back into the minute we arrive. I’ve been away in a fairy-tale world for a month now – a place that seems almost magical to me right now. Africa, a place I never really had an interest in except maybe to see the history of Egypt. Uganda, a place I hardly new existed except in news reports about dictators and atrocities of people against each other, and terrible diseases like Ebola. No desire to ever go there. But God knew otherwise. He has given me a love for the country of Uganda, the people, the landscape, the strangeness. I’ve been fascinated by science fiction all my life, and always dreamed of visiting other planets and galaxies in God’s universe. I think this trip has been like that because it’s definitely a whole different world to me.

December 5, 2006

We are on our way back to Kabale to participate in the wedding of Patience and Emmanuel. My sense of excitement has become dulled by about 15 hours of flying and all that goes with it – swollen feet, hair that has somehow become greasy and stiff with no exposure to weather or exercise, heartburn, mind numbing boredom. Even the scenery from the window has become boring after a grand passage over the beautiful Alps that brought back fond memories of my trip to Europe with my daughter in 1985. After a brief time over Italy there became nothing to see but clouds. I drifted off for awhile and when I woke up and looked out I was momentarily confused. It still looked like just clouds, but they weren’t white. Stretching out interminably as far as I could see from 39,000 feet was sand colored – well – sand. Mostly flat with areas of clusters of dunes. Nothing green, nothing blue, nothing but sand. I think I have seen the Great Sahara Desert for the first time in my life. It is awesome and terrifying. So much nothingness.
I spent 18 years of my life living in the Sonoran desert. The Sonoran Desert teems with life. An experienced person could survive quite a while there. The Sahara is lifeless and vast. I began to think of life without Christ being like this. The sun was setting and since we were flying due South long dark shadows began creeping out from the dunes, pointing like long fingers toward the East. There was nothing else – no roads, nothing moving. The sun continued to set and the dun colored sand became gray, then maroon. So desolate, nothing to hope for, no landmarks. A small point of light appeared near the horizon. It seemed to be shining through a haze, reminding me of some of those glorious Phoenix sunsets when my children were little and we were building a house in the desert. I kept watching the light, the only point of reference I had seen in almost an hour. It seemed curiously symmetrical. And suddenly, it became clear. It was the moon, rising out of the desert like the sun rises other places. I have never seen this miracle before! The half disc of the moon, huge and glowing, wavering a little in the updrafts from the cooling desert, became larger and rounder and finally separated itself from the horizon to float free in the sky – a beautiful silver light – and just in the last lingering glow of daylight as the moon took over the watch from the sun, the bright sunlight reflecting off the moon revealed a long, winding river – probably the Nile, stretching gloriously through the barren desert – a river of life in the middle of death. And then there was just black sky and the full shining moon, a reminder that no matter what kind of desert we choose to make of our lives, there is a Light that shines and a River of Life to guide us and deliver us from the desert. I love you, Jesus!

Chapter XIV

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:12:00 +0000

Chapter XIV

The Market

On the way back from Kisoro (Rwandan border) last Tuesday, we drove right into the thick of probably a few thousand people walking the roads. Some were falling-down drunk. Fr. David explained that Tuesday is market day and many people come to market, sell their wares, and then go get drunk. The closer we got to the market the more crowded it became until finally the car was parting a sea of people, cows, goats and chickens. Fr. David parked, we got out. Right next to the car a vendor was selling pieces of pineapple. All the husks were thrown into a trench next to the road and after a whole day (it was now 17:00) the smell of fermenting pineapple was very strong. We walked through the market place—it was an impromptu, flea-market type, set up and taken down every Tuesday. The lean-tos, poles and wares are all carried there and back on heavily laden bicycles and/or people’s heads. We watched as two women struggled to lift a load which they placed on the head of a third woman who then walked off with it like it was a pile of feathers.

As we wound our way through the maze of tents and people, I felt like I was lost in the Kasbah or some equally mysterious movie place long ago. Fr. David, of course, knew half the people there so there was s lot of stopping for hugs and short conversations. Fr. David has many brothers, sisters, cousins—full and half—as his father had five wives, and his grandfather had 38 women. So he is related in some way to half the town and surrounding area. People can marry within the tribe, but not within the same clan.

All over the ground were the wreathes of grass made by people to help balance loads on their heads. I guess they just leave them when they don’t need them anymore. All types of things were for sale—clothing, watches, chickens, pineapples, bananas, rock salt, and many things that will forever remain a mystery to me.

Joy and Bernard

Thursday evening we had late tea at the home of the Senior Warden of St. John’s, Bugongi. We drove through the village of Bugongi which never fails to be fascinating. The narrow, pot-holed road winds through the village, lined by combination shops/homes. Cows cross the road in front of us. Pigs root at trash heaps in the middle of intersections. Goats dart everywhere and chickens wander around. People sit or stand at various tasks in front of the houses—cooking, doing laundry, washing dishes. Children play with balls made of plastic bags wadded up and tied with strips of grass, or roll old bicycle tires down the road with sticks (a seemingly universal pastime for children). They wear all types of clothing from Notre Dame sweatshirts to Mickey Mouse tee-shirts (although they have never heard of Mickey Mouse or Notre Dame), ruffled organdy dresses hanging unbuttoned from thin shoulders. Some of the smaller children wear just a shirt, or nothing at all.

As we bounced through the village we received the ever present stares and calls of “Hey mzoongu—how are YOU?” as children ran to keep up with the car. Fr. David stopped the car a number of times to talk to people and hear the latest news. We finally arrived at Joy’s house. She was waiting at the door for us and was warmly welcoming as almost everyone has been. We walked up treacherous stone steps to the front door, my mind thinking “these stairs are definitely not disabled friendly!” As we entered the house, the first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. How eerie. The man was Bernard, Joy’s husband. Bernard had a stroke two years ago. He appeared in total control of his faculties and spoke with us about a number of subjects. His right side is paralyzed. Joy attended to him with obvious love and devotion while talking with us. She is a horticulturist who works at the place we saw the apple trees. She wanted us to taste some of the apples and compare them to American apples. They were superb! We talked about the differences in church structure between here and home. Evidently, Bernard was a pillar of the church before his stroke. He was head of the building committee, lay ministry coordinator and one other thing I forget. Fr. David was preparing to make him Senior Warden when the stroke occurred. The Senior Warden here is, Fr. David says, “a Priest without a collar,” in charge of the parish in the absence of the clergy. This confuses me as the Lay Reader also occupies much the same position as our Deacons do. So far I have seen Joy serve at the Altar, read announcements, clean up after chickens in front of the Altar, coordinate the harvest offering and other tasks, all in the same Sunday service.

When Bernard had the stroke, Fr. David decided to ask Joy to take the position. She has been a great blessing. Fr. David kept telling us how much he misses Bernard at the church. I asked if he could still at least attend services. Fr. David said no—because he goes through spells of being completely out of it—talking to dead people, wetting himself and saying some very inappropriate things. This surprised me because he was so lucid while we were visiting. How sad. It’s very fortunate that Joy is an educated woman who can get good employment or the family would be in much worse shape.

We had our tea and treats by candle light as it was a power-shedding night. Every other night the power goes off at 18:00 and returns at 22:00. So we have had every other dinner by the light of hurricane lamps and candles. I’m actually beginning to like it. No TV, no one can read or go disappear at a computer, we all just sit together talking or singing. Everyone looks soft and sweet in the semi darkness. I find myself having wild dreams of doing this at home—eating by candle light, doing the laundry outside and spreading it over the bushes to dry—but then a sort of sadness comes over me knowing that will never happen. When we get home we will return right back to our crazily busy lives filled with light and noise. Sigh. I wonder if it’s our cross to bear as the leaders in the world. The people here so much want the life improvements (physical that is) that technology brings—most of all the ability to keep clean—body, clothes, home—without back straining work. That is the main reason the women I have met would like what we have—indoor plumbing, hot water on tap, the ability to store perishables -the basic things we take for granted.

