africa is bigger

everything in africa is bigger. 
the continent itself is big, the wild animals, the plants and leaves and flowers, the yard birds, the fire ants- all bigger.  even the viruses are bigger, deeper in the chest, and stay longer, and the bee-stings hurt more and become systemic for 12 hours.  the sounds of the outdoors are louder,  the voices singing in the church are fuller, the fabrics more vibrant. the rain is harder, trees are taller, the dark is darker, the stars are brighter.  the work is harder, the loads are larger, the accidents more destructive. the sick are sicker, the poor are poorer, even the dirt seems dirtier.

life here is wilder and more extreme,  life here is lived out loud.  not hedged and trimmed and tidy.  not manicured or hushed or subtle.  i get this.  it resonates. maybe it's what drew me here so long ago. the fullness of it- vast and intense- the way my heart tends to be.  but maybe i'll learn something now. 

maybe in the bigness of peoples lives, the violence and the love, the deep sacrifice, the hardness, the work involved in just the living of life, maybe these things are what brings the acceptance, the tolerance of unpredictability. maybe all the bigness of africa reminds people of our smallness.  maybe it tempers, and brings the okay-ness with lack of control. and maybe in this great land i will see the perspective i so long to maintain- that it's ok to not see too far down the road and that life is infinitely, deeply and largely beautiful.


"God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road." isak dinesen

"Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever..." isak dinesen

predictability and control

i'm perched on the arm of our wicker couch- the only square foot in the house where i can get reception for my wireless adapter enabling me to be online when the power is out, which it is, about half the time as best as i can figure out.  and really, it's the lack of system, the lack of schedule that makes me crazy.  there is no dependability, no routine to it- these black outs.  so you start the laundry and you can't finish it- you start to do work on the computer and out goes the power.  your playing a game or doing homework and you're suddenly in the dark- stumbling around for a candle or a flashlight.


i've said it before about stress- but i'll say it again. stress is dramatically increased when the difficult situation is unpredictable.  we do much better as humans when we can prepare for things, whether it's our childs behavior (knowing the triggers that cause a meltdown predictably) or whether it's a power outage.


but i'm wondering if this is an american reaction.  florence, our uganda house helper, just takes it in stride.  "yes, the power it is off again, all day it has been off, and the water was off too."  with no tone of annoyance, no tone of assumption that it shouldn't be this way- or that it is causing stress or inconvenience.  it's like life is unpredictable - so why get all worked up about one small part of life.  my luganda teacher came to class 45 minutes late today, "well, you know it was raining where i came from, and everything slows when it rains."  that is life here.  the expectation is that things will be hard, or broken, and that life is random.  there might be sugar at the market, or not.  i might make it to class, but i might not.  that washing machine might be here tomorrow, or it might not.  here, there is this global sense of no control. of dis-empowerment.  

i think having control is an american value.  or maybe an expectation.  we operate under the assumption that things should work, things broken should be fixed, that inconveniences should be addressed, systems should be put in place to remedy things and that we have at least some control in this.  in fact we get very peeved if we feel we lack control in these matters. we have righteous indignation.  we think we have a claim on things operating smoothly.  like lucy from the Peanuts,  "all i want is my fair share!  all i want is what i have coming to me!"

the other day i was at clinic and i heard the story of a girl.  she came from way up north in a village.  when she was about ten years old, she tested positive for HIV at a school testing clinic. she hid this from her father, and when he found out, he refused to pay her school fees, rejected her from the family and tried desperately to marry her off of older men. eventually she ran away- all the way to the city.  she was now sick and found an aunt to take her in.  her aunt knew of Reach Out clinic and brought her in.  her HIV status was confirmed, she was started on meds, her school fees were paid for by Reach Out, and eventually she finished secondary school, got a job with the clinic, and sends all her money to her siblings back north in the village to pay their school fees.  she recently had a child,  his name is innocent- because she said, he is HIV negative.

her story is not that strange here.  where was her control when she contracted HIV before age 10 (not through a blood transfusion)- what was her 'fair share' in life?  the things she'd experienced were way beyond inconveniences.  the injustice she'd lived with was beyond unpredictable, it was unimaginable.

another woman shared about fleeing the country during the terrible time of idi amin, living for years as a refugee in the congo- losing both her parents and many in her village who were left behind- and marrying early to dissociate from an alcoholic uncle.  then losing many siblings to AIDS, and taking in their children to raise with hers.  where is the control in her life?  how can you fix the broken in that?

