It was late, I was tired, and then I wondered: what is it that’s so special about this time. (Why is it that these questions come up when I’m trying to sleep?) Someone said that everyone who comes back from studying in Uganda is never quite the same. Maybe that’s true? But no matter where you are for four months you are going to change, right? But I began to wonder what things might I see differently returning to Eastern and picking up life in America again. I pictured myself stopping all the time to look at things. I could see how even the marble floors and carpet at Eastern would look different after living on concrete and mud floors for a couple months. Eastern’s library would be a shock from what I’ve gotten used to. The trees, the whether, the smooth roads, the people, even the language seem like they could all be reasons for me to pause and look. I doubt this would actually last for very long, but none the less, I hope that simple things I took for granted would catch my eye and tell me something new. I don’t know what they would say, probably to keep moving and stop being a weirdo, but maybe not.
I’m sure there are a thousand things I’ll find enthralling and a thousand more that’ll slip by as my mind recalibrates to life as it has always been. But what is so special about being here (in Africa)? I thought that it might not be the novelty of stopping to look at the unnoticed details of everyday life, but the ability to stop at all. Life is so busy no matter where we live. I was busy everyday in Uganda (mostly), and when I wasn’t busy I’d find stuff to do. There were the initial shock factors that seemed to break up my doings because they were novel, like red dirt everywhere or people carrying loads on their heads (especially when they had two free hands), but for the most part I kept busy. There were things that were different here, but I didn’t have any epiphanies about the color of the ground, it was just the way it was. I found it interesting enough to take note of on my walks to school for the first few days because it was new to me, but it soon became normal and unworthy of my attention, overcome by the demands of schoolwork and pressures of adapting to the culture. But what I decided to give up by not bothering to notice something as trivial as dirt was not the wonder of the dirt but the ability to notice it. I was able to stop.
It takes effort and time to notice things like dirt, as silly as it sounds, but it’s true. There are too many things as trivial as dirt that if we were to stop and take note of all of them we’d never get anywhere or do anything. We must overlook the dirt in order to get things done. But when the dirt changes from what we normally consider unspectacular it momentarily takes on that which is worthy of notice. It forces us to stop for something we’ve trained our selves to pass by for the sake of efficiency. Because of its difference we allow ourselves inefficient moments to appreciate what’s new to us. Of course we can’t constantly register something as mundane as dirt so we quickly adapt our sensors to accept it as normal, insignificant, and unworthy to pause for so that we can get back to doing things again. This is how we operate. This is how things get done.
But perhaps what living in Africa has taught me is that there is value in living in a new place. Not because the dirt is a different color or the people act differently, or it is filled with novelty, but because I have learned how much freedom there is when all that is around me asks me to stop. Not for very long, for I still have many things to do, but when efficiency and productivity can be paused for a moment I am free to notice the unspectacular that surrounds me, and watch as it becomes, only for a moment, something truly spectacular. This means that it is not the carpet or marble floors, or the overstocked florescent supermarkets or the seamless highways that will be the wonder, but the true change and true epiphany is when I learn how to stop for the sake of stopping. Perhaps it is the art of pausing that God was excited to show me during my time here. Maybe this was a time where I stopped just enough to realize the freedom in it.
I may continue to discern when to stop and when not to, but may I never loose the freedom to be able to stop. For if this is something God really did want to show me, then it is worthy of all my notice.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
It was late, I was tired, and then I wondered: what is it that’s so special about this time. (Why is it that these questions come up when I’m trying to sleep?) Someone said that everyone who comes back from studying in Uganda is never quite the same. Maybe that’s true? But no matter where you are for four months you are going to change, right? But I began to wonder what things might I see differently returning to Eastern and picking up life in America again. I pictured myself stopping all the time to look at things. I could see how even the marble floors and carpet at Eastern would look different after living on concrete and mud floors for a couple months. Eastern’s library would be a shock from what I’ve gotten used to. The trees, the whether, the smooth roads, the people, even the language seem like they could all be reasons for me to pause and look. I doubt this would actually last for very long, but none the less, I hope that simple things I took for granted would catch my eye and tell me something new. I don’t know what they would say, probably to keep moving and stop being a weirdo, but maybe not.
I’m sure there are a thousand things I’ll find enthralling and a thousand more that’ll slip by as my mind recalibrates to life as it has always been. But what is so special about being here (in Africa)? I thought that it might not be the novelty of stopping to look at the unnoticed details of everyday life, but the ability to stop at all. Life is so busy no matter where we live. I was busy everyday in Uganda (mostly), and when I wasn’t busy I’d find stuff to do. There were the initial shock factors that seemed to break up my doings because they were novel, like red dirt everywhere or people carrying loads on their heads (especially when they had two free hands), but for the most part I kept busy. There were things that were different here, but I didn’t have any epiphanies about the color of the ground, it was just the way it was. I found it interesting enough to take note of on my walks to school for the first few days because it was new to me, but it soon became normal and unworthy of my attention, overcome by the demands of schoolwork and pressures of adapting to the culture. But what I decided to give up by not bothering to notice something as trivial as dirt was not the wonder of the dirt but the ability to notice it. I was able to stop.
It takes effort and time to notice things like dirt, as silly as it sounds, but it’s true. There are too many things as trivial as dirt that if we were to stop and take note of all of them we’d never get anywhere or do anything. We must overlook the dirt in order to get things done. But when the dirt changes from what we normally consider unspectacular it momentarily takes on that which is worthy of notice. It forces us to stop for something we’ve trained our selves to pass by for the sake of efficiency. Because of its difference we allow ourselves inefficient moments to appreciate what’s new to us. Of course we can’t constantly register something as mundane as dirt so we quickly adapt our sensors to accept it as normal, insignificant, and unworthy to pause for so that we can get back to doing things again. This is how we operate. This is how things get done.
But perhaps what living in Africa has taught me is that there is value in living in a new place. Not because the dirt is a different color or the people act differently, or it is filled with novelty, but because I have learned how much freedom there is when all that is around me asks me to stop. Not for very long, for I still have many things to do, but when efficiency and productivity can be paused for a moment I am free to notice the unspectacular that surrounds me, and watch as it becomes, only for a moment, something truly spectacular. This means that it is not the carpet or marble floors, or the overstocked florescent supermarkets or the seamless highways that will be the wonder, but the true change and true epiphany is when I learn how to stop for the sake of stopping. Perhaps it is the art of pausing that God was excited to show me during my time here. Maybe this was a time where I stopped just enough to realize the freedom in it.
I may continue to discern when to stop and when not to, but may I never loose the freedom to be able to stop. For if this is something God really did want to show me, then it is worthy of all my notice.
I’m sure there are a thousand things I’ll find enthralling and a thousand more that’ll slip by as my mind recalibrates to life as it has always been. But what is so special about being here (in Africa)? I thought that it might not be the novelty of stopping to look at the unnoticed details of everyday life, but the ability to stop at all. Life is so busy no matter where we live. I was busy everyday in Uganda (mostly), and when I wasn’t busy I’d find stuff to do. There were the initial shock factors that seemed to break up my doings because they were novel, like red dirt everywhere or people carrying loads on their heads (especially when they had two free hands), but for the most part I kept busy. There were things that were different here, but I didn’t have any epiphanies about the color of the ground, it was just the way it was. I found it interesting enough to take note of on my walks to school for the first few days because it was new to me, but it soon became normal and unworthy of my attention, overcome by the demands of schoolwork and pressures of adapting to the culture. But what I decided to give up by not bothering to notice something as trivial as dirt was not the wonder of the dirt but the ability to notice it. I was able to stop.
It takes effort and time to notice things like dirt, as silly as it sounds, but it’s true. There are too many things as trivial as dirt that if we were to stop and take note of all of them we’d never get anywhere or do anything. We must overlook the dirt in order to get things done. But when the dirt changes from what we normally consider unspectacular it momentarily takes on that which is worthy of notice. It forces us to stop for something we’ve trained our selves to pass by for the sake of efficiency. Because of its difference we allow ourselves inefficient moments to appreciate what’s new to us. Of course we can’t constantly register something as mundane as dirt so we quickly adapt our sensors to accept it as normal, insignificant, and unworthy to pause for so that we can get back to doing things again. This is how we operate. This is how things get done.
But perhaps what living in Africa has taught me is that there is value in living in a new place. Not because the dirt is a different color or the people act differently, or it is filled with novelty, but because I have learned how much freedom there is when all that is around me asks me to stop. Not for very long, for I still have many things to do, but when efficiency and productivity can be paused for a moment I am free to notice the unspectacular that surrounds me, and watch as it becomes, only for a moment, something truly spectacular. This means that it is not the carpet or marble floors, or the overstocked florescent supermarkets or the seamless highways that will be the wonder, but the true change and true epiphany is when I learn how to stop for the sake of stopping. Perhaps it is the art of pausing that God was excited to show me during my time here. Maybe this was a time where I stopped just enough to realize the freedom in it.
I may continue to discern when to stop and when not to, but may I never loose the freedom to be able to stop. For if this is something God really did want to show me, then it is worthy of all my notice.
I laid down for a short power nap, but my mind began churning through what I was going to bring home to my family and friends from my experience in Africa. I saw visions for my house and my family about how solar power and water catchments would do us so much good financially, how the extra work would be good for us physically, and how the reconnection with nature would allow us to spiritually flourish. This all was my nap turning into a dream, but then I turned back to the time I’ve spent here and again wondered how any of this could be translated back to my life back home. I then realized I couldn’t even remember all that I wanted to share, and I’m not even out of Africa yet. I fretted going back with this sense of responsibility to remember what I’d learned and draw on my experiences from Africa to improve things back home. But I was at a loss. I could just see me back home scrambling for words that would do justice to my time here, but none came. I didn’t even know where to begin? The books I’d read seemed okay, but I’ll have other things to read, and even if I do go through them the insights will be different and the meaning changed. How can I capture some of what I felt and saw this semester? How can I give my family and friends or even myself what we want to here about my valuable time here? Perhaps if I had kept a journal of every experience or insight I had, then I’d be set. But I haven’t, and even if I did it’d be too long to serve any purpose.