The Hot Springs

Yesterday we visited the Hot Springs. I don’t know how far away it is from Fr. David’s house. It took about 45 minutes of bumping over dirt roads to get there. It is further up the mountain than Kabale. We went through two small villages before we got there. What continues to amaze me is the amount of people lining the roads on their ways to and from home—gathering firewood, transporting chairs, jerry cans of water, 30 foot long poles, huge bags of potatoes, cases of soda or the empty bottles being returned—all either on the back of a bicycle, or on the head (many times with a baby tied onto the back also). People are walking along carrying out the business of life no matter how far into the hills you go.

When we arrived at the hot springs, the first thing I noticed were all the thatched roofs where “patients” had set up small tent-sized huts which they live in while there. People come here who have diseases—I don’t know exactly what range of diseases—which have failed to be cured any other way. How they get here if they are seriously ill I don’t know—it’s quite a strenuous trek from even the nearest village. But they come and stay here, soaking in the water at night and resting and eating during the day. Relatives visit them regularly and bring provisions. The government recently built them some latrines and one larger shelter. The spring itself bubbles up from the ground from under a rock. However, and I’ve never seen anything like this, a small regular stream runs parallel to the hot one. The area looks like its probably the beginning of one of the several marshy areas we’ve seen with many small streams trickling here and there and a lot of lush jungle-type vegetation. The people have ingeniously built a small dam from rocks to divert the cold stream into the hot stream to make the water a bearable temperature. They get their hot water for tea and coffee from the source of the hot spring. There were about 30 “patients” there today. Since I don’t speak Rukiga, I was unable to have any conversation with anyone, but I could feel the feelings of the place and the people and it was almost indescribable. To come to this muddy, damp place and live in a grass hut with a dirt floor and subsist on millet porridge and potatoes seems a strange way to get healed of something the hospital failed to heal. The people welcomed us, and we prayed for them for which they were very grateful. Who knows how God chooses to heal people! I will always retain this picture in my mind and heart. It was like coming to an African Pool of Siloam, only all the people are supporting and helping each other instead of fighting to be first into the pool. I pray fervently for the healing of those we saw today.

Chapter XIII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:11:00 +0000

Chapter XIII

August 23, 2006

Wednesday was a memorable day. We went to meet the orphan’s group and their guardians at Emmanuel church. There have been so many children orphaned by AIDS. There are about 50 just at Emmanuel parish. Some of the women organized a support group for the orphans. They work to raise funds to send the children to school. It costs between $104.00 to $329.00 per year to send a child to school (includes fees, uniform, shoes, book bag, sweater) depending on the level in school. The kids introduced themselves, most painfully shy, one by one, telling us how happy they were to see us, how much they love Jesus, and how much they love school and the chance for an education. Rick and I spoke to them. We described the average day of a child at St. John’s School, talked about our kids and grandkids, told the caretakers how much we admire them for what they are doing. I really hope to inspire some interest in supporting this group when we get home.

The children sang us some songs and I sang a song for them. We then moved outside for dancing. These kids are incredible! Their dancing and singing was joyful, abandoned—they had fun. The girls challenged the caregivers, many of them grandparents, to dance and several of them did. It was a wonderful experience.

We then had tea at Fr. David’s house (the one there at the church grounds). From there we went to lunch at the Senior Warden’s home. The Senior Warden, Martin, lives at the family land. His father (who is 80 years old) who they call Mosay—a very reverent term for “old man -” greeted us effusively with hugs and slaps on the back and a huge smile. Martin presented his two little girls, Martha and Martina. The younger one came and sat on Rick’s lap. Martin’s twin brother, Frank, proudly brought out his pictures of his wife and 11 month old son. Their mother came and sat by the father—neither of them speak English so a translation marathon began. Mosay had so many questions about America. He had worked hard and built a wonderful house for his family. His sons treat him with obvious love and respect. In the back yard are the graves of another son and daughter-in-law who died from AIDS.

There were several guests there who had come to welcome us. One was a woman county council person who was elected as representative for women. Women have been liberated in Uganda by Christianity. The church encourages them to get education and encourages their husbands to support them. The AIDS epidemic (new cases) has been dramatically reduced due to the teaching of the church on faithful monogamy and abstinence before marriage. Their acceptance of Jesus has literally saved this country.

August 26, 2006

I am hiding in our room—the entire place is crawling with people preparing for the Introduction Ceremony and I’m feeling pretty useless. I’m having that too-familiar feeling of not wanting to get in the way but not wanting to appear lazy and unhelpful. The house has been painted, lawn scythed, mosquitoes sprayed, rooms washed. There is a man outside making decorations—well, trying to make squashed decorations look new. These will go on the tent. I’m beginning to wonder why I spent all day yesterday making decorations. Rick attended a Give-Away ceremony yesterday. Fr. David had Rick deliver a message and Rick described the whole ceremony to me. Sounds very nice.

Patience had a bit of a meltdown yesterday over some boutonnière type things she had someone make and
didn’t like the results. I wound up remaking them all and she appeared to be satisfied with them.

The “roll-with-the-punches” lifestyle here is hard for us Americans to adjust to. Yesterday, the Give-Away ceremony was to begin at 13:00. Rick was informed he would be giving the message as a guest preacher by overhearing a conversation between Fr. David and me through the window. At 12:30, Fr. David was still off on some errand. Rick was sitting in his suit and tie waiting to be collected and taken to the Give-Away. He had been ready for an hour. About 13:30, Fr. David returned and told Rick the family had called and they weren’t ready yet so they didn’t have to be there until 14:30. They left at 14:45.

This morning I was summoned at 08:30 by Emilly that I needed to go to the hair salon with Patience. I jumped up and got dressed in five minutes. When I walked into the living room, Emilly was calmly setting out tea and fruit and said Patience had left already, but would be returning soon because she couldn’t get her hair done yet due to a power outage. I remain waiting for her now at 10:30 wondering what I’m supposed to be doing. Rick is supposed to accompany Fr. David to the wedding ceremony (the people who had the Give-Away yesterday) and Fr. David said they had to leave at 10:00—English Time. Rick is dressed and ready to go, reading a book. Fr. David is gone somewhere. It’s 10:30. Either Fr. David forgot he asked Rick to go (distinct possibility), or African time has once again prevailed. Yes! At 11:00 Fr. David arrived, quickly donned his shirt and clerical collar, collected Rick, and they were off.

The Introduction Ceremony was scheduled to begin at 13:00 here at the house. At 11:00 when Fr. David and Rick left, Patience had still not returned. She finally showed up at about 11:15 and told me we had to get to the hair salon right away. So off we went. The hair experience was fascinating. Here, everyone is black and has African hair. Most women have their hair cut extremely short. At the hairdresser, there is no shampoo basin. The hair is not washed there, only styled. First, the hair is smoothed down to the head by a thick, oily substance that reminds me of axle grease. It is combed into the hair little by little until all the hair is smooth and glossy and plastered to the head. Then small tufts are picked back up and tied with string to form anchoring places for what happens next. After her hair is dried to a hard shell under the hair drier, the woman having her hair done selects a piece of artificial hair which is then sewed on to her glazed hair by first anchoring it in several places to the little tufts, and then using an actual needle and yarn to sew it on the rest of the way. Then the artificial hair is styled into a French twist, curls or whatever the client wants. This process all began for Patience at about 12:00. Remember, the Introduction was scheduled to begin at 13:00. Around 14:00, the hair was finally done and we went home to dress for the ceremony, which finally began around 14:45.