so i'm thinking maybe this is where that acceptance comes from.  and life gets put in perspective. 

sun and water

this weekend was great. 
we went to the local hotel pool on saturday afternoon after a rainy morning and the kids were thrilled.  sun and water- it's hard to go wrong.   
then on sunday after another rockin' african church service, we were invited for lunch in kampala by the family of one of bryn's classmates.  it was so nice!  they are italian.  i love italians- well, i haven't met an italian that i didn't like.  they smile and talk and laugh and eat good food.  they are kind and passionate and forgiving of people who are late and kids who say 'i don't like chicken' (even when they have made it specially because you have a gluten allergy and can't eat lasagne).  it was fun and good and we felt like we were branching out.  and after five weeks and turning the corner last week- it feels much more like home.  not just in a philosophical way, but in a real way- like ok- we've moved here- we live here- this is home.

pondering

i think i'm finally learning to ponder.  to ponder things in my heart.
to sit. to hold it.  the tension of the opposites.  to keep things.  to wait.
i think i'm finally understanding, that it's about walking in stillness with my God.  i've come to realize that having my thoughts or questions or decisions that need to be made, running circles around themselves in my head or even my heart, is not pondering.  but reflection, meditation, prayer and listening to that still small voice, are the spices and the flavor that my thoughts and hopes and questions need, to develop, to age, to mature, to ripen.  it's like making a good curry. 
so i'm sitting with things. today in the rain.  on my porch.  thankfully with the lights on.

yesterday i got to see zoe's shine.  yesterday i got to have my heart broken again by the things that break the heart of God.  yesterday zoe and i had an accidental field trip to an orphanage- accept that i don't believe in accidents. we were supposed to have a field trip at the US embassy.  but after zoe saluted many guards and uganda police officers, bringing as usual great joy and smiles, we realized we needed an appointment.  but since we were on ggaba road, i decided we should check out this second hand children's store i'd heard about where the proceeds all go to support an orphanage- specifically the medical needs of the orphans.  it was a tiny, but well organized store and i grabbed a few sweatshirts for the kids as i had greatly under estimated how cool it can get in uganda when it rains.  zoe asked if we could go visit the kids in the orphanage.  i told her i doubted it- i was sure there were rules and regulations and background checks but told her she was welcome to ask.  the women were delighted to have her come and meet the kids- so off we went.

we were led down a darkish hallway with several small ones coming out of a bathroom trying to put back on their very dirty sweatpants, and into an outdoor courtyard where more children were sitting or crawling or being held or being fed.  it was very much like the photos you see of african orphans.  dirt and runny noses and flies landing and not being shooed away.

zoe jumped right in.  she was in her element.  she was magnetized.  she looked around and wanted to love all of them.  she got down and played, she engaged them, she learned their names. she picked up the small ones, held the babies, moved the ones who had crawled into trouble and removed small objects from little mouths.  she even shared her beloved 'powerpuff girls' with them.  i mean she let these babies suck on them, whack her with them, fight over them, pull them, drop them and she only took them away when one kid tried to soak them in a tub of water.

the nannies at the babies home- fell-in- love with zoe.  and what has happened so often before, but always seems to catch me by surprise - happened again.  they spoke of her heart, her goodness, her uniqueness, her maturity, how different she is from other 12 year olds, how there was 'just something' about her.  the je ne sais quoi.  zoe's shine.    they said the wanted her to come every week.  and it was such an affirmation- for her and for me.  this was one of my hopes in coming here- for her to begin to find her place in the world.  for her to find an outlet for her gifts- for her to build confidence- and for her to see the world outside of herself- to be less concerned with her nonverbal learning disability, less concerned with her sticky thoughts, and more aware of what she has to give, to share, to teach.

we were there for four hours.  and while we held and helped out and played, i heard stories.  stories of the absolute brokenness of our world.  stories that made me tear up and bite my lip.  stories that broke my heart- stories that made me hold on tighter, and stay longer, and ask questions.  stories that made me ponder.

and i thought about these little ones who didn't ask for this life they were given- yet they were given life.  who have seen so much, but not felt the love they deserve.  and i thought about how God loves each of us enough to give us our own face.  really.  to give us uniqueness.  complexity, subtlety, individuality.  how we are loved individually.  how i love my children each of them- just because.  how i love each of them completely differently- but they are loved equally.


isn't the heart of God broken by the abandon of these children?  and by last wednesdays doling out of death (troy davis), so two wrongs can make a right? (what?) and by the starvation of people in east africa? and by so many things.  so many that we can sit overwhelmed.  frozen.

but in the stillness i thought about the bigness of my God.
.... my grace is sufficient ...
...what you do for the least of these, you do for me....
...I am your strength... rest in me....
... love each other as I have loved you....