Thinking about this I realized I was projecting myself into the future; I was already back in America. I still have more than 8 days here, and I’m already thinking about next semester, spring break, and the summer. Do I get a job like a responsible college student to help pay for college? A job on campus would be free room and board and a much simpler life than back home, but I’m away from home. Do I work at home then? Or do I go home just to be with my family whom I haven’t seen in almost a year? How awesome would it be to go back and really be with my family for the first time? Actually practice presence with the ones I love the most. There are so many ideas I have about how to bolster bonding and foster holistic health; it would be a shame to miss all that for a summer at Eastern. I could learn to cook with Oma (grandmother) and talk theology with Opa (grandfather). Africa’s showed me the importance of a good meal and how bonding cooking and eating can be, and I’m becoming a pacifist with many questions about life, so I’m sure a wise and retired military Chaplin might have a few more answers than I. They are still young and spry but are not immortal; to miss these opportunities now would be a shame. I’m still in my youth and have energy to use, I have dreams and visions I don’t want to loose.
But how practical is it to actually “change” anything back home? You’ve tried it before with a good heart and failed, and whatever did change was only temporal. What makes you think things will be different now? But the ideas are so wonderful, practical, and right. They always are, but that’s not how people change. You have nothing to offer apart from your surrender to God. Family activities and customs can be changed or rearranged to fit the ideal we see, but all is worthless apart from Christ. Simple to say, redundant to hear, difficult to flesh out.
These circles are endless and unproductive. My logic may be irrefutable, my plans and dreams may be fresh and revitalizing, and my faith may be more than a mustard seed’s worth, but the wheels just spin faster, the rabbit trials increase exponentially, and the unanswered questions pierce relentlessly. Would I really find what I’m looking for if my family became the solar, water-saving, composting environmentalist hippies of the neighborhood? The sustainably minded, low-fat vegan Brady Bunch may not be the utopia I imagine it to be. Perhaps, then, might I find what I’m looking for in uncritically accepting my family and home the way they are? Would I be satisfied bottling up my visions and dreams in fear of unleashing them naïve of how the world ‘really’ works? The passive, fearful, indifferent and even cynical Davis is not the least bit enticing, though perhaps easier for a time.
Such a dilemma is too much to think about when trying to a nap; so I just gave up thinking about it and found rest in not trying to figure out anything about home. It was then I found what I was looking for (imagine that). It was simple. There was nothing I could say or do here or there that would give me what I wanted (whatever it was; I still don’t exactly know). No reform, insight, words of wisdom, change in lifestyle, or story could fulfill what I desired. As soon as I gave up the search for what I was going to do and say that would make the most of my time here and most benefit those at home and myself, I found joy. Perhaps that’s all I wanted. I expected joy to be found after telling epic stories about rafting the Nile and going on safari, or the adventures of daily life in Africa, or surely about how much I received from living with Ugandans for four months. But all that was secondary and not what life was about. Those kinds of things always make an experience and adventure more interesting, especially when you really tell the stories well and can captivate your audience entirely. But if that’s the ends – and too often it becomes that way – then we have lessened ourselves, our friends and family, and even God into convenient portable tales that make us feel good.
I don’t intend down adventure, stories, and amazing experiences, for if God wasn’t a fan of story telling than why do we have the gospels? I am, however, challenging the expectations that I feel from home (whether real or imagined) and expectations I have put on myself to have something to tell when I get back. So much of who we are and what we believe is based off of that notion we should “have something to tell.” We watch movies about things we deem worthy to be told. Same with books. We listen to the radio, flip through magazines, go on adventures, study abroad, go to Africa and stay in Africa all with some expectation that will hopefully have something to tell. But what are we telling and why is it worthy to be told? It was here I found what I was looking for. So long as I hunt for that which makes a good story, pull only the pictures that people will be interested in, and construct concise and exciting accounts of my four months in Africa, I will have only so much to tell. Even if I beautifully recount my most influential experiences and bring to life the people I met and lived with, my story will only be incomplete. What am I telling people and why am I telling it? My story is not over, that’s why it will feel incomplete. I can’t tell stories that have an end, for they belong to an eternal God.
What do I tell? I tell only what glorifies Him. As soon as I bend the story into myself or others I have nothing more to tell.
Why do I tell it? I tell to glorify Him. There is no greater fulfillment than to tell of Him and Him alone, for both the teller and the told are blessed. As soon as I tell for the sake of my audience or for my own sake I have nothing more to tell. It was here I found what I was looking for and exactly what God intended me to find for some time now. Praise Him!
Thinking about this I realized I was projecting myself into the future; I was already back in America. I still have more than 8 days here, and I’m already thinking about next semester, spring break, and the summer. Do I get a job like a responsible college student to help pay for college? A job on campus would be free room and board and a much simpler life than back home, but I’m away from home. Do I work at home then? Or do I go home just to be with my family whom I haven’t seen in almost a year? How awesome would it be to go back and really be with my family for the first time? Actually practice presence with the ones I love the most. There are so many ideas I have about how to bolster bonding and foster holistic health; it would be a shame to miss all that for a summer at Eastern. I could learn to cook with Oma (grandmother) and talk theology with Opa (grandfather). Africa’s showed me the importance of a good meal and how bonding cooking and eating can be, and I’m becoming a pacifist with many questions about life, so I’m sure a wise and retired military Chaplin might have a few more answers than I. They are still young and spry but are not immortal; to miss these opportunities now would be a shame. I’m still in my youth and have energy to use, I have dreams and visions I don’t want to loose.
But how practical is it to actually “change” anything back home? You’ve tried it before with a good heart and failed, and whatever did change was only temporal. What makes you think things will be different now? But the ideas are so wonderful, practical, and right. They always are, but that’s not how people change. You have nothing to offer apart from your surrender to God. Family activities and customs can be changed or rearranged to fit the ideal we see, but all is worthless apart from Christ. Simple to say, redundant to hear, difficult to flesh out.
These circles are endless and unproductive. My logic may be irrefutable, my plans and dreams may be fresh and revitalizing, and my faith may be more than a mustard seed’s worth, but the wheels just spin faster, the rabbit trials increase exponentially, and the unanswered questions pierce relentlessly. Would I really find what I’m looking for if my family became the solar, water-saving, composting environmentalist hippies of the neighborhood? The sustainably minded, low-fat vegan Brady Bunch may not be the utopia I imagine it to be. Perhaps, then, might I find what I’m looking for in uncritically accepting my family and home the way they are? Would I be satisfied bottling up my visions and dreams in fear of unleashing them naïve of how the world ‘really’ works? The passive, fearful, indifferent and even cynical Davis is not the least bit enticing, though perhaps easier for a time.
Such a dilemma is too much to think about when trying to a nap; so I just gave up thinking about it and found rest in not trying to figure out anything about home. It was then I found what I was looking for (imagine that). It was simple. There was nothing I could say or do here or there that would give me what I wanted (whatever it was; I still don’t exactly know). No reform, insight, words of wisdom, change in lifestyle, or story could fulfill what I desired. As soon as I gave up the search for what I was going to do and say that would make the most of my time here and most benefit those at home and myself, I found joy. Perhaps that’s all I wanted. I expected joy to be found after telling epic stories about rafting the Nile and going on safari, or the adventures of daily life in Africa, or surely about how much I received from living with Ugandans for four months. But all that was secondary and not what life was about. Those kinds of things always make an experience and adventure more interesting, especially when you really tell the stories well and can captivate your audience entirely. But if that’s the ends – and too often it becomes that way – then we have lessened ourselves, our friends and family, and even God into convenient portable tales that make us feel good.
I don’t intend down adventure, stories, and amazing experiences, for if God wasn’t a fan of story telling than why do we have the gospels? I am, however, challenging the expectations that I feel from home (whether real or imagined) and expectations I have put on myself to have something to tell when I get back. So much of who we are and what we believe is based off of that notion we should “have something to tell.” We watch movies about things we deem worthy to be told. Same with books. We listen to the radio, flip through magazines, go on adventures, study abroad, go to Africa and stay in Africa all with some expectation that will hopefully have something to tell. But what are we telling and why is it worthy to be told? It was here I found what I was looking for. So long as I hunt for that which makes a good story, pull only the pictures that people will be interested in, and construct concise and exciting accounts of my four months in Africa, I will have only so much to tell. Even if I beautifully recount my most influential experiences and bring to life the people I met and lived with, my story will only be incomplete. What am I telling people and why am I telling it? My story is not over, that’s why it will feel incomplete. I can’t tell stories that have an end, for they belong to an eternal God.
What do I tell? I tell only what glorifies Him. As soon as I bend the story into myself or others I have nothing more to tell.
Why do I tell it? I tell to glorify Him. There is no greater fulfillment than to tell of Him and Him alone, for both the teller and the told are blessed. As soon as I tell for the sake of my audience or for my own sake I have nothing more to tell. It was here I found what I was looking for and exactly what God intended me to find for some time now. Praise Him!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
12-23-09
The last post was posted prematurely. I did not end leaving Mukono on the 21st. I did, however, turn in my cell phone, wash basin and mosquito net on the 21st, thinking I was going to be leaving. Oops. Evidently my mom thought that it would be a better idea not to take a public taxi with all my luggage because of the extra hassle and asked Tim (brother) to go find a car that we could rent to drive me up to Luweero. Our estimated time of departure was 12pm. Tim was sleeping, waiting for mom to get back from town at 11:55am, and had yet to look for a car yet. At around 1:30 he set out to get the vehicle. We had lunch… at 4:15pm… and still no car. My mom said that the car Tim was waiting for was running late and that the guy kept saying he’d bring in 30min. Tim waited for him till evening and gave up around 7:45pm. So I slept with no mosquito net and a sheet for the night; one of the most restful night so far (surprisingly).
During the extra time I got to spend some precious moments with Subie and Dianna (4 year old). I tried to entertain them while working on my computer to no avail, so I packed everything up and pulled out my Compassion book. I read about the importance of displacement, solidarity, humility, and the move away from anxiety, but couldn’t focus on the spiritual goodness God wanted for me because these two pests were climbing all over me, sticking their feet in my mouth and occasionally sucking on my toes (I was not clean!). I had already kid proofed the room (so I thought) and somehow they’d still find things to break or throw. I looked up to Dianna shoving things into the outlet and seeing what would happen if she plugged in both ends of my laptop charger to the same socket. Subie thought it a good idea to shove her finger into Dianna’s rectum and see what great reactions she could get from me when she lunged to stick it in my mouth. I was sitting here trying to rest from a long stressful day of not knowing when or if I’d be able to get to Luweero (or even to the airport), and these menaces were stomping all over the time I wanted to spend alone in my room. I’d tried to compromise by reading instead of working on the computer, but I was helpless against their devices.