While we were at the salon, several large pavilions had been set up in the front yard, and all the living room furniture had been brought out of the house and placed under the pavilion. Rented folding chairs were set up, and a large grass mat. The groom’s clan, who had been waiting down the road for who knows how long, were now signaled to arrive. The rest of the guests began singing, and the groom’s clan walked solemnly down the road, through the gate and into the yard, taking their places on the sofas set up under the pavilion. Meanwhile, the bride and her entourage, including me (the Matron of Honor), were peeking out the window of the room we were sequestered in. When the groom’s family was all seated, we began our slow procession out the door and across the yard to the pavilion. The groom’s family, and all the guests, including my husband Rick, were seated in chairs or on sofas. The bride and her party got to sit on the ground on the grass mat and remain there, staring solemnly ahead and being careful not to smile, for a long time while many long speeches were made. Fortunately, by this time I had learned to put myself in a state of semi-hypnosis to avoid feeling my back and legs first hurting and then slowly going numb. Eventually it was time for the bride and the matron of honor to get up off the ground and proceed across the lawn to where the groom to be was comfortably seated on a sofa. We knelt in front of him, and Patience put a flower in his shirt pocket which is meant to show her clan that this is the man she will marry. Clapping and singing broke out as the bride and groom to be exchanged small gifts and Emmanuel (the groom) slipped the engagement ring on to Patience’s finger. It was then time to rise gracefully from our knees without tripping over the long flowing skirts and wraps, and proceed back to sit on the grass mat with our backs to the entertainment everyone else got to enjoy. When the time came, we got back up, proceeded into the house, and were sequestered in a room, food brought to us, and there we were to stay until the party broke up later. However, Patience released me so I could go see what the rest of the party was like since I was a rookie. There was a lot of food and laughter and friendship, and it was very enjoyable. The next morning when I woke up, all the furniture was back in the house, the house was spotless, and the yard was absent any sign of the chairs, pavilions and soda bottles from the evening before.

Chapter XII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:10:00 +0000

Chapter XII

At home tonight, we had dinner as usual, and then Fred brought out the guitar and we had a time of family song and praise. I keep feeling like I’m in “Little House on the Prairie,” and it’s a good feeling. Neighbors just drop by any time and are invited in to share whatever we are doing—eating, singing, just talking. The yard is always being visited by someone’s chickens or by children looking for Rick and balloons. I am beginning to love the community. I enjoy sitting outside with the other women doing laundry or dishes (I have not joined them in “digging” yet—I think I’m a bit old and creaky for that.) Everyone just works and talks unhurriedly. Sometimes, during a break, someone will just lie down on one of the ever present mats and take a snooze. Even cooking in the kitchen over a charcoal fire on a dirt floor is good, because you are never alone to do it. All work is shared in a relaxed manner. Sometimes dinner is at 19:00, sometimes at 21:00. Breakfast is anywhere from 08:00 to 10:00. No one ever seems rushed and stressed. Work is harder, but always shared. What is really impressive is the amount of work people are willing to do for their churches. Most of the churches are physically built by the congregation. Bricks are made by hand and carried to the site on heads, foundations dug by hand, trees cut for trusses, earth moved by relay teams. People do extra work “digging” for others to make the money to buy other materials.

The Next Day

Today we spent all day bumping over dirt roads I will euphemistically describe as ruts and potholes with ribbons of road winding randomly through them. We drove a total of about 75 miles. We were gone from 10:00 in the morning until 18:00 in the evening—in search of Pygmies. We drove up up up, all around the circumference of Lake Bunyonyi. I hope to someday find the words to describe the grandeur of the scenery. The words from “How Great Thou Art” kept going through my minds. “I feel the breeze, I see the mountain’s grandeur—my God, how great Thou art!” I have never been anywhere like this. Hawaii and Colorado blended into one incredible place. All the mountainsides are decorated with different patches of cultivation—all done by hand with picks and hoes. There is always someone to be seen working in the soil, and sometimes stretched out on a blanket taking a break. They grow Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes, dodo (spinach-like greens), cassava, ground nuts, tomatoes, squash and onions mostly. Bananas grow all around but there are also banana plantations. Up here at the higher elevations, probably about 8,000 feet, were some beautiful trees with flaming red flowers and no leaves—just a great bloom of the scarlet flowers. When the flowers die and fall off the leaves return. When the leaves fall (twice per year), the flowers return. While driving around one end of the lake, Rick spotted some animals playing in the water. We stopped to check them out. They were playing almost like dolphins, about 8 or 9 of them we counted. They most resembled otters, but Fr. David said he had never seen them before so I’ll have to do some research to find out what they are. The lake was down a big hill from us, and, of course, we had forgotten the binoculars so we didn’t ever get a really good look.
We stopped at several small villages to ask where the Pygmies were today. We finally came to a strange little village where many of the Pygmies stay when they come in from the bush. We walked into the little village which consisted of about three streets in all lined with tiny rooms -some shops, some sleeping places. We bought some cokes. When you buy a soda here you have to drink it on the spot and give the bottle back. They are the glass type with the tops that have to be taken off with a bottle opener. There are bottle caps scattered all over the ground everywhere, and they are collected by children as playthings, or to make things with such as musical instruments. We were surrounded on all sides by both Pygmies and regular people. The Pygmies were taller than I expected. Fr. David explained that, because of the ready availability of alcohol mostly, a lot of cross-breeding has taken place resulting in an average height increase. Most were about my height (5 feet). Most were some level of drunk and asking for money to buy more drinks. Fr. David told them they could have some money if they danced for us. Two of them accepted the offer. They danced, he gave them some coins and one of them literally ran to the nearest bar with the rest cheering him on. The other was an older man with a lame foot. He was wearing the most ragged clothing I think I have seen yet, no shoes and a walking stick taller than he was. He looked like a character from a fairy tale. The feelings going through me at this time were powerful—danger, curiosity, other-worldliness. Not for the first time this trip I felt like I was in a Star Wars movie, somewhere in a distant galaxy long ago. We drove on further and there found a group of very small Pygmies. All were caked in dirt, clothing torn, no attempt whatsoever to wash despite plentiful water. No shoes, feet crusted with dirt, legs looking like animal hides—pitted and cracked. They were in the process of bringing in “poached” bamboo to sell for the money to by alcohol. Cutting bamboo is against the law due to environmental concerns. The bamboo forest is the home of the Mountain Gorillas, and the bamboo is also a national resource. The Pygmies cut and sell it illegally. The Diocese of Kigezi has built them houses to live in, but they seldom use them. The say they don’t want houses, they want money. But when they have money, they spend it on drinking—both men and women. Food is actually plentiful in Uganda if you are willing to do the work to grow it or at least pick it. Almost all the people I’ve met in Uganda are hard working, intelligent people who want to improve their lives through education and technology. The Pygmies, however, seem to be this society’s professional victims. The want to be given the parts of civilization they want, but they don’t want to become civilized to get it. They want to come out of the bush when they feel like it, be given food, shelter and money to get drunk, and then sink back away into the trees when they feel like it.
This group saw we had a camera and immediately began complaining and hiding their faces. I respectfully put away the camera because I thought they had a cultural taboo or fear of photographs. However, that wasn’t it. They said I shouldn’t be able to take their pictures, sell them “for millions” in the U.S., and they get nothing for it. If I wanted their picture, I had to pay them. I asked Fr. David what he would suggest and he said to absolutely not give them any money. Then he told them if they wanted their pictures taken, they would have to pay US. They got very indignant and snorted and stomped around. One woman, who was very pregnant, gave me a nasty look and walked across the road and flopped down on the ground and just stared at us. Fr. David spoke to them for awhile longer and then we left to drive through the bamboo forest. It was beautiful, so different from anything I’ve seen before.
We stopped on the way back to buy some roasted maize from a guy who was just sitting on the roadside out in the middle of nowhere roasting maize. It’s a delicious snack, takes forever to chew and eat and probably very good for dieters. On the road home we stopped at the little church in Bwindi that was Fr. David’s first parish after he was ordained. The church he found when he got there was about the size of two large living rooms put together constructed of mud walls, dirt floor and no furniture except the altar and a couple of chairs for the clergy. When Fr. David saw it he immediately began construction of a new building. The people sold crops and worked for other people to raise the money for any supplies they couldn’t make themselves. They built a beautiful brick (adobe) church with windows and an altar rail, chrism and pulpit. Half of the floor has been concreted and there are pews. It’s really very amazing. The Bishop is coming next month to consecrate and name the new church. It will be named St. John’s. Rev. Christmas, the priest who took the parish when Fr. David was transferred to a different parish, told us in glowing terms how beholden they are to Fr. David for all he did when he was there. Then he showed us where the people are moving mounds of earth out of the way to make a courtyard for when the Bishop comes. The people seem so tireless and joyful in spite of all they’ve been through. Rev. Christmas told us about his little one year old boy, Miracle, who has lost an eye to cancer and may lose the other one also. We prayed with him and his wife before we left.
When we finally got home we were so covered in dust and dirt that even a cold bath was welcome!