...to those whom much is given...much is expected...
...do for one, what you wish you could do for everyone.....
...what is your response?....
...what do you do about it?...

and i thought about capacity. 'the ability to hold or receive or absorb.  a measure of this ability.  the maximum amount that can be contained.'

what is my capacity- our capacity- our ability- our maximum- as we sit in so much blessing?

and i remembered that dream i had when i was pregnant with jude.  that dream when Jesus spoke, when i said 'i can't handle this'  and He answered 'you have no idea what you can handle'. 

so i sit.  here in the stillness.  and these are some of the things i ponder in my heart.

turning the corner

i think i've turned the corner. 
i'm sure it's one of many corners, one of many turns that i will make, as we wiggle around getting adjusted, and getting comfortable here.  but yesterday i woke up and felt better.  i also felt like it was time to own up- to embrace- to make this experience real.  it was time to get over the getting over it, to be done with the transition state, to jump in.  so i got excited again and about everything. 

i decided that if we were going to be with out electricity this much than i need to embrace it and buy some beautiful candles and candle sticks.  that it's time to get good at playing cards and boardgames and scrabble.  that it's time to pull out 'the joy of cooking' and learn how to do it. 
so today i made pineapple rice and chicken legs and i made it early because i could see when i cut things up and measured.

i also decided that we need to maintain and recreate our routines.  and that means date night, which we hadn't had until last night when a lovely girl volunteered to watch the kids.  it was fantastic.  we drove into the city and sat on this veranda overlooking a grassy yard and ate crocodile and wildebeest tandoori style.  and it didn't matter that we spent 2 of the 4 hours driving on unlit streets with headlight-less cars,  it was still delicious.  all of it.  the food, the night out together, uninterrupted grown-up time.  and we talked about this first month and we talked about sustainability and arranging our lives to keep it that way.  and we talked about forgiving our selves for needing things- like a night out- and for getting frustrated with the inconveniences of our life here- because sometimes you need to say it out loud- to acknowledge- before you can move on. 

and then, you can turn that first corner.

joy and happiness

i'm looking out over the cloudy sky.  it's complicated.
a red tailed monkey is eating leaves on the tree in front of me. 
there is swirling, and darkness and light and some color.
here i am.  wondering. 
what is happening on the other side of the world right now? 

the hibiscus flowers are closing, the sun starting her decent. a steady drum beats.  down close to the ground things are settling.  but the lightness of the sky goes on and on, upward, and elsewhere.

the boys just got back from the trampoline with their ugandan friend.  he likes it here- he likes it at our house- he likes our popcorn and our movies and our home baked cookies.  i think if i said he could stay forever, he would.

today we drove into kampala to have lunch and go to the market.  we drove through lots of broken down.  lots of dirt and rust and disheveled. lots of ugly.  the kids fell asleep.  it is becoming normal to them?  what do they do with it? what do i do with it?

it made me start to think about joy and happiness.  because in the middle of the broken and the poor- people are laughing, and smiling, and flirting.  and people are living.  they are cooking and washing and cleaning and waiting and talking and making things.  as if this is all just normal.  because it is to the people who live here.

but it's not for me.  not yet. 

and i've been sitting around all week- granted sick with this hacking - energy sucking cough, and i've been feeling the not-so-happy.  i've been wondering what we're doing, where we've landed, and how long we are staying.  after a month- i'm feeling it- the far-ness, the foreign-ness, the completely different-ness.  i'm feeling my smallness and paleness and am finding myself calling to mind the quotes of the giants who've walked before me - on whose shoulders i balance and try to be tall too- who said things like - "one can make a difference" etc.  because i can find myself so easily lost. 
vassilating between the sheer joy of finally getting here- and the privilege of being able to serve and work in a place with such need, and the pure boredom of being here, the lack of life at my fingertips, the reality of living with less, the reality of living in the dark. 

