angry about grace?

Before I begin, let me say that I believe in grace. I believe I am a saved sinner, and in previous posts about living among missionaries here in Uganda, I have been amazed at how God uses broken people (myself included) to build His kingdom.

But this beautiful gift of grace is being used to cloak diseases eating away at the church. Young people, especially in the North American church, are rooted only in bumper sticker theology and a warped view of grace that has reduced it to something cheap and meaningless.

This past year alone I have seen too many promiscuous, selfish, and in some cases abusive young men put on church stages, given a guitar, a microphone, or sometimes a salary. Maybe it's because I'm a woman that, in my experience, most of these people have been men. As a woman, I'm friends with other women. I know who these guys are. I've cried with and for the girls who lost their virginity to them and then have been treated as damaged goods, the girls who were lied to, shoved aside, or not believed by the church.

I believe that people, through the power of Christ, can change. But I see a difference between someone who lived in sin before converting, and someone who was able to master hypocrisy and wear a mask the whole time. I see a difference between someone who is broken and remorseful and someone who has never flinched with shame. I see a difference between someone who is wanting to be mentored and taught and someone who thinks that, after two minutes of living a Christian walk, they are qualified to be lifted up as a leader for others.

Their mantra is always the same: grace. Amazing grace. Where sin abounds, grace is more.

Unfortunately, the people they hurt aren't around to hear their message. In their seeming quest to test the limits of grace, these guys have driven so many people far from it. Can you blame these girls for leaving the church, for not being able to stomach the stench of our hypocrisy? The truth is they are long gone.

As a church, we should forgive these guys. Anyone should be welcome through our doors. And, even for those who aren't remorseful, the reality is that there will always be hypocrites in every denomination.

However, the leaders in the church should be seasoned with wisdom and should be intent on guarding our stages. Only God can fully purify His church, but I think we can do a better job of training church leaders and keeping them accountable. Instead, I find that we are easily impressed by things that, according to the Bible, don't really impress God at all.

Taking a Scripture verse out of context, putting it in pretty font, and getting it tattooed on your arm doesn't mean a thing has changed in your heart. As a church, are we rewarding sordid testimonies or faithfulness and integrity? Do we equate forgiveness with trust? Are we more interested in someone's family name, than in the stamp of the Holy Spirit on their daily lives? Does damage to the name of Christ and hurt to members of the audience take second place to how well someone can play an instrument, or sing that Christmas solo?

I have seen so many people rise to places of leadership based on charisma and connections. Isn't that the world's way of doing things? Isn't the Kingdom supposed to work differently?

I realize that this rant paints me as a judgmental ogre. People in the church are pretty free to rant about homosexuals and Muslims, but the minute people call out hypocrisy we plug our ears and repeat messages of unity in the church and misquoted Scripture about judging.

I'll be honest, I am not perfect. Lately I've been trying to read my Bible more regularly, as I realized it was sitting unopened for far too long. And as I read, I realize -- this is scary stuff! No, I'm not talking about Old Testament angry prophets -- I'm talking the New Testament. The new covenant. The one that's supposed to get us all off scot-free.

Matthew 7: 18-20 (JESUS talking! What? I thought He only said nice things?!) "A good tree can't produce bad fruit, and a bad tree can't produce good fruit. So every tree that does not produce good fruit is chopped down and thrown into the fire. Yes, just as you can identify a tree by its fruit, so you can identify people by their actions."

And onto verse 21-23, even scarier still ... "Not everyone who calls out to me, 'Lord! Lord!' will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter. On judgment day many will say to me, 'Lord! Lord! We prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name.' But I will reply, 'I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God's laws."

I don't fully understand all of this, but it puts the fear of God straight back into me! Over and over again Jesus hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes, but lost his mind when people within the church were hypocritical or tried to turn the church into a power-playing, money-making machine.

And then there's Acts. The Early Church, the Holy Spirit, the new covenant, right? What I'm reading as I read through Acts is that sorcerers, idol-worshipers, and cheating tax collectors were welcome to join the church and be saved by grace. But Ananias and Sapphira, members of the church who tainted it by lying? They dropped dead. Dead. Killed. For lying!

I feel like Christians often get this backwards. God isn't disgusted with your godless neighbours, or the teenage unwed mother you saw at the grocery store. He came to save the world, not condemn it. But, I'm going to guess, He's a lot more disgusted by our general acceptance of a lukewarm, mediocre standard within the church.