Chapter XI

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:09:00 +0000

Chapter XI

This morning we went to church at St. John’s Bugongi. The church became packed over the course of about an hour as people trickled in. It’s a long walk for most of them. There was a Baptism, and then the family of the child came forward to give a special offering and receive another blessing. Then there were the readings , prayer, & Rick’s sermon. Rick’s testimony was well received. When he was finished the congregation burst into a song that Fr. David told me they sing whenever they have been particularly touched by the message. Then came a very very long time of announcements and introductions. During the announcement time they read letters they have received from other parishes, introduce everyone from anywhere who is visiting and let them have a moment to speak. An American Episcopal priest would probably be overcome with a spell of swooning long before it was over.☺ I led a few songs, and then it was time for the Offertory. What an incredible offering time! Today was the harvest celebration (sorghum) and people were bringing their first fruits to the Altar. People came forward in groups (clans) all competing to give the best offering. As each clan was called, they would go out the side door, collect their offerings that had been left outside, and process down the aisle with them. Woman after woman with baskets of sorghum on their heads, men with chickens, eggs, cabbages and long stalks of sugar cane came forward, singing and praising God. At one point, a chicken got loose and pooped right in front of the Altar. The Senior Warden hurried forward with a piece of paper to clean up the mess. Fr. Frances calmly picked up the chicken and put it back with the rest of the offerings. After that part of the offering was over, I announced that the guitar I had played during the songs I led was to become a gift to St. John’s Bugongi from St. John’s Roseville. Wild applause broke out, singing and dancing in the aisle, and Fr. Frances laid the guitar on the altar with the rest of the offerings. I was quite overwhelmed by the response.

Meanwhile, a cute little girl about 2 1/2 yrs.old wandered up to me and crawled into my lap. She spent about 15 minutes touching my face and hair and staring at me. Then she just climbed down and wandered away. As the offering progressed, the singing and dancing continued. When the service was over and we had mingled with a lot of people and shaken a lot of hands, we walked up another mountain to the home of Fr. Frances for tea and lunch with his family. There was tea and biscuits (muffins) and bananas, chicken stew, g-nut sauce and matoke. We were each given a bottle of water which was much appreciated. There were also roasted ground nuts (g-nuts) which are very wonderful. After the dishes were cleared away, there were introductions and a talk by the Senior Warden which was translated by Fr. David. The Senior Warden’s name is Joy. I have found you can guess 80% of the women’s names by just going through the fruits of the Spirit until you get to it. After that, people began wandering out, until suddenly Fr. Jonathon took the guitar (which had been brought to Fr. Frances’ house) out of the case and started playing a local song. It was then I remembered that Ron Thomson had given Johathan a guitar last time he visited us. Fr. Jonathan knows the C, F, and G chords, and those seem to work fine for most of the songs they sing. As soon as he started playing and singing, the room magically filled with people—many who not been there originally. The singing and dancing began and was wonderful as usual. After three songs, Jonathan put away the guitar and we had a time of prayer and then it was time to go. But we were not going home just yet. We were going to go visit Morrie, the sister of Fr. David. Morrie lives up yet another Mount Everest just past the Mount Kilamanjaro that Fr. Frances lives on. When we arrived at her house, they were just having lunch and were going to offer us some but thank God Fr. David explained we had just eaten. I thought I would lose weight here! All we do is eat, and no one asks if you want more—they just observe what you choose and keep your plate filled with it until you leave some. Fortunately, I have figured this out and I only take a little of what I want and never clean the plate. Maybe this way I’ll at least not GAIN anything. We had a nice visit with Morrie, then rapelled (just kidding—we hiked) back down the mountain to the car. On the way home we stopped in Bugongi at the home of Dorothy Clark’s pen pal, Patience. She wasn’t there but the rest of her family was and they all knew who Dorothy is and asked about her and sent their greetings. I gave the mother of Patience the gift from Dorothy to pass along. The mother had just returned home from a goiter surgery. It’s hard to believe people still suffer from such a preventable condition. I have seen several people with large goiters. We finally arrived home about 17:00 and had a nice family evening.

Next Morning

When we got up, Fr. David was gone. He had gone to the Bishop’s office to see why the Bishop had called. I realized he drove all the way over there because he was out of air time on his phone. Rick and I talked and decided to give him some money for phone time and a few other things. It’s unbelievable how little money he has. He is supported solely by the offerings of the congregation which he splits with the Lay Reader. Since being switched to Emmanuel from St. John’s, his income has been reduced drastically. Emmanuel is a much poorer church. St. John’s is actually pretty well off. It is very close to town and many of the parishioners are council members, doctors, teachers etc. whereas at Emmanuel most are poor subsistance farmers and laborers. Fr. David and his family supplement their income by selling eggs, sweet potatoes and baskets. He is building a shop in front of the house near the road with the intention of more easily selling the eggs and sweet potatoes they grow. There are little home shops all up and down the roads. Some sell laundry soap, some sell sugar, some sell phone air time. When you need something, you just walk over to the the neighbor who sells it.

After breakfast, we went into the village to attend the funeral of a well-known university professor. The church was packed. The funeral began at 12:00 and was to last three hours. We arrived around 13:00. We were ushered up to the front to sit with the clergy once again. I think it will be nice to get home and fade back into the background. After two very lengthy speeches, Fr.David said it was time to leave. I guess it’s acceptable to come late and leave early although it made me feel guilty.

From the funeral we went to lunch at a local hotel. We were the only people in the place except for one other table. We ordered, then the lunch rush hit. We waited and waited while everyone else was served. I began to get an idea of what it must feel like to be ignored and discriminated against. (Although that was not the case here). I thought of being a black person in the South in the 1940-50’s, being ignored like a non-person. The range of emotions I felt was a learning experience. I was angry at first, which faded into embarassment, and then almost a feeling of self-loathing. It was very fascinating and made me sad for the people who suffer through this all the time in many places in the world. Finally, after about an hour, they brought the food. Turns out they didn’t have the sausage I ordered so they sent someone to buy some and it took longer than they expected. The food was very good. Fr. David, being himself, during this entire time kept getting up and going outside to greet people he knows, but we are now used to his ways. He is just full of energy and love (although he can get very irritated at times.)

After lunch we went to the phone company to ask why the new phone we just had installed was demanding a password before it would let anyone call. No one seemed to know, but they told us there was a guy who would be standing in front of another store around the corner who could come out and explain it if we would pick him up and give him a ride to the house. He was not there, so we just went home and the problem remains unsolved at this time.