in atlanta it's also almost october.  i'd be going up the north carolina mountains on the weekends- seeing the changing leaves- the colors- the smells of firewood- the light crisper, cooler.  we'd be planning holloween costumes and making pumpkin bread, we'd be apple-picking.

happiness is dependent.  happiness has requirements- it needs things.  we try to search for it- to create it.  it's moody and temporary and even fickle.  it also wants more- or bigger- or the upgrade.

joy is deeper.  joy is not circumstantial. joy has roots.  joy digs in and satisfies.
joy can be friends with disheveled and dirty.  joy can live with broken down.

the night sounds are beginning.  the night air is cool.  the soft breeze gently moves the branches.  the monkeys have gone home.  the leaves and the bark have merged together- they are now silhouettes.  
the sky is brilliant.  it's full of pockets- holes- surprises- light peaking out beneath. it's full of joy.
and so am i.

one way

so i have to admit, the other night, i had a moment.

it was a rather big moment and it caught me completely by surprise.  i was looking at a cd that one of our new friends had given to zoe for her birthday.  it's a kids praise cd- and several of the songs were very familiar.   i began to read through the lyrics and sing the words to the first song- ...."won't you come, won't you come and fill this place" and i just started bawling.  zoe looked at me and started to laugh.
"mom, are you happy crying or sad crying or both?"
i wasn't sure about the both, but definitely the sad crying was going on.  all of a sudden that song put me right back into our church in decatur ga.  it put me next to our good friends, friends who have prayed with us and supported us and share our vision of service.  and it put me right back in my neighborhood, in the heat of atlanta, with it's restaurants and pharmacies and coffee shops and ice cream shops and markets that have 5 different choices of chocolate chips and sugar, where the power rarely goes out and if it does someone fixes it and apologizes that you didn't have power for an hour.  it put me right back to having a glass of wine on my porch with a good friend, or going to someones house for dinner, or meeting at the pool.  and it put me right back to a culture that i know, that i understand, where people tell you if they have what you're looking for based on actual truth, not based on what they think you want to hear.  where people say "i don't know"  if they don't know, instead of giving the wrong directions to save face.  i had a moment.  and this moment bled on into the evening and i became worried.  worried that my soft heart was growing a shell, that my inclination to be cultural sensitive was expiring, and that in response i would become a republican or tattoo an american flag on my arm.

in this moment, i realized that i miss my people.  i miss my country.  i miss those shared american values that are so easily taken for granted or even criticized when you're living there.

in this moment, i realized that our return trip flight (round trip was cheaper than one way) left last week and we weren't on it.

in this moment, i became very aware that i now live in deepest, darkest africa.  this idea, this dream, this long process of getting here, has ended.  and here we are. 

and then began the questions.  and the soul searching.  and the crazy i can weave.

but the questions being asked were good ones, important ones.  and the soul was thirsty for reminders- for the big picture- for real food.  so mike and i sat, and talked and broke it down.  and we told each other that you don't end up in the middle of africa at 40 by accident. that we didn't mis-read the signs.  that hard as it all can be, or could be, or might become; God put this in our hearts, and we will walk by faith and not sight. that what matters in end is,  are we listening to that still small voice?  are we following it? are we continuing to grow in it? are we looking outward or inward?
are we caring for those in need, when the need is so great?  are we willing to? even far away, even when you miss your family, even when the roads are bad and the culture different and the electric is out most of the time?
and the answers were so clearly - yes. 
yes and what a privilege. 
yes and thank you.
yes, this is where we are to be.

emyaka gyange - (and why i don't yet speak luganda)

last night i began my luganda class. 

ok.  now.  i consider myself to be fairly good at learning languages.  i took french and spanish and latin in high school- and they were easier for me than chemistry was (note- chosen profession is science based).  i lived in costa rica and spoke close to fluently after my semester there.  and when i've traveled i've been pretty good at picking up and using a few key phrases to get by.  but last night i sat in that class and tried, but it wouldn't stick.  our teacher, who was very kind and gentle and was purposefully going nice and slow, would say something for us to repeat back in luganda and even though we'd been working on it for 20 minutes, i would have to look down at my paper and attempt to read it.  attempt, because i was often mispronouncing it.

meanwhile, the other students, my classmates, are laughing and breezing along, if anything irritated by the slowish pace and even if their pronunciation wasn't perfect, they remembered the words with out having to read them.

so what is the deal? what is my problem?  why am i struggling while they are sailing along?