It was here that I realized how silly this all was. I was growing more anxious and grouchy every second I tried to tolerate them while doing the things I wanted to do. So I gave up, gave in, and (after washing Subie’s finger) wrestled around with them the rest of the night. I actually found that by placing both of them under my legs I could wrestle them with my lower half and actually read a few sentences every now and then.
The next day we ended up hiring a private hire to take us to Kampala after finding out that Shawn (the New Hope guy I’m staying with now) was in Kampala and could pick me up there. At 9:30am I told Shawn we’d be there around 12am, thinking that if we left immediately for the 45min drive we’d get there in less than 2 ½ hrs. The private hire was at our house, and I was ready to go. But we couldn’t leave without taking tea. So we waited for water to boil and the bread to be bought, sat around and chatted for an hour or so. During that time we were able to exchange Christmas gifts. She got my family and me a … (it’s a surprise). I was able to run out the day prior and purchase a “rocket stove” for her and the family. It was a very well made portable stove that is extremely fuel efficient/ environmentally friendly and produces little to no smoke. We had a great time posing the exchange for the camera at least five or six times: “Hold the present higher… now turn your heads more this way… tilt it more this way… okay… um… oh, the camera’s off… again!”
We did end up making it out of there by 11am, only after my mom insisted we turn the car around to get one last picture of all of us in front of the house. We made it to Kampala in time and I made it to New Hope finally; a two hour (or two day) drive from Mukono.
New Hope is a children’s learning center (like an orphanage) that has different programs and institutions in a few other areas in Uganda. Shawn and Courtney Zimmerman are the couple that have agreed to host my for till the 6th and have me along for their Christmas celebration. Their a young couple (around 30 years old) with three children: Ava (4), Tai (2), and their newest addition A.J. (around five months). Ava and A.J. are adopted Ugandans, A.J.’s birthday and upbringing are unknown, and Tai is their biological son. Shawn co-manages New Hope’s farm with a local Ugandan and hopes to one day grow enough food to sustainably support New Hope’s demands. He has made a lot of progress since he came here two years ago but there is so much more to do if anything is to be sustainable one day. Finances are already dry and the vision of a sustainable farm is not the priority of foreign investors/supporters. Shawn has described how burnout is a problem with New Hope personnel and I’ve gathered that Shawn, within only two years of being here, is struggling to keep his zeal fresh and is getting caught in disparity from lack of funds, donator interest, and resources to build the farm into what it should be.
He expressed his excitement to have me visiting and was glad to hear any ideas, suggestions or visions I had about New Hope, the farm, or anything. After our first conversation I was stoked to have been given this opportunity to spend with Shawn and his family, humbled that he was interested in my thoughts, and excited about what was already churning in my heart. I’ve learned about the importance of agriculture, the humanness of working the land, how localized communities with a deep understanding and appreciation of place are the only vehicle of hope for the restoration of creation, and how integral it is to instruct our children about the proper relationship man is to have with the land and one another. I can’t help but see how a children’s home like New Hope could be a beacon of sorts to how education can and should be tied to the importance of rootedness, belonging, and community through appropriate and sustainable land practices. This semester has brought up many questions about our traditional sanction of western education and the goodness of amassing information. Information and a western education enables one to operate (if you’re lucky) within a cosmos that’s economic paradigm is based upon fallible assumptions of infinite capital. What good is that?, especially when you’re learning these things in a context that is nearly completely irrelevant. More than 80% of Ugandans are dependent upon subsistence agriculture, yet I doubt the ratio of students learning sustainable land techniques and appropriate technologies at an institutional level, let alone a domestic level, is above 10% of Uganda’s population. What if education was regionally relevant to the extent that a child might graduate knowing how to maintain and build top soil, boost soil fertility and water retention, and sustainably cultivate the same land (or similar land) he did his studies on. He wouldn’t know a lick of English or where to find the USA on a map, but he’d be able to explain the weather patterns, soil acidity, crop yields, and biodiversity of his lands…
Sorry for the tangent, but my excitement stems from discontent with a fallible paradigm that promises salvation by completely enslaving us to the momentum of upward mobility, displacing us from creation, God, and each other. There is another vision that transcends the uprooted nature of information, capital, and ourselves, a vision so transcendent that it stoops to the lowest level imaginable and roots into a single place with no intention of leaving, tapping into even the deepest pains and burdens of his new dwelling and entering into truly compassionate solidarity in order to truly be. Man’s existence is found in the incarnation of Christ burrowing down into our world and rooting into the father; the father of peace, stillness, content, joy, and unshakable love. The narrow way does not rush anxiously into some other direction searching for truth in some distant land or within some distant community, rather, it gives in and sinks into the ground it’s been given; it humbly roots into the eternal rock beneath him, there for his ancestors and before; there since the beginning. Rootedness, belonging, and place (not space) is what we long for. It is the only place we find consistent meaning for ourselves and our relationship to our brothers and sisters and the creation.
I’ve no idea if anything above made sense, but it was helpful for me. This is an attempt to articulate the flood of exciting thoughts that have been whirling around in my head for the past few months. I am truly enjoying dreaming about some of the great things that God has for us to partake in. It’s romantic. It’s supposed to be. I know how much I want to make a major change; how I want to see the miraculous happen; how I would love to die feeling the sense of great accomplishment and even legacy. Such silly sinful pride. Longing for legacy leads only to meaningless anxiety and inevitable disappointment, but true content is buried in the present moment; being grateful for the now, hopeful for what’s to come, waiting in wondrous expectation, and humbled in joyful servitude. God’s grace is for us to put on now, and the future is His alone. Only he can prepare the path before us, and no plan, worry, hope, dream, or vision built upon our selves will stand in the righteous presence of God’s future. This vision I’ve received is wondrous, marvelous, exciting, romantic, idealistic, foolish, and unpractical, and so far, not too different than the craziness that God pulled out on the cross. My faith shall thus remain in Him, rejoice in His work despite my efforts, dreams, or vision, and fully trust that His hand is mightier than I’ll ever know. This vision come to pass or not, it matters not for I’m content; content in the assurance that God has already won, his kingdom is already come, and the greatest vision already done. Amen.
(Thanks for reading my ramble/reflection. Comments are welcomed, encouraged, and lawfully enforced. If you have read this your are obligated under the jurisdiction of BlogSpot to post a comment here, on my Facebook, or send me an email. If not, I’ll be sad [but content]. I love you all!)
The last post was posted prematurely. I did not end leaving Mukono on the 21st. I did, however, turn in my cell phone, wash basin and mosquito net on the 21st, thinking I was going to be leaving. Oops. Evidently my mom thought that it would be a better idea not to take a public taxi with all my luggage because of the extra hassle and asked Tim (brother) to go find a car that we could rent to drive me up to Luweero. Our estimated time of departure was 12pm. Tim was sleeping, waiting for mom to get back from town at 11:55am, and had yet to look for a car yet. At around 1:30 he set out to get the vehicle. We had lunch… at 4:15pm… and still no car. My mom said that the car Tim was waiting for was running late and that the guy kept saying he’d bring in 30min. Tim waited for him till evening and gave up around 7:45pm. So I slept with no mosquito net and a sheet for the night; one of the most restful night so far (surprisingly).
During the extra time I got to spend some precious moments with Subie and Dianna (4 year old). I tried to entertain them while working on my computer to no avail, so I packed everything up and pulled out my Compassion book. I read about the importance of displacement, solidarity, humility, and the move away from anxiety, but couldn’t focus on the spiritual goodness God wanted for me because these two pests were climbing all over me, sticking their feet in my mouth and occasionally sucking on my toes (I was not clean!). I had already kid proofed the room (so I thought) and somehow they’d still find things to break or throw. I looked up to Dianna shoving things into the outlet and seeing what would happen if she plugged in both ends of my laptop charger to the same socket. Subie thought it a good idea to shove her finger into Dianna’s rectum and see what great reactions she could get from me when she lunged to stick it in my mouth. I was sitting here trying to rest from a long stressful day of not knowing when or if I’d be able to get to Luweero (or even to the airport), and these menaces were stomping all over the time I wanted to spend alone in my room. I’d tried to compromise by reading instead of working on the computer, but I was helpless against their devices.
It was here that I realized how silly this all was. I was growing more anxious and grouchy every second I tried to tolerate them while doing the things I wanted to do. So I gave up, gave in, and (after washing Subie’s finger) wrestled around with them the rest of the night. I actually found that by placing both of them under my legs I could wrestle them with my lower half and actually read a few sentences every now and then.
The next day we ended up hiring a private hire to take us to Kampala after finding out that Shawn (the New Hope guy I’m staying with now) was in Kampala and could pick me up there. At 9:30am I told Shawn we’d be there around 12am, thinking that if we left immediately for the 45min drive we’d get there in less than 2 ½ hrs. The private hire was at our house, and I was ready to go. But we couldn’t leave without taking tea. So we waited for water to boil and the bread to be bought, sat around and chatted for an hour or so. During that time we were able to exchange Christmas gifts. She got my family and me a … (it’s a surprise). I was able to run out the day prior and purchase a “rocket stove” for her and the family. It was a very well made portable stove that is extremely fuel efficient/ environmentally friendly and produces little to no smoke. We had a great time posing the exchange for the camera at least five or six times: “Hold the present higher… now turn your heads more this way… tilt it more this way… okay… um… oh, the camera’s off… again!”
We did end up making it out of there by 11am, only after my mom insisted we turn the car around to get one last picture of all of us in front of the house. We made it to Kampala in time and I made it to New Hope finally; a two hour (or two day) drive from Mukono.
New Hope is a children’s learning center (like an orphanage) that has different programs and institutions in a few other areas in Uganda. Shawn and Courtney Zimmerman are the couple that have agreed to host my for till the 6th and have me along for their Christmas celebration. Their a young couple (around 30 years old) with three children: Ava (4), Tai (2), and their newest addition A.J. (around five months). Ava and A.J. are adopted Ugandans, A.J.’s birthday and upbringing are unknown, and Tai is their biological son. Shawn co-manages New Hope’s farm with a local Ugandan and hopes to one day grow enough food to sustainably support New Hope’s demands. He has made a lot of progress since he came here two years ago but there is so much more to do if anything is to be sustainable one day. Finances are already dry and the vision of a sustainable farm is not the priority of foreign investors/supporters. Shawn has described how burnout is a problem with New Hope personnel and I’ve gathered that Shawn, within only two years of being here, is struggling to keep his zeal fresh and is getting caught in disparity from lack of funds, donator interest, and resources to build the farm into what it should be.