Chapter X

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:08:00 +0000

Chapter X
Yesterday we had a fun and relaxing day. We went to Bushale Island (pronounced Boo shar’ ee). We drove to Lake Bunyonyi. As we drove down to the waterfront there was a street market going on—kind of like a huge flea market. We drove right through the middle of it, people, goats, cows and bicycles parting before us like the Red Sea. We parked right in front of the little ticket stand, walked down and got on a large, covered canoe. This one had a motor. They made us wear annoying life jackets, but I guess I should be glad. As we pulled away from the dock I noticed Fr. David holding on to both sides of the boat, as white-knuckled as he can get. Rick noticed also and asked, “Do you know how to swim, Fr. David?” Fr. David said no—he can’t swim. I then became very grateful for the life jackets. The ride over was delightful. The weather was its usual perfection, not hot, not cold, plenty of sunshine but big fluffy white clouds floating in the sky. I put my hand over the side into the lake. The water was cool, not cold, probably perfect for swimming. Native people were paddling back and forth across the lake in dug-out canoes. Everyone smiled and waved. Some boats had bicycles on board, others a mother and several children. Fr. David pointed out several churches on the different islands (the lake has 28 in all) and also pointed out a school he had attended as a child. When we got to Bushale, we got out of the boat and began climbing (we’re always climbing here) up to the restaurant and information center at the top. There we learned we needed to order lunch now, then go hiking around the island, and then come back and the food would be ready. So we ordered and went hiking. At one point I was standing looking through the trees filled with colorful birds with the water sparkling in the distance when I heard Fr. David behind me say, “Now, do you see how sweet is Africa?” I certainly do see how sweet this part is—I’m reserving judgment on the parts I haven’t experienced. This country is what Winston Churchill called The Pearl in Africa’s Crown,” and Kigezi has been called “The Switzerland of Africa.” The scenery is breathtaking—soaring mountains, pine trees and banana trees growing together, weather that is never really hot or really cold, a night sky that dazzles the eye and the senses. And the island is the kind you think of when you imagine a tropical island paradise. However, there are no animals on the island, only birds. They are trying to keep the island ecologically pure so they don’t allow anything brought in that doesn’t grow there naturally. The Diocese of Kigezi oversees the island. Bushale used to have a hospital on it that cared for lepers who resided on the next island over. The leper colony and hospital operated from the early 1900s until 1962. Now, most of the income from tourism to the island goes to help AIDS widows and orphans from the area. The island has cabins and tents for rent and there was a group of people there from England. The ‘gift shop” contained various hand-crafted items made by area widows and the money from the sales helps them support their families. We arrived back from our hike about one hour later. The food wasn’t ready for another half hour after that.
On the drive back up from the water it was the same as on the way there, lots of horn honking and people and animals getting out of the way. Once a cow came so close to the car on my side she brushed the side mirror and smashed it against the side of the car. I could reach out and run my hand over her back. On the road home we stopped by St. Andrews and met Reverend Ernst who told us all about Fr. David founding the church. After that we visited St. Marks which Fr. David helped to build when he was still a stonemason before he was called to the priesthood. At St. Mark’s the Arch Deacon resides. The lay reader showed me some more locally made musical instruments. We sang a song together—”Joy to the World” which was fun singing during August. From there we came home. Just as we arrived home, the telephone company truck pulled up to make arrangements to install the phone we had ordered to make it possible for Fr. David to use the Internet. They were prepared to do it right away, but it was a “power shedding” night and the power was off from 18:00 to 22:00 and it was 18:30, so they will be back in the morning.
The past two nights we have also been treated to African produced movies. Now that Fr. David has a DVD player, Fred has brought home rented movies twice. The stories have both been about sin and its consequences. The plots are pure drama with lots of sobbing and fainting. But God is at the center. It’s been fun and interesting.
The next morning.
Aah—nothing like a cold “bath” in the morning, standing in a little plastic basin trying to get everything clean
without falling out of the “tub.” I have visions going through my mind of my naked body sprawled out on the concrete floor in a pool of soapy water, one foot still stuck in the basin, having to be rescued by my hysterically laughing hosts. Needless to say, every move is made very carefully. Today, as I looked out the bathroom window, I was greeted by a goat calmly munching the shrub outside the window about two feet from my face. The acoustics in the house are such that when people talk in the living room, it sounds like they are right outside the bathroom window (which is open and has no glass, screen or curtains). It took a while to get used to that and not leap across the slippery, wet cement floor for something to cover up with each time I heard someone say something.
As I was getting dressed, the drums began, announcing it’s Sunday morning and time for the local church service to begin in about one hour. What is it about drums that stirs the blood with both excitement and maybe a little bit of fear? Probably TV shows about Tarzan, or old Cowboy and Indian movies where the drums always meant the explorers/missionaries/settlers were about to be brutally slaughtered by the locals. Here, in this century, the drums are a summons to gather for an event—usually a joyful event like church or a wedding.
Yesterday, we went to meet the parents of Emmanuel (husband-to-be of Patience). Joyce and Guster live about 15 miles from Kabale in a region called Kihoro. How we made it to the house without four-wheel drive I am still pondering. The home is in a location people would pay bundles to live in. It’s on a hill overlooking some of the best scenery I’ve seen yet, and that’s going some. Mountains march in lines in all directions. They are covered with the unlikely mixture of banana groves, pine trees and cassava plants. Flowers grow all around the house—geraniums, coleus plants, flowering poinsettias, bottle brush, lilies—things I have never seen growing naturally together before. Guster wanted to show us his land. We hiked up a steep hillside as he explained about this being his land over here, over there is his brother’s land. Here is where land is set aside for his two sons to build on if they wish. The Ugandan’s only asset is his land, handed down for generations. Many of them have sold almost all their land to pay for school fees for their children. After hiking back down the mountain, we had a delightful lunch (you guessed it—matoke, meat stew, beans, rice and cabbage) in a room with a soft breeze blowing in the windows and little bright yellow birds hopping part way in the door to see if we had dropped anything for them. Guster’s 90-year-old father sat in a chair by the door and was brought a skewer of roasted liver which was all he wanted to eat. Father (name unpronounceable by me) is still extremely mobile and alert for his age. Somehow, he and Rick connected as ex-military men. Father doesn’t speak any English, but with a little interpretation we found out he was with the Royal African Rifle Corp (for England) in WWII. When we were leaving, he and Rick saluted each other. It was very touching. Before we got in the car they presented us with a big bag of freshly picked bananas, and Joyce gave me a beautiful basket woven with the words (in Rukiga) “Jesus Heals.” When we got home, Patience was impatiently waiting to hear all about the visit. She has never been to the home of her future in-laws.