because emyaka gyange 40.  and they are all 20.  fo'reals.  

i think that is the difference.  my 40 year old brain is the problem.  it's set in it's ways and it's very full. my brain already has it's patterns- it's comfort zones.  it will remember the blood chemistry and cbc results of 10 people with out being asked, and the doses of those ten peoples medications.  it's trained that way, it's natural.  the only way this brain might let new information in, is if it can find a related idea and settle in next to it.  but that is the problem- this bantu language has nothing familiar in it to my brain.  can you find any relationship between  emyaka gyange and age?  and all the words are like that!  it really puts the foreign back in foreign language.

the 20 something guy behind me (who sounds like he already speaks luganda) has the strong advantage of growing up overseas and speaking at least 4 languages fluently.  the language section of his brain must be huge and plush and inviting. it's probably the 'first class' section in his brain.  he informed me that after age 20 it gets progressively harder to learn a new language and he related it to something about aging oral muscles or the brain connecting with the oral muscles or something.  i tried to look it up.  to find some proof - but i didn't find anything other than the loss of plasticity as our brains age..yada  yada.

but i did find an article about the importance of removing our mental barriers about language acquisition (at any age). the need for openness and believing that one can do it!

so while i can't tick back the years, or upgrade the brain i've got, i can do something about my attitude.  i can believe in myself and work hard at it.  where there's a will there's a way!

for zoe who has a dozen years

"oh zoe, my zoe i love you so much
may you always be free
oh zoe, my zoe, if you weren't so much you,
i would never know me"

this was a song i made up for you when you were a little girl.  you've always loved music.  and this has become one of my favorites.  i had no idea how true that would be.

that because of who you are- i'd find parts of myself that i didn't know before.  parts that needed exercise, parts that need work.

that because of who you are i'd live my life outside of the box, i'd see many things that my eyes were closed to before, i'd begin an adventure that i'd never have chosen but one that stretches me and challenges me everyday to think differently, to live differently, to bend and not break.

because of who you are i have changed my focus, i have backed away from parts of work that sung to me like the sirens of greek plays, tempting me to find my own glory.

because of who you are i have come to know an amazing group of people, other children who feel the world differently and their parents who love and sacrifice deeply.

because of who you are certain things are so much more beautiful and things that i thought were important are irrelevant and in all of this, is freedom, if i allow myself to see it that way.

because of who you are, i see the lack of value in the size of the house, or the neighborhood, because to you, a house is a house- made of ugandan sticks or made of buckhead bricks.


because of who you are, i start writing and sharing and allowing my vulnerability to be a connection.

because of who you are, i see the value in all living things, insects and rats, and the friendless, and the poor kid on the playground with no shoes, because to you, all are equal.

because of who you are i see the need in people who i might not have noticed before, i see the power in a conversation that i might have been to busy to have, i see the joy that comes when you put people first- in front of (dare i say it...) schedule, or task completion.

i hope this year, i will learn more from who you are, and not squelch it.  that i will expand my box and not shove you into mine.  that i will live in your exuberance and not sour your joy.

you are a light.  a gift.  a treasure. and now you are a big girl.  but you still love that song, and so do i.

happy birthday girl. and thank you.  i thank you.

art, snakes and snaps

it's so quiet.  finally.  after a day that started out with rain, after a rainy night and no power for 2 days, so that the kids were going crazy or making me crazy, it's quiet.  now they have gone to a barbeque and i'm at home with a horrid cough and a fever.  that awful achy all over- lungs hurt to cough, tired from brushing your hair kind of thing.  so i'm lying here- with a beautiful sunny sky, and a computer that is recharging, and the internet working, and the soft hum of my washing machine - and nobody fighting- i'm so thankful for all of this.

last night i went to an art opening in kampala with some friends.  it was a little gallery down a dirt road.  it was fantastic.  to be out- at night- in the city- to see an art scene in the middle of east africa (which is honestly not what comes to mind when you think about uganda)- and to see beauty and expression in it's home- in the real- to listen to the ugandan gallery owner describing the artist's work- to over hear ugandan artists sharing opinions- to see a side of art here that is not just folk art.   it reminded me of san francisco, of seeing small shows in the mission and seeing the other people who care about that- there is a rawness to it that i love.

a bad photo of one of my favorites...