He expressed his excitement to have me visiting and was glad to hear any ideas, suggestions or visions I had about New Hope, the farm, or anything. After our first conversation I was stoked to have been given this opportunity to spend with Shawn and his family, humbled that he was interested in my thoughts, and excited about what was already churning in my heart. I’ve learned about the importance of agriculture, the humanness of working the land, how localized communities with a deep understanding and appreciation of place are the only vehicle of hope for the restoration of creation, and how integral it is to instruct our children about the proper relationship man is to have with the land and one another. I can’t help but see how a children’s home like New Hope could be a beacon of sorts to how education can and should be tied to the importance of rootedness, belonging, and community through appropriate and sustainable land practices. This semester has brought up many questions about our traditional sanction of western education and the goodness of amassing information. Information and a western education enables one to operate (if you’re lucky) within a cosmos that’s economic paradigm is based upon fallible assumptions of infinite capital. What good is that?, especially when you’re learning these things in a context that is nearly completely irrelevant. More than 80% of Ugandans are dependent upon subsistence agriculture, yet I doubt the ratio of students learning sustainable land techniques and appropriate technologies at an institutional level, let alone a domestic level, is above 10% of Uganda’s population. What if education was regionally relevant to the extent that a child might graduate knowing how to maintain and build top soil, boost soil fertility and water retention, and sustainably cultivate the same land (or similar land) he did his studies on. He wouldn’t know a lick of English or where to find the USA on a map, but he’d be able to explain the weather patterns, soil acidity, crop yields, and biodiversity of his lands…
Sorry for the tangent, but my excitement stems from discontent with a fallible paradigm that promises salvation by completely enslaving us to the momentum of upward mobility, displacing us from creation, God, and each other. There is another vision that transcends the uprooted nature of information, capital, and ourselves, a vision so transcendent that it stoops to the lowest level imaginable and roots into a single place with no intention of leaving, tapping into even the deepest pains and burdens of his new dwelling and entering into truly compassionate solidarity in order to truly be. Man’s existence is found in the incarnation of Christ burrowing down into our world and rooting into the father; the father of peace, stillness, content, joy, and unshakable love. The narrow way does not rush anxiously into some other direction searching for truth in some distant land or within some distant community, rather, it gives in and sinks into the ground it’s been given; it humbly roots into the eternal rock beneath him, there for his ancestors and before; there since the beginning. Rootedness, belonging, and place (not space) is what we long for. It is the only place we find consistent meaning for ourselves and our relationship to our brothers and sisters and the creation.
I’ve no idea if anything above made sense, but it was helpful for me. This is an attempt to articulate the flood of exciting thoughts that have been whirling around in my head for the past few months. I am truly enjoying dreaming about some of the great things that God has for us to partake in. It’s romantic. It’s supposed to be. I know how much I want to make a major change; how I want to see the miraculous happen; how I would love to die feeling the sense of great accomplishment and even legacy. Such silly sinful pride. Longing for legacy leads only to meaningless anxiety and inevitable disappointment, but true content is buried in the present moment; being grateful for the now, hopeful for what’s to come, waiting in wondrous expectation, and humbled in joyful servitude. God’s grace is for us to put on now, and the future is His alone. Only he can prepare the path before us, and no plan, worry, hope, dream, or vision built upon our selves will stand in the righteous presence of God’s future. This vision I’ve received is wondrous, marvelous, exciting, romantic, idealistic, foolish, and unpractical, and so far, not too different than the craziness that God pulled out on the cross. My faith shall thus remain in Him, rejoice in His work despite my efforts, dreams, or vision, and fully trust that His hand is mightier than I’ll ever know. This vision come to pass or not, it matters not for I’m content; content in the assurance that God has already won, his kingdom is already come, and the greatest vision already done. Amen.
(Thanks for reading my ramble/reflection. Comments are welcomed, encouraged, and lawfully enforced. If you have read this your are obligated under the jurisdiction of BlogSpot to post a comment here, on my Facebook, or send me an email. If not, I’ll be sad [but content]. I love you all!)
Monday, December 21, 2009
12-20-09
I’m leaving Mukono and my host family tomorrow. I’ve spent about four months with them, and I don’t know how exactly to begin processing this goodbye. I’m packing my room into the suitcases I came with and somewhat pleased with the lack of extra stuff I have. I’ve gained and lost a few things, but having extra room helps the tourist inside me that still wants to be a pilgrim.
I’ve noticed though that over the past week or so I’ve gotten fed up a few times with some of the demands that are starting to pop up. I’ll get requests (more like pleas) for me to gift different people in the family with certain gifts. One sister has made it clear what exactly she wants: snaps of her and a torch. She’s approached me multiple times and made reference to it as a child begging for some sweets. Another sister was even rude about it. After calling me lazy when I was doing my laundry (all morning) – possibly a legit critique or simple jest – she proceeded to demand snaps of her. It reminded me of a bratty child that didn’t really care about me or what it would take to get her pictures; she just wanted them and mentally burdened the only mzungu with that responsibility. It was my duty to provide her with pictures, after all, I had a camera like the other (wedding) photographers and I am white and apart of the family, surely if anyone could get her some free snaps it would be me. Perhaps these kinds of requests have only popped up recently because I’m leaving, or because I’ve stayed around long enough for them to feel more comfortable asking for things.
None the less, as these little bumps seem to get bigger or more annoying, I’ve noticed its affect on my attitude. I’ve lost care for them and burden them with anything and everything that goes missing of mine. My room has more and more become public property (something I’m ideally not opposed to, and have personally advocated before) for all who want to come and peruse my mzungu novelties and foreign gadgets and take or play with what they see as interesting. No doubt this is giving me a different angle on communal possessions, but when there is the lack of respect and I become the mzungu toy box exploitation, not community, seems to better define the core of our interaction. So when any thing goes missing or gets broken I immediately begin to mentally accuse whoever I think would be responsible, or just hold everybody responsible because even if they didn’t do it there’s no doubt they would.
So after blowing off my ethnocentric steam I began to see how I may be experiencing more culture shock now than I have all semester. I find more solace in my computer than anywhere else because my precious expat community has vanished and I’ve, for the first time, begun to carry the burden of living in Ugandan culture. My weaknesses are becoming more evident and even exacerbated by the shift in context and I can see more than ever the dynamics of true cross cultural experiences. If a week is all the total immersion of Ugandan culture I’ll get during my four months here, praise God that I’ve had this week to shake me up a bit. (I say this because during the semester I had eight hours of mzungu community every day and at New Hope Uganda I’m expecting something comparable).
A few more things: there is a four year old girl that has stayed with us for the past three weeks named Subi. This was the same Subi I made friends with at the begging of the semester (don’t know if I wrote anything about that), and we’re just as good of friends now. Actually, were a bit closer. She entertains herself for hours climbing on my lap while I’m working at my desk and throwing all sorts of fun things she finds on my laptop to see what gets the most rise out of me. As fun as these little shenanigans can be, they do get old surprisingly fast. Her adorableness dissipated quickly when she saw that open water bottles caused the most excitement, and soon, despite all my desires to not be the grumpy mzungu recluse, I locked her out of the room. The calm of the room after she left was pleasant, but challenging. I could easily lock myself up in this room for the entire week I’m here, coming out for food, baths, and the wedding ceremonies, but never really leaving my room. This peace was a nice change, but too comfortable and too appealing. It cradled me like an empty promise that looks really nice but quickly tarnishes and crumbles into dust. Secluding from the culture never seemed to be a temptation for me, but I realized here that this was not too far from what I wanted. Luckily I got out, did some laundry, got called lazy, and filmed a wedding introduction and wedding for my family.
There are a thousand others things to write, but not now. Thanks for reading and for praying for me in my final few weeks in Uganda. Peace, -Davis
I’m leaving Mukono and my host family tomorrow. I’ve spent about four months with them, and I don’t know how exactly to begin processing this goodbye. I’m packing my room into the suitcases I came with and somewhat pleased with the lack of extra stuff I have. I’ve gained and lost a few things, but having extra room helps the tourist inside me that still wants to be a pilgrim.
I’ve noticed though that over the past week or so I’ve gotten fed up a few times with some of the demands that are starting to pop up. I’ll get requests (more like pleas) for me to gift different people in the family with certain gifts. One sister has made it clear what exactly she wants: snaps of her and a torch. She’s approached me multiple times and made reference to it as a child begging for some sweets. Another sister was even rude about it. After calling me lazy when I was doing my laundry (all morning) – possibly a legit critique or simple jest – she proceeded to demand snaps of her. It reminded me of a bratty child that didn’t really care about me or what it would take to get her pictures; she just wanted them and mentally burdened the only mzungu with that responsibility. It was my duty to provide her with pictures, after all, I had a camera like the other (wedding) photographers and I am white and apart of the family, surely if anyone could get her some free snaps it would be me. Perhaps these kinds of requests have only popped up recently because I’m leaving, or because I’ve stayed around long enough for them to feel more comfortable asking for things.
None the less, as these little bumps seem to get bigger or more annoying, I’ve noticed its affect on my attitude. I’ve lost care for them and burden them with anything and everything that goes missing of mine. My room has more and more become public property (something I’m ideally not opposed to, and have personally advocated before) for all who want to come and peruse my mzungu novelties and foreign gadgets and take or play with what they see as interesting. No doubt this is giving me a different angle on communal possessions, but when there is the lack of respect and I become the mzungu toy box exploitation, not community, seems to better define the core of our interaction. So when any thing goes missing or gets broken I immediately begin to mentally accuse whoever I think would be responsible, or just hold everybody responsible because even if they didn’t do it there’s no doubt they would.
So after blowing off my ethnocentric steam I began to see how I may be experiencing more culture shock now than I have all semester. I find more solace in my computer than anywhere else because my precious expat community has vanished and I’ve, for the first time, begun to carry the burden of living in Ugandan culture. My weaknesses are becoming more evident and even exacerbated by the shift in context and I can see more than ever the dynamics of true cross cultural experiences. If a week is all the total immersion of Ugandan culture I’ll get during my four months here, praise God that I’ve had this week to shake me up a bit. (I say this because during the semester I had eight hours of mzungu community every day and at New Hope Uganda I’m expecting something comparable).