Once we put on the name of Christ, let us learn to live in a way that honours it. Let us take up the power of the Holy Spirit, to let Him make us righteous. Let's be honest about our struggles and mistakes and hold each other accountable. Let's be transparent, let's believe victims. Let's ask for wisdom, that even optics wouldn't soil the name of Christ. And, sometimes, the damage is done, so let's get on our knees and ask for forgiveness.


On a similar note ... check out Ann Voskamp's letter to her son after a rape case in Ohio. It's an amazing challenge to protect the vulnerable, to have courage to speak the truth, to pursue holiness and to reject the shrugging, "Boys will be boys" that so often permeates the church.  

a poem - maybe i need africa

On the way back to Uganda last August, we had a terrible time! Roadblocks and headaches at every turn. We got on the plane in Toronto not knowing if we would be approved for missionary status with the PAOC, not knowing if any opportunity would come up for Isaac. The numbers didn't add up, "the plan" didn't seem to make complete sense. I wrote a few poems as we crossed the Atlantic, and here is one of them. I feel like I'm in that place again, always trying to talk to God about things that I'm focused on -- money, security, health -- and He just quietly draws me to Himself. He doesn't tell me what to do, or give the answers I'm looking for, but makes me crack open my Bible instead or become reliant on regular time in prayer. And I think maybe I miss the main point, and maybe the point is getting to a place of dependence on Him. 

The verse above my mirror right now: "I have set the Lord always before me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me." Psalm 16:8 

*Just a note: If you are African, and resent Africa being represented only as a place of trial, I'm sorry. If you are not in Africa, and think that it's only about Africa, you're wrong. Right now, and especially on that plane ride, Africa represented where we felt called to be, the unknown, and potential difficulties. Your Africa may look totally different than mine. 

Maybe I Need Africa

Maybe

I need Africa

More than she needs me.

Maybe

The ones who stay behind

Are stronger.

Maybe

You call the weaker ones 

To a path that’s longer.

Maybe

Picket fences would strangle me

Maybe

Money would quench me.

Maybe

Predictability would lure me off my knees.

Maybe

This stretching, these changes

Save me.

I’m prone to wander, Lord,

I feel it. 

Maybe

Struggles will be the fetter

Maybe

Africa makes me better.

Hot sun searing off the fat

Savannah breezes blowing away the chaff

Maybe

My prayers shouldn't be about money, health

-- Even security

Maybe

The point is to bind

My wandering heart to Thee.

my turn to learn

Sometimes little moments appear that encourage you, moments you almost walked by or missed altogether.

I have been volunteering at a refugee center every Friday since September. I leave school, go home and plan a basic lesson outline, hop on a boda and arrive at the center to have class from 5 to 7. There's usually about 8 or 10 Congolese men there, although there is one spunky older lady named Charlotte as well. Almost all young men, almost all unemployed. Trying to learn English to navigate life in Uganda, trying to build dreams on the sand that is shifting politics, shifting statuses, and a staggering unemployment rate.

Tonight was our last class. I didn't realize, but the Heritage middle school youth group Christmas dinner was the same night. I had had to cancel the English class the week before so that I could help with the Heritage Christmas concert, so I really did not want to cancel again. I decided to go teach English, figuring I'd return in time to catch the end of the Christmas dinner event. I hopped on a boda and arrived, as usual, shortly before 5pm.

Somewhere along the way, communication must have gone wrong due to the previous week being cancelled. One student showed up: Jacques, a young Congolese guy who arrived in Uganda last January.

I sat down, ate the apple I had grabbed as my dinner, waited. Chatted with Jacques, who was a little quieter than usual. I asked if something was wrong, but he said it was just the fact that he was still recovering from malaria.

I didn't say anything more, but I had sensed his optimism beginning to wane over the last few weeks. Jacques has such a great attitude. He shows up on time for every English class. Every week he sets up the board and markers for me, every week he wipes down the board and puts everything away for me, jumps up to tuck in all the chairs. He's trying to develop himself, trying to find some way to make himself marketable. He's working at his English in my class and in another class during the day. He's teaching himself guitar. He took a baking class at the center where he learned how to bake cakes and muffins. He took a business class. He took a class on social media and computer literacy. A few weeks ago he had a book he had gotten from a friend of his who is moving to Canada, a book preparing refugees to move there, providing information about cultural norms and logistics. He was devouring the book, quizzing me about Canadian culture.

Like every other man who attends the class, Jacques can probably only fantasize about getting a visa to Canada or the US. A few weeks ago Mbale, another student, was telling me about a lottery he had entered to try to get an American visa. (After a quick Google search it appears that this is a real thing - the Diversity Visa Lottery) He was nervously excited about the chance of getting the visa, but didn't say anything the next week when he had not been selected. And I sit, little white girl across the table, with an iPhone in my bag and a million opportunities, not because I am smarter or more hard-working. Just because I was born a Canadian citizen, rather than being born a black African in beautiful, war-torn Congo.