yesterday i went to Reach Out clinic.  it was my first time since i've moved here and it was great to see old friends.  i didn't see patients- i was just checking in- setting up meetings- finding out what their need is- how i can serve.  it made me so excited- that wiggly feeling- like i've found my 'special purpose'.

and yesterday when driving jude and his friend daniel home from school, i gave them my iphone and asked them to take pictures.  to capture what they see- what they think uganda looks like- what life looks like to them here. at ages 6 and 7.  and this is what we've got...

i like how they are sort of distorted from the movement- their take- their perspective- their art.

then this morning- we found this in our yard.

not knowing what it was exactly, we did what most people would do to what might be a poisonous snake, we chopped it in half, which the boys loved, and then we researched it.  old school.  like in a book (because the power was out, and the internet). turns out, it was not the baby of a cobra or a mamba, it was a harmless worm snake.  so we did what most parents do after violently killing an innocent creature, we felt bad, but explained that you NEVER touch any snake EVER. 

but after a quiet, power-less, sick day- it did add some excitement and some learning. 

the sun is gone now, the last of her light striped across the horizon- bright and old and knowing.  like she knows she's needed more here- the light of day- and knowing the darkness will bring rest.  and with that- the power just went out again- so good night.

good things

today i found the 'upper playground' of ugandan tee shirts,
and a cool ugandan clothes designer, and
a real almond croissant- (light and flaky with real almonds and almond paste).

today the boys didn't cry when we dropped them at school (i guess they'd gotten it all out getting #2 of 3 rabies shots on the way to school).

the boys school

the boys school

bryn and jude trying on their required swim caps

 

 

 

 

today zoe actually said, "oh, this doesn't look very good, i'd better start again."  while doing her writing, which was a letter to the kratt brothers of PBS's zoboomafoo.  showing insight.  showing she actually cared about the product. she also has finally learned to write linearly- to follow the line and stay between the lines,  instead of all over the page. and i watched as her dainty little hand appropriately skipped along the page leaving spaces between words- as if she didn't need to think about it anymore.  now that is some crazy progress!!

the end of the letter

so i'd say it was a pretty good day over here in uganda.

instrument of peace

we don't have a washing machine.

for those of us who've grown up with machines replacing human tasks- we probably haven't spend a lot of time reflecting on: a) what it would be like without them, or b) which machines might be of more value than others.  now having lived with out several of the electric devices of modernity or intermittently the electricity to power them, i would like to give the number one rank of importance to....

the washing machine - scrubbing red mud out of childrens clothing by hand is seriously hard work (not that i've even been doing it - but poor florence has- and i see how hard it is)

we've been going into kampala several times a week and pricing washing machines.  comparative shopping.  what is the right size, the right price, the right style- top loader, front loader etc.  we've been gathering opinions and being, what we thought, were wise consumers.  but.  we live in east africa.  so sometimes you buy sugar even though you don't need it, because the market has been out for 2 weeks.  or, you take your shower in the middle of the day because the water is hot, or you buy the washing machine THAT day, even if you have to smoosh children together in the car to make room for it- because it might not be there next time, or, ever again.


we'd finally decided on the larger 13kg size, which only comes as a top loader, because it's biggest and we have three messy kids.  we found the right price and we found a day when mike could go get it without any kids in the car so transport would be easy.  i was excited.  but not as excited as florence.

when mike got to the store today- it was gone.  sold out.  and we had to laugh because we remembered that this is the way it goes sometimes, especially here.

last night i began reading a very little book that is full of very big ideas.  it's called 'instrument of thy peace' and it's written by the guy who wrote 'cry, the beloved country' (a book that i need to read about south africa).  this book slowly digests the prayer of st. francis of assisi.

'Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace.  Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is sadness, joy; where there is darkness, light.'

i am at the very beginning.  but i'm feeling it's relevance powerfully.

today, after a morning of home schooling, which went relatively well, jude and bryn came home from their new school with hungry mouths and whining voices.  especially jude, who, as best i can tell, is in a state of angst.  disequilibrium.  imbalance. and inner conflict- at least part of the time.  it must just suck to be six- well, part of the time. 
so i'm struggling to with this prayer.  i'm digesting it in bits.

"Lord, make me..." because i can't do it on my own.  i fail to be peaceful without surrender.  i can do it for a few hours- but then, i'm angry or annoyed about something, that is probably irrelevant, and my peace is gone.