Chapter IX

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:07:00 +0000

Chapter IX
Kabale Town
The streets are lined with small shops. Shops of the same type congregate so it’s almost like the whole town is one big department store. A block of textile shops, brightly dyed and patterned yards of material hanging in front, is adjacent to a block of garment stores, tailors sitting outside peddling away on manual sewing machines (immune to power outages). Then comes a block of household item stores, a block of furniture stores (the furniture being constructed on the sidewalk in front of the shops, rain or shine), a block of stationers, a block of parts stores for electrical and plumbing. Interspersed at odd intervals are tea rooms, hotels, and drugstores (some for humans, some for animals), video rentals and office services (copies, faxes, print-outs etc.) One store specializes in drums, a big item here. All different sizes and sounds of drums and some other types of musical instruments. The names of the shops and restaurants are interesting. There is the Big Bite restaurant, specializing in both African and Indian food. There is Amazing Grace textile shop, Jehovah Jireh Stationers,. There are a couple of internet cafés, the post office, telephone company and banks (complete with rifle-toting guards). In the middle of town is the food market with rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables and butcher shops interspersed with a few little variety stalls where laundry soap, toothpaste, toilet paper etc. can be purchased. Goats, chickens, pigs and cows wander the streets intermingling with people walking, bicycles and motorcycles and cars and trucks honking at the rest to get out of the way. There are no stop signs or marked lanes (or pavement) and a lot of potholes. There are open trenches where water lines are being repaired, or where something was dug up long ago and the hole was never refilled. The town has several trash heaps that are grazed by goats and cows in between trash burnings. It can get very aromatic.
The people are mostly friendly and curious about us. We have seen a total of 11 white people in the past 10 days. We saw a woman with a little boy about 4 years old who had a mop of platinum blonde hair and very white skin. All the little African children were laughing and pointing at him as they walked by. I don’t think they were being mean—they are just fascinated by white skin and light hair.
We went to an internet café because I wanted to check my email. You go in, get in line and wait your turn, hoping the person who vacates a computer when it’s your turn was using one that was less than three years old. The one I got had a keyboard with all the letters worn off and painted back on with white-out. It took me quite awhile to get my small message typed as the keys kept sticking. Fortunately, it’s very inexpensive so the 40 minutes it took me to send two short messages only cost me less than $1.00.
Patience
Patience, Fr. David’s daughter and my pen-pal, is beautiful inside and out. She is expressive, loving, intelligent and just mischievous enough to be really fun to be with. She works very hard but still takes time to dream. She is looking forward to her marriage, especially having children. (Both which have already occurred by the time of this newsletter article). She loves Jesus so much. The evening I gave her the wedding gifts from several parishioners which contained cash, she began praising God. She had not known where the money for her wedding dress would come from and had been praying about it. She said she was awake part of the night praising God for these generous gifts and the people who gave them. Yesterday, Patience and I went shopping to look for a dress for me to wear at the Introduction Ceremony. I love the clothes here and wish I could buy a lot of them! They are beautiful and comfortable at the same time, and made for people with actual bodies. At one shop, Patience tried on a wedding gown. She was stunning! She wants to know all about our wedding customs and other things in the U.S. She loves to dream and plan for the future, and hopes to have a job soon. Her future husband, Emmanuel, is a high school teacher. They grew up together and really love each other. Patience is the oldest of 7 children and worked to help several of the rest of them through school after she finished her education. All the children, ranging from 28 to 12, seem very close and compatible.
Constance
Constance is Fr. David’s wife. She doesn’t speak English which is a big disappointment to me because I would love to talk to her about so many things. I know she shares the frustration. She has been such a loving and enthusiastic hostess. She and Fr. David are obviously still as much in love as they were when they got married 32 years ago, when he was 16 and she was 17. She became a Christian first and he followed her later. They have been through a lot together including the SIDS death of their first child. I hope so much he can bring her to visit some day. Then I can spoil her for a couple of weeks. She certainly deserves it.
Fruit Trees
Yesterday we went to visit an agricultural research station where they are working on growing fruit not native to the area like apples, pears and peaches. Most of trees looked dead—no leaves. But then the researcher/guide, Dennis, told us that the trees here at the Equator have to be manually exfoliated twice per year to trick them into thinking it’s time to begin preparing for a new crop. Because there are no seasons here the trees don’t know when to do what. I found that fascinating.
Frustration
I also experienced what it feels like to be foiled at every turn. I have been trying to find ways to get some cash in this town. The bank’s won’t take any charge cards and my ATM cards are rejected in the local ATM machines. So I thought maybe I could go on line and wire myself some money like I wire donations to Fr. David. Well, after waiting 35 minutes for a computer, I called up Golden 1 and signed on to my account with the intention of sending an email asking the bank to wire me some money—but NO—the web browser used by the Internet Café in Kabale, Uganda, is not one recognized by Golden 1 in Sacramento, California. So then I went through all the contortions to do an online transfer through Western Union. This took 15 minutes, mostly of waiting while the slow slow SLOW computer processed each step. Finally—the last step– push send to initiate the transfer. But—NO, they cannot process my request because, in order to wire myself money from my own account I have to be physically present in the U.S. to do it. Too bad I can’t just beam home, wire the money to Africa, and beam back real quick to pick it up at Western Union. So I explained the situation to Patience, who had been patiently waiting for me during all this time. I decided to call my son Joe and humbly say, “I know I’m the Mom and you’re the (42 year old) kid, but HELP—please send money. But it’s not that easy. First I have to go to a place that sells air time so I can put the time into Fr. David’s cell phone so I can call Joe. The time costs 1000 UGS per minute—about 75 cents American. So I bought 10 minutes worth of time with my rapidly diminishing bankroll. Then I had to wait for it to be a reasonable hour in California before I could call due to the 10 hour time difference. I wrote everything down so I could give all the information to Joe in 10 minutes, always keeping in mind that the line could abort in 2 minutes or whenever it decides to. I got through, the line stayed good for 9 whole minutes and now I’m waiting to find out if it worked. I know God has some kind of lesson in this for me.

Chapter VIII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:06:00 +0000

Chapter VIII
Today when I stepped out on the porch to greet the morning, there on the concrete sat a little girl with a shaved head. She was dressed in a very filthy dress and no shoes . She was just sitting there, scratching her leg. She kept staring at me. When I went back into the house to write in my journal, she followed me and sat on the sofa across from me and continued to stare at me. I went to the bedroom and got her some paper and colored pencils. I drew a smiley face and handed her another pencil and pointed to her (she spoke no English). She drew a smiley face. I drew a flower—she copied it. I drew a house—she copied it. But she would not make an original drawing, nor would she use a pencil other than the one I had actually handed her. Finally, Fr. David came into the room and I asked him to explain it to her. She said she would try to do it herself, but she never did. Fr. David explained that her parents had both recently been diagnosed HIV positive, and were are already ill. I just sat there, looking at her, beyond any rational feeling, a great heaviness inside of me.

It’s interesting—I feel only love and acceptance and friendship coming from the people here. I am treated as an equal, they don’t feel either inferior or superior to me. This is a different experience for me because most of the cross-cultural/cross-racial contact I have had both in and out of the States has been one or the other, never so equal. The Ugandans welcome suggestions on how to do things easier. They take the suggestion if they like it and graciously reject it if they don’t, but there is no sullen reference to “white man’s ways,” or feeling we are being patronizing. I listen to them and learn from them about many things, and they are also eager to for new knowledge. They want to come out of the Third World and they have no intention of giving up their essential selves to do it. They are confident and intelligent, and they accept the fact that we are 150 years ahead of them in the sciences and technologies and want to learn. They know their country has been held back by tribal conflict, dictators and corruption, but the current President has led them out of that and they love him. I think the big difference is that the majority of the people have embraced Jesus Christ as the Way, the Truth and the Life. I don’t know what the British Missionaries did differently than the American Missionaries, but whatever it was, the people remember them with gratitude for bringing Jesus to them.

The only sullen looks I have seen have been on the faces of teen-agers, and even that has been rare (and no different than here at home.) There is, in certain places, the attitude common in many other countries that all Americans are rich. I have been asked for money several times—I just say “sorry,” as Fr. David told me to, and that is it. No hateful looks or sullen remarks (at least obvious to me). They find it amusing that all the different groups in the U.S. call themselves “something-American” instead of just “American.”

Today we went to visit the border of Uganda/Rwanda. This was a very poignant experience. The border was like most—money exchangers, venders, insurance sellers, trucks lined up along the way waiting to be searched. We were in the mountains, and a small stream flowing through the hills marked the border separating Uganda and Rwanda. Police with guns stood around. There was a big metal swinging gate on each side and a sort of DMZ in between. We walked through there into Rwanda. Fr. David had to speak with a guard and get permission to cross. I felt a little nervous. Rwanda is supposedly at peace right now, but I couldn’t help feeling the feelings of all who had streamed across this border trying to escape the genocide. Uganda sent troops into Rwanda to help during that time. I could feel fear, helplessness, hopelessness, hunger and thirst and so much crushing grief. I wanted to scream. But it’s over for now, and I pray it never happens again.

However, we had my husband, Rick, the police magnet, with us. The same Rick who got a ticket at the airport one time for going eleven miles per hour in a ten mile per hour speed zone. On the way back to the Ugandan border Rick was taking a picture of people loading bags of flour into a truck. Suddenly, a guy on a motorcycle started yelling at him and motioning to put the camera away. We had to go be detained while explaining why we were there. Then they questioned Fr. David alone, then Rick alone (I guess I didn’t count). Rick had just changed the tape in the camera, so there was very little on it. The guy (still don’t know exactly what his role was) started telling Rick he had no permission to take pictures and therefore it’s a security violation and there is a fine for that. Rick said if it was a security risk, he would gladly surrender the film to Police Guy. Police Guy was then stumped, for if Rick surrendered the film to him, there was no reason to detain and fine him. He was stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. Two more Police Guys were then consulted. After much discussion, we were told to go without surrendering the film or paying a fine. So that was our excitement for that day.