To be honest, I was a little annoyed as the minutes ticked by to almost 5:30. I am volunteering my precious time, I could have been at the middle school Christmas dinner, and only one guy is here. We went over some English questions Jacques had, and then just as I was about to say, "Well, then, Merry Christmas, I guess I'll get going" another Congolese refugee, Pauline, who happened to be hanging around the center joined in and the three of us started talking.

I've never met Pauline before, so we exchanged the usual questions. Turns out he's a French teacher at an international school, and so he and Jacques enjoyed helping me with my pathetic French. Then he asked in French if I was a Christian, and I answered that I was.

We laughed about the difference between Congolese and mzungu churches, how mzungus only dance with their necks and jump around. I told them that when I went to the Congolese church I actually wondered if the children in the congregation had practiced their dancing during the week! Turns out Pauline and Jacques are both big fans of Hillsong, and Pauline started strumming a Hillsong song on the guitar while Jacques tapped a beat on the table.

Then Pauline played a song he had written, closing his eyes and singing in French. He told me that the words were about finding consolation in the Bible, and how if he serves the Lord he will never be -- what's the English word -- embarrassed?

Over the past few months I've never asked my students a whole lot about their pasts, but the conversation opened up about how they ended up in Kampala. How Pauline had thought his whole family was dead, saw no hope at the end of the tunnel -- and then last year heard that 9 family members had arrived at a refugee camp and aid workers had connected them. They talked about what life is like in a refugee camp, and how even though all your needs are met life is still difficult. Both would rather be working in the city, providing for themselves and having more freedom.

He got a far away look in his eye that I'd seen before when talking to refugees, a quick flash of pain and vivid memories. "They say my mother and sister were kidnapped, they do not know where they are," he said calmly. "I believe and I pray that one day I will also see them again."

I was amazed at Pauline's joy and spirit of thankfulness. "A year ago, I could not see any hope. But I have found hope in God. And I thank God that I found the job as a French teacher -- I didn't even know any English at the time! -- and now I can live and work, and I am able to feed my family. God has been very good."

Jacques practicing the guitar at the refugee center

We talked about how God can bless us, but how even when bad things happen it doesn't mean God's love has been pulled out from under us. We live in a broken world tainted by sin, and Christmas is a remembrance of God's response to our suffering -- He entered into it and experience it alongside of us and made a way for us to have eternal hope.

On the boda ride home I enjoyed the cool evening air. Kerosene lamps were winking against the darkness, chapatti stands and chip vendors and pedestrians were crowding the sides of the road. I thought about Jacques and the other men, and wished I had jobs I could give them. I thought about my own foolish anxiety, tossing and turning and worrying, when I have had such a good life. I thought about Pauline's smile and glow of joy, about the unique beauty found in faith that has sprung from such hardship.

This morning in my devotions I read Acts 2:28, quoting the Psalms: "You have shown me the way of life, and You will fill me with the joy of your presence."

I need to learn from Pauline. I need to find my joy in the presence of God, just spend time and rest in His love, knowing that nothing can separate me from it.  And I thanked God for my conversation with Jacques and Pauline, for a moment that I had almost missed.

two announcements

We have two important updates to share!

Thing 1: Isaac has accepted an offer to be the new Field Director of ICEF Canada operations here in Uganda. 

This is a full-time volunteer position and a one-year commitment, meaning we are now committed to Uganda until January 2016. ICEF (International Community Empowerment Foundation) Canada is a Canadian NGO that works alongside the Tekera Resource Centre in Tekera village, a little over two hours away from Kampala. The resource centre has many different programs that serve the rural community around it. These programs include agricultural development, a primary school, work programs, adult education, and improving access to clean drinking water. As Field Director, Isaac will be working alongside a Ugandan Program Coordinator and communicating with the Canadian office.

I will continue to teach at Heritage International School; Isaac will return to Kampala on weekends, and I will be able to join him on school holidays. Even though this means time apart, this is an exciting opportunity for him to build his experience in hands-on development work. ICEF Canada's approach to development resonates with Isaac; they are committed to the long-term, they have the goal of becoming sustainable, they want to empower Ugandans as leaders, and they try to have a "hand up" rather than a "hand out" approach. This is an opportunity for Isaac to be "salt and light," showing the love of God through his character as a leader and through the humanitarian work he will be doing.