"...an instrument.."  something with potential.  something whose purpose requires intervention to be reached- something inert that requires relationship.  something capable of making beauty if operated by the right hands.  if engaged by someone who has the knowledge and will to create the outcome.

"of Thy peace."  the peace God desires for everyone.  true, deep, sustaining peace.  unifying peace.  spreading, reaching, touching, active peace.  and the rest of the first part of this prayer speaks to the 'how' of this peace.  it asks for the ability to be active- to do- to sow, to scatter, to spread, to propagate-  love, pardon, faith, hope, joy, and light.

this resonates.  this calls to me.  this inspires and humbles me.  it's both a call to action and to being still.  it argues complacency- it challenges how we live.  it asks us to look for opportunities and to keep our eyes open.  and it shows the irrelevance of curtains and washing machines.   actually i think it shows the error in where i can easily spend my energy.

we are still 'settling in'.  we haven't yet started our work.  we are laying foundations and building relationships and finding our place in this new community and culture.  next week i start language class, and hopefully some clinical work.  and this, where i am now,  can be the most challenging of places for me to be that instrument of peace- for me to sow those things that bring the peace.  at home.  with my own family.  removed from the places where people are looking.

it can be easier to pardon and love and inspire hope while working in a poor community AIDS clinic than in my own living room with three whining kids.  it can be easier when surrounded by external things, when we are facing the world and the consequences of it's lack of peace.  when we need to choose our response to it.

so my inspiration needs to transform my living room.  this prayer needs to be in my heart, and lived out through my mouth and in my eyes and in the tone of my voice. 

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. 

i love

i love that when the trees shake i can't tell if it's the wind, or monkeys. 
and that the air is cool when the clouds roll in. 
and that the birds are bigger here and the leaves are bigger and the flowers. 
but the sounds are softer- the sweeping of a broom, the chopping of a machete, feet walking a path. 
i love that my kids can roam and return.  that i can hear their stories at dinner for the first time, and know they are having their own adventures.
i love the sound of the hard rain on the tin roof- even though it's loud.
i love that so far way, i can still feel so close.
good night other side of the world.

be still

i wish i could have videoed the church service i just attended.  it was great.  the music was a combination of hymns and traditional african music and while both were moving and beautiful- one was literally moving. man i was jealous that i'm not african- that i haven't been shaped by that music.  the choir was singing, clapping, shaking, dancing- sometimes you'd even hear a high pitched shrill or yip.  i mean that is praise music.  you can't help but smile and try to keep up- but honestly- coming from the hymn tradition- it's hard to let loose in church- especially when you don't speak or read luganda.  but it wasn't hard for zoe.  that girl raised her hands up - sang her heart out- and danced in circles.  i love that freedom in her.

this was the first service of the semester and the theme for the semester was announced today.  the theme is 'be still and know that i am God'.  and it was so good to be reminded.  of our need to be still.  our need to know.  that we can trust the freedom in this.  but it was also good to be reminded that 'being still' is an action- it requires something of us. it requires surrender- which might be one of the hardest things to do- at least for me- the type A, finisher. 

being still is about letting go. and that is the first step.  it's before the knowing.

and there is so much to let go of- so much to be released.  so much that i hold tightly to.  so many things i try to bend without breaking.

yet it often seems ironic and impossible.  how do you let go, how do you release it, how do you rest in it, if you don't yet know?  for me the letting go usually happens when i'm at the end of my rope.   when i've exhausted all other possibilities, when all my plans to control the situation have failed.  really, when i have no other options, or nothing to loose. then i'm willing to let go. then i'm willing to surrender.  

but then comes the peace.  and the freedom- from my anxiety about whatever is haunting me- whatever i'm trying desperately to get my grubby hands on and control- from my fear about what is not happening, or what is happening- or usually, what might happen.  

if only i could remember and save myself the landing at the end of my rope.  perhaps it would be easier.  life would be more peaceful.  life would be lighter.

somehow it seems to relate to the african music today.  the smiles and the movement and the joy.  there was lightness there.  and me, hymn-bound and trying- wanting my lead feet to jump and my voice to yip.  wanting to shed something and begin again.  wanting to let go- to release.  there again, in the stillness, the dancing.