A few more things: there is a four year old girl that has stayed with us for the past three weeks named Subi. This was the same Subi I made friends with at the begging of the semester (don’t know if I wrote anything about that), and we’re just as good of friends now. Actually, were a bit closer. She entertains herself for hours climbing on my lap while I’m working at my desk and throwing all sorts of fun things she finds on my laptop to see what gets the most rise out of me. As fun as these little shenanigans can be, they do get old surprisingly fast. Her adorableness dissipated quickly when she saw that open water bottles caused the most excitement, and soon, despite all my desires to not be the grumpy mzungu recluse, I locked her out of the room. The calm of the room after she left was pleasant, but challenging. I could easily lock myself up in this room for the entire week I’m here, coming out for food, baths, and the wedding ceremonies, but never really leaving my room. This peace was a nice change, but too comfortable and too appealing. It cradled me like an empty promise that looks really nice but quickly tarnishes and crumbles into dust. Secluding from the culture never seemed to be a temptation for me, but I realized here that this was not too far from what I wanted. Luckily I got out, did some laundry, got called lazy, and filmed a wedding introduction and wedding for my family.
There are a thousand others things to write, but not now. Thanks for reading and for praying for me in my final few weeks in Uganda. Peace, -Davis
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
So blogger is pretty much shot. I wait about an hour for the window to pop up to tell me that all has failed. My perseverance is limited and can only take so much at a time. Maybe another time, but for now I'm loosing steam quickly. Sorry for no posts in a long time. Stuff has been happening and I'm still alive ; )
I love you all!
I love you all!
Monday, November 16, 2009
So trying to give any sort of synopsis on the rural home stays I decided would be futile. Basically I chilled with an awesome family for a week, went to a funeral where half the people blamed the guy's death on his addiction to alcohol and the other half accused the wife of murdering him. Interesting time. Got to see a bull being hacked up, which was kinda cool(fulfilled one of my 12 year old boy wishes). My host dad was a coffee farmer and I got to pick coffee beans in the shade of banana leaves, as well as go through the whole process of preparing the beans all the way to the cup. On the day of my b-day (which I didn't realize until 8pm)I was able to roast the coffee beans and pound them into powder while they were still too hot to touch. I'm not a big coffee fan, but nothing can quite compare to the aroma of crushing freshly roasted, organically grown, Kapchorwan coffee that you've processed from start to finish with the farmer himself. Not too bad of I b-day I decided.
At the end of the week we stayed at a local resort for two days. There were a couple of hiking trips we went on to see the three local falls in which we were allowed to stand under two of them. There was a hilltop close by that overlooked the entire world (pretty neat), and a few trees and cliffs that hung over really big drops which I couldn't help but climb out over (I love you mom). I've got a number of pics of these adventures but am too impatient to wait several hours for them to load, only to have the internet go down in the last five minutes.
Last Saturday I went to Kampala to get take out some more money (BOO!) to buy stuff for the American dinner Angela and I made for my family on Sunday. On our way there an accident took us on a crazy safari detour in which we got stuck in a muddy ditch. All 15 of us in a van two inches longer than the average mini-van got out and the men helped push the van up and out. I was lucky enough to be in the pack where mud from the spinning tires flung all over my legs and shorts. Thankfully I’d taken a shower before leaving for Kampala.
Sunday dinner went well, even though at noon Noreen asked when I was going to start cooking lunch, and the family mostly enjoyed what we’d prepared (I guess by eating a salad they felt too much like goats to really enjoy it). We had fresh veggies and hummus dip, fresh pineapple chunks, spinach salad, pasta with homemade red tomato sauce, and sloppy Joes on whole wheat bread. Hummus is non existent in Uganda, so I cooked dry cow peas (similar enough to chick peas), roasted raw g-nuts and pounded them into pb, and squeezed lemons to get the ingredients I needed; a bit different from home, eh? For everything cooked we had one charcoal stove (which doesn’t have low or high settings, just grab the hot coals out when its too hot and add more when it’s too cool).
The night was a success all around; except a little mishap at the end. Because Ugandans eat so late we were not finished till around 10:30pm, and Angela needed to get back to campus by 11pm. My host mother really likes Angela, and decided that it was too unsafe for her to walk home… and locked all the doors in the house and sat in her room with the keys. Angela had to explain that it was not an option for her to stay over at the house, but to no avail. We ended up convincing her that she could leave if she called a private hire (similar to a taxi) to come pick her up and drive her three blocks to school. Of course the van we got picked up in didn’t have a working side door so we had to climb in over the seats from the back door.
That’s about it for now. Hope you all are wonderfully blessed and please don’t hesitate to comment or send me emails or Facebook posts. Love you!
At the end of the week we stayed at a local resort for two days. There were a couple of hiking trips we went on to see the three local falls in which we were allowed to stand under two of them. There was a hilltop close by that overlooked the entire world (pretty neat), and a few trees and cliffs that hung over really big drops which I couldn't help but climb out over (I love you mom). I've got a number of pics of these adventures but am too impatient to wait several hours for them to load, only to have the internet go down in the last five minutes.
Last Saturday I went to Kampala to get take out some more money (BOO!) to buy stuff for the American dinner Angela and I made for my family on Sunday. On our way there an accident took us on a crazy safari detour in which we got stuck in a muddy ditch. All 15 of us in a van two inches longer than the average mini-van got out and the men helped push the van up and out. I was lucky enough to be in the pack where mud from the spinning tires flung all over my legs and shorts. Thankfully I’d taken a shower before leaving for Kampala.
Sunday dinner went well, even though at noon Noreen asked when I was going to start cooking lunch, and the family mostly enjoyed what we’d prepared (I guess by eating a salad they felt too much like goats to really enjoy it). We had fresh veggies and hummus dip, fresh pineapple chunks, spinach salad, pasta with homemade red tomato sauce, and sloppy Joes on whole wheat bread. Hummus is non existent in Uganda, so I cooked dry cow peas (similar enough to chick peas), roasted raw g-nuts and pounded them into pb, and squeezed lemons to get the ingredients I needed; a bit different from home, eh? For everything cooked we had one charcoal stove (which doesn’t have low or high settings, just grab the hot coals out when its too hot and add more when it’s too cool).
The night was a success all around; except a little mishap at the end. Because Ugandans eat so late we were not finished till around 10:30pm, and Angela needed to get back to campus by 11pm. My host mother really likes Angela, and decided that it was too unsafe for her to walk home… and locked all the doors in the house and sat in her room with the keys. Angela had to explain that it was not an option for her to stay over at the house, but to no avail. We ended up convincing her that she could leave if she called a private hire (similar to a taxi) to come pick her up and drive her three blocks to school. Of course the van we got picked up in didn’t have a working side door so we had to climb in over the seats from the back door.
That’s about it for now. Hope you all are wonderfully blessed and please don’t hesitate to comment or send me emails or Facebook posts. Love you!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
So I will not have time to post anything substantial till Monday, but I can do my best to give a quick run down of some of the things I did last week. We left from the university on Friday and drove for about six hours cramped into a van, ate our lunch on the way there, and just as it seemed we were pulling off the main road to go haul up a mountain for another hour or so, we stopped, the driver paused awkwardly then called my name out. Didn't even realize this was a stop, but evidently we'd arrived at the first home and I was lucky number one. Kinda surprising how all mental processing devices shut down when your the first one, you've no idea what to expect, and a bunch of African are running around, touching and pulling at your skin and hair; I actually don't remember much of the drop off except from what I happened to take pictures of. .... well, I meant for this to be a bit of a more thorough post, but I have class right now. Blessings, -Davis
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
We've just got back from the rural home stays, I have almost 4gigs of pics, around 40 pages of new journal entries and no time to post anything but these few sentences. This week is packed with papers to write and books to read, so I hate to say that what I truly am considering one of the best weeks and the best birthdays ever I will be unable to write about or share for now. However, I know that given a lifetime I couldn't express what this past week was like through pictures and words, so I trust that the little that I might eventually post will only be a teaser for some good conversations later. Much love!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Not that I don't want to actually write blog posts, but these do cover a decent deal of what I'm going through and are just as personal (or more personal) as the other posts. Here's another excerpt from an assignment I think you might enjoy:
The first story is about an encounter I had last Friday with Florence, the mat maker who works in front of our house:
Last Wednesday I trudged home angry and anxious because the notebook I’ve copiously copied notes into for the past month of school went missing. All sorts of disparaging thoughts flooded my mind and built an immensely overdone reaction to my loss, slowly infecting my posture, attitude, and outlook in everything. All I could think about was how hours of prep work and class notes gone would affect the giant Literature paper due in a week and my performance on midterms. These thoughts festered into a dramatic onslaught of depressing scenarios which suppressed any and all efforts to be pleasant. Pessimism reeked havoc on my spirit and plunged me into all around apathetic despair. I made no eye contact with anybody during my walk home and secluded myself at home through homework and expressionless actions. I was haunted by my poor reaction to something so trivial and how quickly it affected my relationships, bringing into question my desire and capability to serve cross culturally. Could I really love others, especially of another culture, if I am so easily shaken and unable to get past my love of self?
As the effect wore off, I began to forget about some of the questions that arose. While walking to school Friday I was jovially greeted by Florence, who I had spent about an hour learning how to make mats from the weekend prior. I was encouraged by our developing friendship and hoped it would continue, but something was different about her greeting. Her joy caught me off guard and immediately brought me back to my condition on Wednesday. Her recognition of me was uplifting and gave me the courage that despite my failures, God’s provision of grace was enough that I could fall in love with these people. Her smile was a miracle I desperately needed.
This experience illuminated a deep truth within me; a truth that Byant Myers notes in his chapter Poverty and the Poor. He uses Robert Chambers’ classifications of biases that development workers often have, one which I saw exemplified in my poor reaction to loosing my notebook: dominance. Chambers describes it as the desire all of us feel to be superior to others manifested through our tendency to derive our identity from things that we do or have, such as being able to read, write things down, and understand and express complex concepts efficiently and effectively. I realized that this comprises a major part of who I am and is the source of a lot of my security and identity, as is obvious after the representative object of good chunk of my worth disappeared resulting in me beginning to crumble; questioning my success as a student and even my professional aspirations. If I ever hope to work in development or alongside the poor, understanding and addressing this bias of dominance in my life is a must.