You can learn more about ICEF Canada at their website: http://icefcanada.org/ 

Thing 2: We are now PAOC (Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada) missionaries.

Teaching at Heritage International School 

Last year (August 2013) we moved to Uganda with the primary purpose of Isaac completing his degree in International Development through an exchange program with his Canadian university. I accepted a position at Heritage International School, a school founded to serve missionary children so that their families don't have to choose between boarding school or leaving the field.

As the year went on, I became increasingly committed to the vision of Heritage to provide sound academics from a Christian perspective. Even though I sometimes don't feel like I am on "the front lines," I have kids in my classes whose parents are planting churches, resettling orphans, running discipleship classes, or training Ugandan pastors. A major reason their families are able to stay in Uganda is because Hertiage exists. I also have a percentage of kids in my classes who are middle or upper class Ugandan, whose parents wanted either a Christian education, or an education based on American curriculum. These Ugandan children will very likely be future leaders in this country, and a chance to disciple them is truly a chance to influence the direction of the nation.

 Even though Isaac's exchange program ended last spring, we felt that we should stay in Uganda longer, and I committed to another year of teaching at Heritage. The main problem we were up against was financial. It is one thing to survive here financially for one year; it is another to think about two years or more and what it means to be sustainable here. Heritage can provide a small monthly salary, but it is not enough to cover all of our costs. We turned to the PAOC, the denomination we both grew up in, and found that "Teacher at Heritage International School" was already listed as one of their international missions opportunities! We pursued a connection with the PAOC, and in September we were officially approved as PAOC missionaries.

This means a few things;

1. We have a channel for people to support us and receive a Canadian charitable tax receipt.
2. We have the network of the PAOC. We suddenly feel much more supported in prayer, resources, advice and more. In April, for example, we'll have the chance to attend the PAOC regional retreat and meet with other PAOC missionaries in East Africa.
3. We can think about longer term missionary service, and be open to God's calling if He wants us to stay in Uganda or serve elsewhere in a missions capacity.
4. Besides being financially able to continue teaching at Heritage (rather than pursue jobs elsewhere), this increases our potential to be able to give to other ministries around us or engage in other volunteer opportunities.

If you'd like to check out our profile through the PAOC International Missions site, you can find it here: https://paoc.org/donate/EricaShelley

We will try to keep it updated with what we're doing and prayer requests we have.  We appreciate prayers and support! The whole "fundraising" thing is very new to us, and in some ways it is very humbling. We hope that people will not give because they know us, or feel obligated. If people believe that what we're doing is meaningful, and is building the Kingdom of God, and if people want to come alongside that, then this is a way for them to contribute.

Please keep us in your prayers, resting in the knowledge that this is God's work, not ours, and if it's His will He will make it happen.

If you would like to "stay in the loop" with what we are doing and current prayer requests, email me at erica.shelley@paoc.org (or let me know some other way!) to receive a bimonthly newsletter straight to your inbox.

hatching into a cherubim

As a kid, I devoured a collection of books called The Heroes of the Faith series. These were my first biographies of Christian heroes like Martin Luther, Mary Slessor, George Muller and Jim Elliott. One of my favourite biographies, which quickly became creased from reading it over and over, was the story of Amy Carmichael.

When Amy arrived "on the mission field," she was disappointed by herself and by the missionaries she found there. Surprisingly, they were all fully human -- broken and bickering amongst themselves.

"Wings are an illusive fallacy," she wrote. "Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn't the least sign of a feather. Don't imagine that by crossing the sea and landing on a foreign shore and learning a foreign lingo you 'burst the bonds of outer sin and hatch yourself into a cherubim."

The first time I went to Africa, in 2009, I expected a spiritual growth spurt. I expected to hatch into a cherubim, I suppose. Everyone, it seemed, that went abroad came back with a deepened intimacy with God. I was not ready when Africa shook my faith, when I saw church corruption and power struggles and prosperity gospel and wondered firsthand, "Is this my Christianity? Do I really want to be a part of this?" I was not prepared to have to hear the words from a godly Ghanaian pastor, who somehow seemed to have laser vision into my soul: "Erica, even if the name of Christian is soiled, you cannot afford to lose your own salvation because you are looking at hypocrites." I had expected to solemnly lead people to salvation, not be told I was at risk of losing my own.

Amy Carmichael's words come back to me now, as we are in the thick of our second year in Uganda. Sometimes it feels like my weaknesses are only magnified here, not overcome. As time passes in our close-knit community, as we peel back the layers and really get to know other missionaries here, we see their flaws, too. We see addictions and struggles and tendencies that they have fought for so long. We hear more details of their pasts being shared, and the different baggage that each of us carries. We pray together, we confess to each other, sometimes we cry together.