In the evening, we went to dinner at the Bishop’s home. We arrived around 19:00 (7:00 p.m.) English Time. The Bishop and his family live in a house provided by the Diocese. It’s very nice, and in a good, clean, quiet part of town but only about a 15 minute drive from Fr. David’s house. The Bishop’s two teen-aged kids came out to wash our hands in the formal tradition. Then we went into the dining room, all sat down at the table, the Bishop said a prayer for the food, we picked up our spoons and —– the lights went out and we were plunged into total darkness. We all started laughing. Then the Bishop reached over his shoulder and flipped a switch and a light came on in the middle of the dining room ceiling. He said the house has solar backup of one light in each room. So, I thought to myself, we are at the Bishop’s home—wonder what will be for dinner? We had some delicious cream of potato soup and bread first. Hmm—different so far from everywhere else. After the soup out came—chicken, G-nut sauce, matoke, rice, cabbage and passion fruit juice. Sigh. However, it was good, and the fellowship was wonderful. Bishop George’s wife, Laura, is a beautiful and gracious lady. She told me about their trip to the UK. I asked her what she liked most about England. I was surprised and humbled that she said “the cleanliness.”

We visited two hospitals over the last week. The first was Kabale Hospital where Constance’s mother (since I can’t pronounce her name, I’ll call her Grandma) is a heart patient. What it means here to be a heart patient I don’t know. Her ankles are swollen and blotchy and she is somewhere between 80 and 90 years old. When we first arrived in the complex the first thing I saw was many people sitting on their mattresses outside on the lawn. Families were visiting, all sitting around on the grass near the patient having brought food and drink to share with the patient. Many of the patients and their families knew Fr. David and we stopped to pray with many people. Grandma was sitting on the second lawn surrounded by several children and grandchildren. She was beautiful, dressed in a gold khaftan and matching headdress, her eyes sharp. She reached out her hands to me like she had known me all her life. I felt instant love for her. Somehow we managed to communicate through the language barrier. Fr. David asked me to lead the prayers for Grandma. When we left her, we began visiting the wards. The conditions in the hospital are appalling. Each ward contains about 20 beds, 10 on each side. There is plenty of light from the windows, and fresh air as the doors and windows are kept open. The beds are about 1940 models and the mattresses are like futon mattresses with all varieties of donated bedding. Cleanliness is as good as it can be with the doors and windows (no screens) open and people always moving the mattresses back and forth from the lawn to the wards. IV poles are rusted and some have wheels missing and list drunkenly to one side. I have no idea where patients go to use the toilet (all patients have to bring their own toilet paper in order to be admitted.) There are two rooms in the basement for the “insane” patients. There is a TB ward and an AIDS ward. The Female Ward is for labor and delivery. The hospital laundry is several women washing outside in laundry basins and hanging the clothing on a line or spreading it out on the grass to dry. The second hospital we visited was relatively more modern. The doors and windows are still screenless and open, IV poles still rusty, walls and floors still dirty, but there is access to better equipment. A new clinic has been built recently next door to the hospital and is a dental and eye clinic. There we saw clean floors and walls, sterilizing equipment, modern dental chairs—but the X-Rays are hung on a rack on the front lawn to dry. This hospital was built and is still funded by the Diocese or Kigezi, Truro Episcopal Church in Virginia, and the Lyons Club. We walked up an earthen ramp to the second floor where we met Jonathon, the hospital administrator. He is very proud of “his” hospital, and gave us a good thorough tour. I almost feel reluctant to write my impressions of the hospitals because I know they are doing the best they can with what they have. I am just overwhelmed with the difference. I feel like I walked through a time portal to the 19th century when I walked into these hospitals.

Chapter VII

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:05:00 +0000

Chapter VII
How can I describe the wonder of last night and today?
Last night we came to the church which Fr. David is now pastoring—Emmanuel. He has been here for several months now and the people all love him. As we came to a certain point in the road on the way here, Fr. David began to honk the horn of the car. At every turn children came running crying “Reverenda, Reverenda!” This continued until we arrived at the church. It was barely still light out and still they ran to the side of the road to greet us.
When we arrived, we went into the house provided for Fr. David and his family. It’s actually a very spacious house—just no running water or power of any kind. The people were waiting. Some were wardens and Vestry, some were people who had come from his Parish before St. John’s, Bugongi, in Bwindi. Bwindi is where the Impenetrable Forest is where the gorillas live. These people came down the mountain (on foot) to honor Fr. David in the presence of his guests (us). Each person brought a basket of sorghum to make the ever present “porridge.” The porridge is what I imagine meade must have tasted like in the Middle Ages. And they drink it like water. The taste is very sour, a little beer-like, but non-alcoholic. I can barely tolerate drinking it, but each time is a bit easier. Rick can not tolerate it at all so I drank a little from his glass too so he wouldn’t be insulting anyone. After the sorghum fellowship came dinner. Sweet potatoes, rice, beans, meat stew. Constance and some other women had spent the night at the house preparing this welcoming for us.
After dinner while they were cleaning up, Rick wound up with a bunch of the children on his knee as usual. We were just laughing, trading smiles over the language barrier. Suddenly there were drums beating outside. The sound brought a thrill to my heart. All kinds of thoughts started playing through my mind like scenes from a movie. Here we were, out in the middle of nowhere in a dark house with only a few candles for light. Then the drums began to play. What century was I in—what planet was I on? The drums were mesmerizing. Fr. David leaned over to tell us the drums were to announce to all the surrounding people that the church service tomorrow would be different than usual and have guests (us). They played for about 15 minutes. It was hard to stay in the now. I began thinking about the first missionaries who came here. They met a fearsome people who didn’t already know Jesus. They didn’t have Fr. David with them. How did they feel in the near dark, surrounded by people so different, listening to those people speak in a language they couldn't understand, the drums beating. It must have been terrifying even though they had faith.
My reflection was cut short as a drum began to beat inside the house. From another room came Constance, dancing. She was followed by the other women. They poured into the room, dancing a dance you need to be an athlete to dance. Soon some of the men joined in, then the children. It was unbelievable. I felt so caught up in it, surrounded by joy and energy. The dancing went on and on. The room began to fill with the scent of all the dancing bodies but what would normally bother me didn’t—the feeling of elation continued. Every so often someone who spoke English would whisper in my ear the meaning of the words being sung. They were all songs of welcome and love and joy in knowing Jesus. When it was time to leave later, we said our farewells and walked outside. All I could say was “Oh—my God!” Because the mantle of stars that was flung across the sky was surreal. The sky was filled, the Milky Way was bright. I couldn’t find any familiar constellations. I couldn’t look down. I found myself with hands raised up to the stars thinking “the heavens declare the majesty of the Lord.”
Today we went to Emmanuel church. When we were there last night it was dark so we couldn’t actually see the church since it has no electricity. Today was the day I was supposed to deliver the sermon and also provide the music. I have to admit I was really nervous. I had begun to write something to say, then the Lord woke me up in the middle of the night and said not to plan anything, to let Him do it. My control-freak self is being thrown into the Refiner’s fire daily here. We got dressed, ate breakfast (eggs & bread) and prepared to leave. Fr. David had said church begins at 10:00. We actually began around 11:00, but this appears to be normal procedure here. If you need to be somewhere at a precise time, like an appointment with the Bishop, you say 10:00 “English Time.” All else is African Time and subject to flexibility.
When we arrived we were swarmed with happy faces and outstretched hands. We went to Fr. David’s office, slowly. It is kept locked with a padlock. It’s actually a very nice office and there is a matching room across the Narthex where the vestments are kept and vesting takes place. Anything we didn’t want to bring into the church with us we would leave locked in the office. When everyone was vested who needed to be, we gathered for the procession. Rick and I processed and had to sit in the visitor’s chairs up near the altar. The pews up there behind and across from us were for the youth when they are here. Today it was a special day—Mother’s Union Day. The Mother’s Union elders sat in front with us and the rest sat in the front pews. The Mother’s Union all wear uniforms to church—beautiful white dresses with blue sashes, and everyone has a blue and white necklace. They also all wear a Mother’s Union pin. One woman asked if Daughters of the King wear uniforms. I showed her my cross and said, “only this.” She lifted my cross and touched it to her pin and make a kissing sound and smiled at me. It was one of those moments I will always remember.
After the processional hymn we had some prayers and then the Mother’s Union sang a song for us. All songs are accompanied by some type of hand-held instrument and some type of dance. We had the readings, and then it was my turn to lead a the congregation in song. Fr. David’s son, Fred, and a few others joined me and we sang “Amazing Grace.” Then the congregation began another song. It was so beautiful I closed my eyes and let the music flow around and over me. I felt a slight touch on my arm—Fr. David was standing in front of me smiling and pointing—he lead me to the pulpit and introduced me. The interpreter came and stood next to me, and somehow I gave a message from the Scripture I had selected, but only with the Holy Spirit’s guidance. I was amazed when I looked out and saw people listening attentively. After the Nicene Creed & Prayers came the Offering. This was very interesting. The elders stand at the altar rail with offering baskets and the congregation comes forward and places their offerings in the baskets. Some bring eggs, carrots, cabbages and beans. At the end of the service, before the dismissal, the food items are auctioned off for cash and the cash put in the plate. This seemed to be a highly enjoyable part for everyone. At one point a woman felt the bidding wasn’t good enough so she grabbed a basket an started singing and dancing down the aisle passing the plate. She got quite a bit more. A man bought a bag of carrots and gave them to me. Anyway, after the Offering we had another song. I was requested to sing “Wayfaring Stranger” and “Motherless Child.” I was petrified. Again the Holy Spirit intervened and I made it through the two songs. Later, Constance told me the women had told her they felt they were going to Heaven while I was singing. I asked her how if they couldn’t understand the words of the songs. She said they feel the feelings of the song and the singer—words don’t need to be understood. These people continue to bless me! We received Communion after a slight delay while Fr. David and his Lay Reader, Richard, dealt with a troublesome wine bottle cork. All during Communion, as the people came forward, they sang such beautiful music I couldn’t help crying as I watched all these people walking forward joyfully to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. They have Communion very rarely because the Parish Priest has to buy the wine and bread out of the same offering plate he pays himself and the Lay Reader from, and there is rarely enough. At this Parish the offerings rarely approach $100.00 per month.
After the procession out, there was much hugging and hand shaking and then the Mother’s Union decided to dance for us. A great circle formed outside the church doors and one woman started singing, a drum started beating, women started dancing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone rushing from behind me, and suddenly, with a shout of joy, Fr. David had joined in the dance, still dressed in his black cassock.
As the dancing finished, we all continued over to the parish hall building where the Mother’s Union was preparing lunch for everyone in great big pots outside. As we were eating lunch I noticed Rick and I and the few people sitting with us were the only ones with utensils. Everyone else was eating the rice, stew, matoke and cabbage with their fingers. We take so many things for granted. These people know about forks and spoons and love to use them when they can. Most just can’t afford to have them, especially at large gatherings.