I was also reminded of Shane Claiborne’s emphasis on the importance of “seeing the squat houses and tent cities and hungry children,” proposing that it is only when we are present with the poor, as Jesus was, will we be transformed. He adds that the truth of the church identity is only found when the church lives close to those who suffer. By intentionally spending time learning how to make a mat with Florence I was establishing a relationship that would not only bless me, but allow me to experience God in a transformative manner. Had I not spent the time with her, her smile may not have been the same, and its miraculous effect on my attitude and outlook may never have happened. God, in all his goodness and foresight, knew what it would take to transform my lowly state, and used the willing investment of my time to learn how to make a mat to touch me when I needed it most. God took the seed I had planted and developed it to nourish and transform me; to give me life.
The first story is about an encounter I had last Friday with Florence, the mat maker who works in front of our house:
Last Wednesday I trudged home angry and anxious because the notebook I’ve copiously copied notes into for the past month of school went missing. All sorts of disparaging thoughts flooded my mind and built an immensely overdone reaction to my loss, slowly infecting my posture, attitude, and outlook in everything. All I could think about was how hours of prep work and class notes gone would affect the giant Literature paper due in a week and my performance on midterms. These thoughts festered into a dramatic onslaught of depressing scenarios which suppressed any and all efforts to be pleasant. Pessimism reeked havoc on my spirit and plunged me into all around apathetic despair. I made no eye contact with anybody during my walk home and secluded myself at home through homework and expressionless actions. I was haunted by my poor reaction to something so trivial and how quickly it affected my relationships, bringing into question my desire and capability to serve cross culturally. Could I really love others, especially of another culture, if I am so easily shaken and unable to get past my love of self?
As the effect wore off, I began to forget about some of the questions that arose. While walking to school Friday I was jovially greeted by Florence, who I had spent about an hour learning how to make mats from the weekend prior. I was encouraged by our developing friendship and hoped it would continue, but something was different about her greeting. Her joy caught me off guard and immediately brought me back to my condition on Wednesday. Her recognition of me was uplifting and gave me the courage that despite my failures, God’s provision of grace was enough that I could fall in love with these people. Her smile was a miracle I desperately needed.
This experience illuminated a deep truth within me; a truth that Byant Myers notes in his chapter Poverty and the Poor. He uses Robert Chambers’ classifications of biases that development workers often have, one which I saw exemplified in my poor reaction to loosing my notebook: dominance. Chambers describes it as the desire all of us feel to be superior to others manifested through our tendency to derive our identity from things that we do or have, such as being able to read, write things down, and understand and express complex concepts efficiently and effectively. I realized that this comprises a major part of who I am and is the source of a lot of my security and identity, as is obvious after the representative object of good chunk of my worth disappeared resulting in me beginning to crumble; questioning my success as a student and even my professional aspirations. If I ever hope to work in development or alongside the poor, understanding and addressing this bias of dominance in my life is a must.
I was also reminded of Shane Claiborne’s emphasis on the importance of “seeing the squat houses and tent cities and hungry children,” proposing that it is only when we are present with the poor, as Jesus was, will we be transformed. He adds that the truth of the church identity is only found when the church lives close to those who suffer. By intentionally spending time learning how to make a mat with Florence I was establishing a relationship that would not only bless me, but allow me to experience God in a transformative manner. Had I not spent the time with her, her smile may not have been the same, and its miraculous effect on my attitude and outlook may never have happened. God, in all his goodness and foresight, knew what it would take to transform my lowly state, and used the willing investment of my time to learn how to make a mat to touch me when I needed it most. God took the seed I had planted and developed it to nourish and transform me; to give me life.
This is an excerpt from a paper we have due this Thursday that I thought some of y'all might like:
We had just finished taking tea at around 1pm when she casually began to give her life’s story. I was taken back by how she simply proceeded to share with me her life up to date from when she was three. It was completely unprompted yet thorough, as if she either assumed I needed to hear it or had to get it off her chest. I sat back and listened the best I could, still a bit bewildered, but could not help but wander off during parts of her life. I pulled hard on the reigns of my mind, but to no avail; my thoughts ran wild. I was distracted by the readings I had to do, the papers (like this one) I had to write, and even the birds outside the widow. I interacted with her the way I might a textbook; zoning out for all the details but catching the main points enough to answer intelligibly. I began to feel guilty that my mind refused to listen, but the guilt soon became a distraction of its own. I decided to stick to the affirmative grunt and nod and hoped I could coast through undetected.
As she neared the end of her story she began to talk about the importance of education, concluding by encouraging me that if I studied hard I could do anything I wanted. This struck me as particularly profound (and a bit out of line with what we’ve learned about the community centered African worldview) in light of her life’s story, which I thought I’d totally missed, and I caused me to question what I honestly wanted in life. Before I had much time to think, she changed tracks and began talking about how she expects to be there for my graduation and my wedding. Still hesitant to immediately respond to anything flatly stated, I held back anticipating the catch. There was none. She sincerely planned on attending my graduation ceremony and my wedding (whenever that happens). I was dumbfounded at her sincerity and quickly grew cynical as all my logic and reason failed to produce any viable reason for her to do such a thing. How could she even afford it? My assumptions about financial prudence, wisdom, and practicality locked up as she proceeded to gently instruct me as to how love worked.
There I was, awestruck by the simplicity and greatness of what she described as if it were from the mouth of an angel; not sure if it was real or how to receive it. The guilt I had from not being able to pay attention to her story briefly intensified as she spoke, but was quickly replaced by utter humility as I saw the enormity of God’s blessing unfold before me. The purity of her explanation of how the love for her son was far too big for any airline ticket to hold back landed before me like the precious pearl or buried treasure one would sell everything for. I was astounded at how after only two months of knowing this woman she was willing to save up for more than a year in order to make it to my graduation, a ceremony I have often failed to see the hype in… perhaps until now.
God was showing me, due to no efforts of my own, how people are to love each other. This love epitomized the kind of relationships prevalent in traditional African culture as it assumes “what it means to be in the first ancestor, to live in the organism…, to be him [Christ], his blood still coursing the living veins, his soul infused in the body,” (Taylor, 82). I had become one with my host mother across the ethnic and geographical lines that so often disfigure the body of believers (Sider, 81), lines which required her to give beyond her means, giving as much as she could, voluntarily (Sider, 84). My mom’s desire echoed the desire of the Kerr couple Sider described as “wanting to share their lives and influence wherever possible.” (Sider, 186). Mom was truly “unconditionally sharing her life with other members of Christ’s body.” (Sider, 206), causing me to fully embrace and wrestle with Sider’s crucial question: have I committed myself to be a bother or son to others so unreservedly that I enjoy far-reaching liability, availability, and accountability to them? (Sider, 214).
We had just finished taking tea at around 1pm when she casually began to give her life’s story. I was taken back by how she simply proceeded to share with me her life up to date from when she was three. It was completely unprompted yet thorough, as if she either assumed I needed to hear it or had to get it off her chest. I sat back and listened the best I could, still a bit bewildered, but could not help but wander off during parts of her life. I pulled hard on the reigns of my mind, but to no avail; my thoughts ran wild. I was distracted by the readings I had to do, the papers (like this one) I had to write, and even the birds outside the widow. I interacted with her the way I might a textbook; zoning out for all the details but catching the main points enough to answer intelligibly. I began to feel guilty that my mind refused to listen, but the guilt soon became a distraction of its own. I decided to stick to the affirmative grunt and nod and hoped I could coast through undetected.
As she neared the end of her story she began to talk about the importance of education, concluding by encouraging me that if I studied hard I could do anything I wanted. This struck me as particularly profound (and a bit out of line with what we’ve learned about the community centered African worldview) in light of her life’s story, which I thought I’d totally missed, and I caused me to question what I honestly wanted in life. Before I had much time to think, she changed tracks and began talking about how she expects to be there for my graduation and my wedding. Still hesitant to immediately respond to anything flatly stated, I held back anticipating the catch. There was none. She sincerely planned on attending my graduation ceremony and my wedding (whenever that happens). I was dumbfounded at her sincerity and quickly grew cynical as all my logic and reason failed to produce any viable reason for her to do such a thing. How could she even afford it? My assumptions about financial prudence, wisdom, and practicality locked up as she proceeded to gently instruct me as to how love worked.
There I was, awestruck by the simplicity and greatness of what she described as if it were from the mouth of an angel; not sure if it was real or how to receive it. The guilt I had from not being able to pay attention to her story briefly intensified as she spoke, but was quickly replaced by utter humility as I saw the enormity of God’s blessing unfold before me. The purity of her explanation of how the love for her son was far too big for any airline ticket to hold back landed before me like the precious pearl or buried treasure one would sell everything for. I was astounded at how after only two months of knowing this woman she was willing to save up for more than a year in order to make it to my graduation, a ceremony I have often failed to see the hype in… perhaps until now.
God was showing me, due to no efforts of my own, how people are to love each other. This love epitomized the kind of relationships prevalent in traditional African culture as it assumes “what it means to be in the first ancestor, to live in the organism…, to be him [Christ], his blood still coursing the living veins, his soul infused in the body,” (Taylor, 82). I had become one with my host mother across the ethnic and geographical lines that so often disfigure the body of believers (Sider, 81), lines which required her to give beyond her means, giving as much as she could, voluntarily (Sider, 84). My mom’s desire echoed the desire of the Kerr couple Sider described as “wanting to share their lives and influence wherever possible.” (Sider, 186). Mom was truly “unconditionally sharing her life with other members of Christ’s body.” (Sider, 206), causing me to fully embrace and wrestle with Sider’s crucial question: have I committed myself to be a bother or son to others so unreservedly that I enjoy far-reaching liability, availability, and accountability to them? (Sider, 214).