'the help'

it has begun.  the settling in.  the real unpacking.  the nesting.  books are going in bookcases.  pictures on walls.  linens on shelves.  it's happening.  we are here.

the boys are in school.  we drive them there in our car with the backwards steering wheel and ugandan license plates and expensive diesel gas sold by the liter not the gallon. 

i'm starting to think in shillings not dollars.  kilometers not miles.  centimeters not inches.  i'm starting to not be shocked that milk and delicious fruit and vegetables are amazingly cheap, but anything with a plug is ridiculously expensive.

but there are somethings that are still strange, still unsettling. 

before i moved, our last book of book club for me was 'the help' by kathryn stockett.  i admit i only got about 60 pages into it before we met- but it was a lively discussion given that we were all living in the south and our book club was made of many different people- black and white, northerners and southerners, people who's aunts and grandmothers had been maids and whose ancestors had been slaves, and people who'd grown up raised by 'the help'.  being a white woman from the north, i found it all fascinating but i also felt somewhat removed- unlike some of the women, who'd lived parts of it. 

then i moved to uganda.  i moved from a world of primarily caucasian and african american- to african.  i became the minority, i am the muzungu- and that is how i am referred to.  i don't speak much luganda yet- but i understand "......muzungu.......muzungu". 

despite this, i now, have 'help'.  florence is a beautiful woman who comes every morning for the day and tends to our house.  she helps with the cleaning, and the laundry, and sometimes the kids.  she always smiles, always refuses the tea or food i offer her, eats her own food in our kitchen, and doesn't say much except if i speak to her first.  and while i love florence, and i do, it's weird. 

it's weird because i'm not used to it.  and i don't like sitting on my couch, being on the computer, while florence is ironing my kids underwear ( you have to iron the line-dried clothes because flies lay eggs in them- the ironing kills the eggs).  it just doesn't seem 'right' to me, but i don't think it's 'wrong' either.

when we moved into this house- we found out that florence had been with the family living here for 7 years- maybe more.  she was really hoping that the next family, us, would want to hire her.  so we did.
it was expected.  it would have been weird if we didn't. 

florence and i have had some great conversations over the two weeks we've gotten to know each other.  i've found out where she's from, and what her family situation is like.  i know she's never seen a mamba but has seen many cobras.  i've seen how much see loves children and how she has a spirit of peace and joy and optimism and the ability to make the best of things.  although she would never say it, her presence reminds me daily of how hard ugandans, and probably most of the world, have to work, and how little the pay off is.  of how so many ugandans are caring for nieces and grandchildren who have lost their parents to AIDS, of how much loss there is everywhere, and death even, and how life itself is a struggle.  some of our conversations have been about these things.  some of our conversations have been about zoe and explaining her to florence.  something about zoe fascinates florence.  she seems to already care deeply for her.  and it turns out that florence has a relative a few hours away, who cares for and teaches children with autism.  so we've had many discussions about special education schools and needs of children etc.

what is so strange to me is to hear her apparent prejudice toward her own people.  she'll say, "you don't want to go to that school- it's only for ugandans, there are no whites there, it's not a good school." or  "you might look at this school, it's run by whites."  and it's unsettling.  it leaves me confused.  is she just saying that because i'm white and she thinks i wouldn't want my child to go to a school that was all african?  does she know something about the ugandan school standards that i don't know?  why does she think it would be bad if a school were run by ugandans? or does she not think that, but thinks i think that?

i don't know.  but as i unpacked the books today i reach over and started to read 'the help' from where i'd left off.  i feel less removed from it now.  and even though i know it's culturally very different, i'm curious to see what i'll learn from it- or relate to- or not. 

but whatever i read, and however weird i feel, i'm so thankful for florence.  her presence, her smile, her knowing what to do, her quick love of my children, her company, and honestly, her help.

too early

it's too early.  it's only been two weeks.
too early to look at pictures and listen to the music that carried me at home.  and it's too early to be missing my mom and dad.  and friends i had dinners with, and book club with, and went on walks with, and called everyday.  too early to feel so far.

but i had a moment.

not of what are we doing here.  no, that i get, that i feel.
a moment of what have we left behind.  a moment of acknowledgement.  a moment of this is real, and really different.  a moment of envisioning life for my kids back in the good old US of A.

but this is me.
here.

and this is what i see.

the boys just squealed because a family of monkeys walked across our trees.
monkeys with long red tails.  and then a lizard.  and then they ran off to play whiffle ball at the house up the hill.  the house where even more monkeys live.  and friends live.  and they played with friends who i really like. 

so, it's all good.  and it's ok to miss and it's ok to be happy here too.