Chapter VI

noreply@blogger.com (St. John's Church) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 16:04:00 +0000

Chapter VI

August 12, 2006

So far I have seen only one mosquito. I wish I had packed a towel instead of a bunch of mosquito repellent. Maybe we will need it (the mosquito repellent) when we travel across the lake to Bushare Island next week.

Rick and I have agreed it’s hard to believe we are in Africa. This is not the Africa seen on National Geographic or in movies. I remember meeting people in Europe, telling them I’m from America, and their response would be, “Oh—New York or California?” Nothing else exists in America to them. Well, when we see movies or documentaries about Africa, it’s always either the Serengeti with lions stalking zebras and then fighting off the hyenas to protect their meal, or a jungle with monkeys swinging through the trees and crocodiles stalking people who venture through the snake infested trees to the river bank. This part of Africa, the part Winston Churchill called the Pearl in Africa’s Crown, is unbelievably beautiful. We haven’t seen any safari animals which has disappointed Rick a bit. But the land is breathtaking. The landscape is sort of like Colorado, but on the Equator. No pine trees, no cold weather. Instead, at this elevation of 6300 feet, are banana trees, prickly pear cactus, agapanthus, lilies (with one “l”, Beryl), passion fruit trees, pineapple—tropical vegetation at mountain elevation. There is a cool breeze most of the time, and you can always hear the cocks crowing, goats bleating, children chattering, ravens croaking—lots of sounds, but no NOISE. The sounds of human and animal voices, the wind in the trees—these are music to my ears. But TV, radios, cars and trucks, car alarms and the never-ending cacophony of modern civilization drives me crazy.

Right now it is 11:30 a.m. We have had breakfast, cleaned up, had several visitors drop by and are getting ready to go visit a school. But, as I sit here writing by the light of the open door (power is off again), a wooden door creaks lazily in the breeze. The women are outside sitting on a futon-like mattress visiting after washing dishes. I can hear geese and cocks, and the sound of Fr. David splashing in the water basin as he prepares to go out. A cool breeze is sighing through the Eucalyptus grove across the road and there is blue sky for the first time since we’ve been here. Sometimes I feel the great balance of God’s economy. In America we have abundance, technology, variety and health. Here they do not have those things, but they do aspire to them. But they have such peace and grace. They visit their neighbors, they help each other, they go about the business of living every day. There is no hurrying and adrenaline pumping all the time. I haven’t had a stomach ache or a migraine headache since we’ve been here.

But the people are hungry—both for food and for knowledge. Food is fairly plentiful now that the people are allowed to keep and to sell what they produce. But just having food is not always enough. “It keeps us alive—but it doesn’t give us a life,” Fr. David says, “We
usually have enough to eat now, but no money to send our children to school, to buy paper and clothing and petrol. No money for anything that can’t be produced at home.” Now that they are fed, like in Maslow’s pyramid, they want a life. They want to learn and create and have some leisure in which to do those things. They want to be able to afford medical care.

We visited a school, and then drove up to Lake Bunyoni. What a beautiful lake! It was a nice break in the day. On the way back, Fr. David took us to his home village. All this is even higher up in the mountains and it became hard to breathe after any exertion like climbing stairs. Anyway, we first stopped at David’s home church. He was bursting with happiness to show it to us. The church probably seats about 60 people. The floor is dirt. The altar is a plain wooden table. The vestments and Communion things are stored in a locked closet in back. Inside, all the pews on one side were donated by Fr. David and his wife out of the money he had left from the spending money we gave him when he was in California. So, in a way, St. John’s Roseville also donated the pews. Before the pews were donated, the people had to carry their own chairs to and from the church. When we left the church we went down the road to meet one of Fr. David’s brothers, Charles. There were several men hanging around in the yard and one had been drinking pretty heavily, something that is all too prevalent in some areas of the country.

We left there and went to one of the local blacksmith shops. Fr. David told us the area derived its name and reputation as the local blacksmith village. The shop is outdoors under a tin roof. There were two mud huts also on the lot from which a stream of children emerged to look at us. The children, from the “rural areas,” are different from the children in town. They are crusted in dirt, clothing stiff with dirt, noses running, no shoes. One little boy about 2 years old kept staring at me with big, solemn eyes. His nose had a slow trickle of what looked like bloody mucus dripping out.

The blacksmith area had a charcoal fire kept hot by the bellows operator. The bellows were two bags made of animal skin inflated and attached to a metal pipe which is in turn attached to an earthen funnel. One man held the metal over the fire and worked it, another worked the bellows. The children ran around doing whatever kids do. Rick gave out a bunch more balloons. When I asked Fr. David where the mothers were, he said they were home digging in their gardens, cooking, cleaning etc. The kids who aren’t in school come to work with their fathers.

As we were driving through the hills, we saw various people—some youth, some adults, sitting by the side of the road breaking up big rocks with hammers. This is their job—they break rocks up into gravel to be used in buildings. They leave the pile of broken up rocks at the end of the day and the company picks them up and leaves a new pile of rocks to be broken—all by hand. And they are grateful for the employment.