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
So last Friday was independence day, and we had the day off. That weekend we were heading out to Luweero for a weekend trip to visit a local Catholic priest and internationally known Anglican priest, as well as visit a school supported by Compassion International. We'd be gone all day Saturday and arrive back Sunday evening. As luck would have it, I was completely out of clean clothes come Friday, having only one pair of socks, no underwear (!), and a bathing suit. TGIF takes on a whole new meaning when you've got a weekend trip and no clean clothes. After watching a movie they were showing at school ("War Dance"- good movie!) and eating lunch, I trekked home to face the monstrous pile of laundry. Wearing only my bathing suit and a dirty T-shirt I began the arduous task of hand washing 4 pair of pants, 5 shorts, half a dozen T-shirts, a couple African style dress shirts, and 12 pair of socks. Socks are the worst! They gather more dirt and are harder to clean that any other piece of clothing, and there's a ton of them! Luckily my mom felt pity on me and asked for Norine, our house helper, to assist me. She helped me get started by washing a few shirts with me in the soap basin, then moved on to the following two rinse basins, washing the soap out then hanging them up on the line. This put me at the front lines to face the daunting bag of clothes, which began to feel like the Mary Poppins bag as it always seemed to have more surprises in it. I spent about an hour and a half scrubbing the clothes till I noticed my knuckles really began to sting. I stopped long enough for the blood to appear where I had worn away the top layers of skin. I found it amusing and a bit ironic that for the past few minutes I'd been trying to scrub the red dirt out of my white pants with bloody hands; a bit counter productive. I decided clean clothes were worth bloody knuckles and kept at it, finishing it all within a little less than two hours. I began thinking of what I could do to minimize the need to wash, so immediately after this I walked into town (still wearing my bathing suit, dirty shirt, and a pair of long old man socks) to buy some sandals. No more was I going to have to worry about washing 24 socks. I'll let you all know what decide to do about the shirts and the pants, and I'll keep secret what I will do to avoid washing underwear ; )
(I'm still alive and kicking Mom (the original) and Dad (the only), and will try my best to keep it that way) Love you all.
(I'm still alive and kicking Mom (the original) and Dad (the only), and will try my best to keep it that way) Love you all.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Below are some pics of our bungee jumping adventure. About 30 of the 40 that went to Jinha to raft down the Nile jumped. From the top is me, Redmond, Angela, and tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum that woke all of us scampering on the roof at seven in the morning. The jump was 145ft down, and most of us opted to dip in the water. You really have no idea how high it is till you shuffle out to the ledge with your ankles tied together.
I have pics of rafting, but probably wont get those developed till January. We went down 5 class fives and a couple of fours and threes. Our raft only tipped once (BOO!) but I was held under a class five rapid for around ten seconds, mostly because the raft was over me. You never realize how long ten seconds is till your thrashed around by white water, have a boat on your head, and realize you forgot to hold your breath because of the adrenaline. I had the biggest smile on my face and bobbed to the surface laughing. They had cold cut sandwiches for us at mid-day and more than enough food. As we were getting back onto the rafts I got filmed by the rafting film crew with two pieces of bread in my mouth as we paddled out. That would be me.
I have pics of rafting, but probably wont get those developed till January. We went down 5 class fives and a couple of fours and threes. Our raft only tipped once (BOO!) but I was held under a class five rapid for around ten seconds, mostly because the raft was over me. You never realize how long ten seconds is till your thrashed around by white water, have a boat on your head, and realize you forgot to hold your breath because of the adrenaline. I had the biggest smile on my face and bobbed to the surface laughing. They had cold cut sandwiches for us at mid-day and more than enough food. As we were getting back onto the rafts I got filmed by the rafting film crew with two pieces of bread in my mouth as we paddled out. That would be me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The pics below are from a rally they held about 20 min walking from my house. It was 5,000 ($2.50) to get in, and you pretty much found wherever you wanted to stand. You can see in one of the pics where about seven kids climbed a tree to see the car races, only a few feet from where the cars went zooming by. I took a few pics of them and how perfectly precarious they were perched above the track, but kept getting caught and called out in Luganda. I just laughed awkwardly and turned to take more pics of the cars going by. I later had to plan my pics of them when the cars would race by, drawing their attention away from me.
The event lasted from about 11am - 4:30pm, at least that's how long Martin (my brother) and I stayed. The sun was out most of the time, and they were brutal equatorial rays. Being the smart mzungu I am, and one of about three amongst the thousands of Buganda, I was prepared with a full bottle of spf 50 sunblock. Lathering up every hour or so I stayed protected at the expense of my dignity, which quickly became last on the list of things to maintain due to a few earlier incidents. The first was a lesson I thought I'd learned in the Miami Ariport. Thinking my money would be safe zipped inside a leather purse, tied to my belt loop and tucked into my back pocket, I was mistaken. Walking through the shoulder to shoulder crowds I was preoccupied with keeping my camera safe, not realizing that my back pocket was being emptied. I had learned, however, not to carry much with me and only lost 7,000(about $3.50). None the less, my reaction was far from righteous. I felt super violated and envisioned myself taking out the thief who done it. It festered inside me for a couple of minutes as I looked at everyone with a condemning glare, saying to myself that all these people would take advantage of me if given the chance, that they would all be willing to stoop to the dirty level of whoever took the 7,000. How horrible of me! I immediately remembered Jesus' words about walking two miles with the guy who asks for one. What was I doing boiling about the lost of $3.50 due to my own carelessness? Two kids were sitting in front of me while all these things were spoiling my mind, who came up to me and touched my leg hair in amazement. This was surely God's way of cooling me off via his kingdom through children, and humbling me in the most profound way.
I also had this guy come up to me with his gourd (the equivalent of of a beer bottle filled with this nasty looking local brew made from fermented banana juice), wanting his picture taken and offering to trade me his gourd for my Nalgeen.
The races were very cool though. They first had the dirt bike races, which got more exciting as the number one Ugandan racer almost lost to mzungu, but pulled in front with only a lap to go. Next were the cars. They had two race against each other on parallel tracks and then switch. Many cars broke down, and one car crashed into a tree where a large crowd was. No one was hurt by the grace of God (it really looked as if someone should have been crushed). I was in a relatively place, though if the car had made a wrong move I would have needed to run. The last pic below, however, of the car that looks like it is real close is real close, maybe seven feet. I was still safe though (for all the parents that may read this).
No sunburn, loss of 7,000, great time and some cool snaps; t'was a good day.
The event lasted from about 11am - 4:30pm, at least that's how long Martin (my brother) and I stayed. The sun was out most of the time, and they were brutal equatorial rays. Being the smart mzungu I am, and one of about three amongst the thousands of Buganda, I was prepared with a full bottle of spf 50 sunblock. Lathering up every hour or so I stayed protected at the expense of my dignity, which quickly became last on the list of things to maintain due to a few earlier incidents. The first was a lesson I thought I'd learned in the Miami Ariport. Thinking my money would be safe zipped inside a leather purse, tied to my belt loop and tucked into my back pocket, I was mistaken. Walking through the shoulder to shoulder crowds I was preoccupied with keeping my camera safe, not realizing that my back pocket was being emptied. I had learned, however, not to carry much with me and only lost 7,000(about $3.50). None the less, my reaction was far from righteous. I felt super violated and envisioned myself taking out the thief who done it. It festered inside me for a couple of minutes as I looked at everyone with a condemning glare, saying to myself that all these people would take advantage of me if given the chance, that they would all be willing to stoop to the dirty level of whoever took the 7,000. How horrible of me! I immediately remembered Jesus' words about walking two miles with the guy who asks for one. What was I doing boiling about the lost of $3.50 due to my own carelessness? Two kids were sitting in front of me while all these things were spoiling my mind, who came up to me and touched my leg hair in amazement. This was surely God's way of cooling me off via his kingdom through children, and humbling me in the most profound way.
I also had this guy come up to me with his gourd (the equivalent of of a beer bottle filled with this nasty looking local brew made from fermented banana juice), wanting his picture taken and offering to trade me his gourd for my Nalgeen.
The races were very cool though. They first had the dirt bike races, which got more exciting as the number one Ugandan racer almost lost to mzungu, but pulled in front with only a lap to go. Next were the cars. They had two race against each other on parallel tracks and then switch. Many cars broke down, and one car crashed into a tree where a large crowd was. No one was hurt by the grace of God (it really looked as if someone should have been crushed). I was in a relatively place, though if the car had made a wrong move I would have needed to run. The last pic below, however, of the car that looks like it is real close is real close, maybe seven feet. I was still safe though (for all the parents that may read this).
No sunburn, loss of 7,000, great time and some cool snaps; t'was a good day.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
These are some pics of our flat tire driving back from Rwanda. The rope swing was an incredible time and most people didn't get hurt; a few of the girls let go of the rope prematurely... they lived. Redmond and I also broke the rules and decided to swim out to a different island early in the morning. We waited for Angela, but she was a no show, so we headed out at 6:30am. The lake we were swimming over is the deepest lake in ... Africa (maybe east Africa), so that feeling of "oh my goodness! There are thousands of feet of water beneath us" was definitely kinda freaky. We got to the island and swam back watching the sunrise. It took about a little less than an hour to swim there and back, and we estimated it was a little more than a mile swim. (The lake is supposedly the only lake in Africa that doesn't have parasites, Dad, so we should be okay... but I'll let you know if I have larvae crawling out of my eyes in a month). The one pic of the guy swinging off the rope using no hand was me. They dared me to try and use no hands, so I did, knowing I had the largest muscles of the body on my side. (It was actually an awkward stage of me flipping off the rope).
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Some of these are sunset and sunrise pics; beautiful. The guy laughing is Eddie, a Belgium dude I met in Rwanda. We stayed up late talking about the world, philosophizing and theologizing about everything under the sun. He was really quality, and though he wasn't a Christian and I never asked him if he wanted to accept Jesus as his personal Lord and Savior, I talked about my heart for God, about my deepest beliefs uniting all humans, and rested confidently that whether I am planting the seeds or watering them, God is the one who does the work and He was there before me and will be there after me. So long as I focused on love for God, His love for me, and the subsequent loving of others, I felt confident to talk about anything, be challenged by anything, and listen to Eddie intently and respectfully, never wondering how I was going to convince him or where I could plug my opinion in.
Some of the earlier pics were of us loading up to go to our home stays.
To explain why these things are not in any logical order and probably don't make much sense: The internet is super slow here, so pics take about 20 min to load 5. This frustrates me, which causes the blog to be a dump of whatever info I can get on there in between classes and homework. Maybe by the end of the semester I'll be able to get a system down a little better.
I'm also able to run here. I just started up last week after not running consistently for nearly 9 months (a while after the Philly Marathon). I'm feeling pretty good and I think I've still got it, though the 4,000 altitude doesn't make training feel as easy as I'd hoped. I'm hoping to run the half or the full marathon this November in Kampala with all the Kenyan's and Ethiopian's.
Some of the earlier pics were of us loading up to go to our home stays.
To explain why these things are not in any logical order and probably don't make much sense: The internet is super slow here, so pics take about 20 min to load 5. This frustrates me, which causes the blog to be a dump of whatever info I can get on there in between classes and homework. Maybe by the end of the semester I'll be able to get a system down a little better.
I'm also able to run here. I just started up last week after not running consistently for nearly 9 months (a while after the Philly Marathon). I'm feeling pretty good and I think I've still got it, though the 4,000 altitude doesn't make training feel as easy as I'd hoped. I'm hoping to run the half or the full marathon this November in Kampala with all the Kenyan's and Ethiopian's.
Trying to catch up!
This is an attempt to catch up with the days I've been missing. I have more things happening that I thought I'd want to write about, but that's Africa I guess. Comments are wonderful to read as well. As they will sometimes say here: "The house loved is the one with red dust before it's door."
Good book to read I would suggest anyone to read is John V Taylor's Primal Vision. This book has challenged me to view the gospel in an entirely new light outside that of any Western style book I've read. Taylor delves into the deep implications the gospel has for African and Western Christianity. I have yet to finish it, but his insights have been ground breaking for my understanding of myself, mankind, my family, the gospel, Christ, and the Church already. It is not too long of a book, and I would suggest getting the newer addition because the preface, intro, and postscript are worth the read.
I going to post this for now, add some pics and comment on them, then fill in the gaps... hopefully...
Good book to read I would suggest anyone to read is John V Taylor's Primal Vision. This book has challenged me to view the gospel in an entirely new light outside that of any Western style book I've read. Taylor delves into the deep implications the gospel has for African and Western Christianity. I have yet to finish it, but his insights have been ground breaking for my understanding of myself, mankind, my family, the gospel, Christ, and the Church already. It is not too long of a book, and I would suggest getting the newer addition because the preface, intro, and postscript are worth the read.
I going to post this for now, add some pics and comment on them, then fill in the gaps... hopefully...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
8-27-09
We went to Kampala today after we received our Rwanda Orientation. It was about a 45min trip into the city where we got off at the main mall (Garden City). I exchanged $20 at the ForEx, then $100.00 (200,000 shillings) at the ATM (which I later found out was $120.00; you were right Dad, about not getting money from the ATM’s, but everybody else was doing it and I am a sucker for peer pressure, as you know).
After Kampala we stopped by traditional burial grounds for all the Buganda Kings (Buganda is the largest and most powerful/influential tribe in Uganda, making 20% of the total population). The huts were made of grass roofs, bamboo structure, and big wooden supports. We also got a chance to play on some drums they had opened in one of the huts. They were handmade and looked ancient, and about five of us were in there banging away on all the different kinds to find the coolest noises and deepest tones for about 15min. We somehow didn’t get too much attention and left without anyone saying a word.
8-28-09
There are things going on in my mind, and actions that I want to copy and mimic, but I don’t know how to label them. Are they good? Are the bad? It is information tethered to real life, physical stimuli, and grounded in one context. I trust that various reactions and actions will be better revealed with time and mistakes make, but for now it is a slow process of no labeling and mislabeling.
Maybe my hope to connect with my family, experience culture shock, learn what it is like to live and connect with another people and worldview, and be more aware of myself, God, and the world is my expectation that I can’t expect to be met. How is it that when we focus on the things we want the most they are never further away? Perhaps the exception is the kingdom of God; nothing is worthy to be focused upon or put forward as a first thing. God is bigger and worthy to be sought after; Not agriculture, family, cross, cultural experience, culture shock, or revelation through travel or change of worldview. To release these is to be free, to be joyful, to be in love with God and his kingdom; nothing else matters.
8-29-09
We woke up at 4:30 to leave by 5am for Rwanda. It was the last night of a weeklong worship retreat at UCU, and they were blaring music from 7:30pm to 3am as the final all night ending. I woke up at 12am to go back to the quarters to grab my earplugs. Never have I been so annoyed with worship music. Lord forgive me.
This quick trip to the IMME quarters is no as simple as it sounds. I have the keys to get back into the room on my keychain along with the keys needed to open the padlock to the quarters. The lock is on the other side or a metal door with a hole just big enough for both hands to fit in to grab the lock on the other side. There are two rooms, two doors, and two different locks to the quarters, so getting the right key is a guess to begin with. Then, fumbling around blindly with the keys, hoping I’d aligned the right key correctly with the padlock, both hands awkwardly squeezed inside the hole and aware that were I to drop the keys I’d be locked out of the quarters and the dorms and forced to knock on the windows to wake up my roommates, I began to realize how good of a story I was on the brink of. I did manage to open the lock and grab my earplugs and get another few hours of sleep before our long drive to Rwanda.
We have a 15hr. estimated ride today in a van with minimal leg room, thousands of potholes, and exhaust that would choke a chain smoker. Angela also found a bug in the wheat bread we bought the other day and saved it for me to decide if I wanted to waste it or not. I saw the glass half full and hope the bug didn’t lay any eggs, finishing it off before lunch.
We filled the estimated 15hrs. I had very little to no leg room and had to stretch out my leg to the front seat right next to the driver’s shifting hand every so often. We both knew it was awkward, but every hour that passed pushed courtesy out the window. The roads were horrible and went on for miles, and bread and peanut butter were my only comfort. Pot holes and monstrous unmarked speed bumps plagued every minute and had everyone bracing for impact whenever the van slowed suddenly. Our van was shaking and banging constantly. One girl whammed her head against the ceiling. The worst was the exhaust from other vehicles, especially the bigger vehicles. There are very different pollution regulations here, so cars and trucks cans spew whatever they want to the poor suckers behind them. You can see the smog over the cities and towns as you come into them. Using a damp shammy and a bandana I covered my mouth like a bandit as a filter I was able to clean some of the air. After about an hour the bandana was dirty with red dust and black pollution.
We made it to Rwanda though!
We went to Kampala today after we received our Rwanda Orientation. It was about a 45min trip into the city where we got off at the main mall (Garden City). I exchanged $20 at the ForEx, then $100.00 (200,000 shillings) at the ATM (which I later found out was $120.00; you were right Dad, about not getting money from the ATM’s, but everybody else was doing it and I am a sucker for peer pressure, as you know).
After Kampala we stopped by traditional burial grounds for all the Buganda Kings (Buganda is the largest and most powerful/influential tribe in Uganda, making 20% of the total population). The huts were made of grass roofs, bamboo structure, and big wooden supports. We also got a chance to play on some drums they had opened in one of the huts. They were handmade and looked ancient, and about five of us were in there banging away on all the different kinds to find the coolest noises and deepest tones for about 15min. We somehow didn’t get too much attention and left without anyone saying a word.
8-28-09
There are things going on in my mind, and actions that I want to copy and mimic, but I don’t know how to label them. Are they good? Are the bad? It is information tethered to real life, physical stimuli, and grounded in one context. I trust that various reactions and actions will be better revealed with time and mistakes make, but for now it is a slow process of no labeling and mislabeling.
Maybe my hope to connect with my family, experience culture shock, learn what it is like to live and connect with another people and worldview, and be more aware of myself, God, and the world is my expectation that I can’t expect to be met. How is it that when we focus on the things we want the most they are never further away? Perhaps the exception is the kingdom of God; nothing is worthy to be focused upon or put forward as a first thing. God is bigger and worthy to be sought after; Not agriculture, family, cross, cultural experience, culture shock, or revelation through travel or change of worldview. To release these is to be free, to be joyful, to be in love with God and his kingdom; nothing else matters.
8-29-09
We woke up at 4:30 to leave by 5am for Rwanda. It was the last night of a weeklong worship retreat at UCU, and they were blaring music from 7:30pm to 3am as the final all night ending. I woke up at 12am to go back to the quarters to grab my earplugs. Never have I been so annoyed with worship music. Lord forgive me.
This quick trip to the IMME quarters is no as simple as it sounds. I have the keys to get back into the room on my keychain along with the keys needed to open the padlock to the quarters. The lock is on the other side or a metal door with a hole just big enough for both hands to fit in to grab the lock on the other side. There are two rooms, two doors, and two different locks to the quarters, so getting the right key is a guess to begin with. Then, fumbling around blindly with the keys, hoping I’d aligned the right key correctly with the padlock, both hands awkwardly squeezed inside the hole and aware that were I to drop the keys I’d be locked out of the quarters and the dorms and forced to knock on the windows to wake up my roommates, I began to realize how good of a story I was on the brink of. I did manage to open the lock and grab my earplugs and get another few hours of sleep before our long drive to Rwanda.
We have a 15hr. estimated ride today in a van with minimal leg room, thousands of potholes, and exhaust that would choke a chain smoker. Angela also found a bug in the wheat bread we bought the other day and saved it for me to decide if I wanted to waste it or not. I saw the glass half full and hope the bug didn’t lay any eggs, finishing it off before lunch.
We filled the estimated 15hrs. I had very little to no leg room and had to stretch out my leg to the front seat right next to the driver’s shifting hand every so often. We both knew it was awkward, but every hour that passed pushed courtesy out the window. The roads were horrible and went on for miles, and bread and peanut butter were my only comfort. Pot holes and monstrous unmarked speed bumps plagued every minute and had everyone bracing for impact whenever the van slowed suddenly. Our van was shaking and banging constantly. One girl whammed her head against the ceiling. The worst was the exhaust from other vehicles, especially the bigger vehicles. There are very different pollution regulations here, so cars and trucks cans spew whatever they want to the poor suckers behind them. You can see the smog over the cities and towns as you come into them. Using a damp shammy and a bandana I covered my mouth like a bandit as a filter I was able to clean some of the air. After about an hour the bandana was dirty with red dust and black pollution.
We made it to Rwanda though!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
These are pics I took on our rural church visit in Rwanda. The children were beautiful and super interested in our presence there. This is a typical way in which they carry babies both in Uganda and Rwanda, and I've never seen an upset baby, only content little faces looking observing the world and enjoying the ride. I like how the feet just kinda pop out and bobble around too. 
This was after church when I met the drummer (bottom right) who is also the pastor's kid. He was super nice and we exchanged looks throughout the service every time he started to play. I went up to him afterward, thanked him for playing and asked if I could play along with him. I ended up playing for a bit, then he showed me the kind of rhythm they are used to. Evidently my muzungu rhythm wasn't what they were used to, explaining why when I encouraged them to dance they stared at me funny and acted a bit awkward. Sebastian (pastor's kid) then took over and they all began hopping around and laughing as they danced together.This was a super cute little girl (obviously) that came in in the middle of the service to be with the kids up at the front of the church. There was no sense of interruption in the service, to the extent that twice the preachers cell phone rang when he was talking and he proceeded to answer it and have a brief conversation, or a congregation member would have something to tell him and they would simply walk up and whisper into his ear as he was leading the service. A bit different than home indeed.
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