Sometimes we get depressed, weary, angry that our struggles have not yet been sealed with victory.

Today in chapel we were singing the song "Rising Sun," and the lyrics suddenly washed over me.

Praise Him all you sinners,
Sing, oh sing, you weary ... 
We lift high His glory 
Shown throughout our stories 
Praise Him all you children of God. 

Our great Redeemer
Glorious Savior 
Your Name is higher than the rising sun
Light of the morning 
You shine forever
Your name is higher than the rising sun. 

The glowing purity and goodness of God hit me all over again. He is higher than the rising sun? He is majestic and beautiful and he bothers with dusty, weary sinners? His glory is revealed in our stories?

And I realized all over again that God is not good in spite of the fact that His children mess up. He is not pure in spite of the fact that we still sin. He is not faithful in spite of the fact that we stray. Our witness is not effective in spite of the fact that we are broken. His goodness is unparalled, His purity untaintable, His faithfulness incomprehensible, our witness unarguable because of our sin, our brokeness, our weakness. What a God that can use hurting people riddled with issues, even to be missionaries, pastors, teachers, youth leaders! You cannot capture the depth of grace unless you juxtaposition who you are -- who you really are -- against who God is.

And the phrase that keeps being burned into me, spearing my pride: His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When this girl, who has wrestled anxiety over and over again, can hear about planned terror attacks and honestly say to people that I don't worry, that there has been a gift of peace I don't understand and can't explain and -- you know, you know this isn't me. You know that I've struggled. You know this is God.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When I want to pretend that I'm perfect and mask any doubts. When I think that being a "good Christian" is to hide your issues from unbelievers.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

Maybe we can only lift up His glory if we risk ourselves, step out, and tell our stories.



There's a wideness in God's mercy
I cannot find in my own
And He keeps His fire burning
To melt this heart of stone
Keeps me aching with a yearning
Keeps me glad to have been caught
In the reckless raging fury 
That they call the love of God. 

- Rich Mullins (a guy who wrestled with alcoholism and depression, among other things...)

seeing things the second time around

In grade 6 English we're reading Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. In the novel, a young boy named Brian Robeson gets stranded in the Canadian wilderness when a bush plane flight goes wrong -- the pilot dies of a heart attack and Brian has to crash the plane into a lake. Brian has to learn how to survive with only his hatchet and the world around him.

Today in class we read Chapter 5, the part in the book where Brian, after the crash, has just come to his senses enough to stop and look at his surroundings. He sees only a blur of blue and green -- trees and sky and water. He notices a beaver lodge and the general chirping of birds, but little else. Compared to his life in the city, it seems that there is only empty silence in the woods. With hunger stabbing at him, he looks for something to eat but concludes that there is nothing. Nothing. Only brush and rock and trees and water.

By the end of Hatchet, Brian has become a part of the woods. He can differentiate between different birds, find edible plants, wake up from the slightest sounds in the night, sense the presence of animals, and predict changes in weather.

After reading the passage, I told the students to watch for the changes we will see in Brian, and as I was talking it hit me how much Brian's transformation reflects some of the adjustments I've made in Uganda.

When we first arrived over one year ago, I didn't see very much. Everything was a blur of dirt roads and sloping shacks and bodas and taxis. It sounds ridiculous, but the couple who oriented us actually had to teach us how to remember where we lived.

"Everything will look the same to you," I remember Bill saying, standing there in his khaki shorts and T-shirt, looking infinitely more comfortable on Ggaba road than us newcomers felt. "Look for those two billboards, then you'll know that's your road. Remember you live in Kansanga, past Kabalagala."

It sounds embarrassing, but for the longest time I had a hard time remembering people. The guards from the school all looked the same to me -- black men wearing the same uniform and sporting the same haircut. When our Heritage night guard would arrive in the growing darkness of evening, I would often greet them with a smile, ask how they were doing, and then turn and hiss under my breath to Isaac, "Who is that again?"

I also had a hard time with Ugandan women. I realized that my brain had learned to tell people apart by their hair. As soon as I "remembered" a Ugandan woman by her hair, she'd changed it! Tight braids could turn to shiny waves overnight. When people talked about the physical features of different tribes, I was at a total loss.

[ I should note that I am not very observant to begin with (I would make the worst witness at a crime scene). I should also note that a few weeks ago a Congolese French teacher at Heritage confessed that he got me confused with one of the American teachers for the entire school year last year. He pretty much only saw blond hair. (So I'm not the only one who struggles!) ]

When we first moved here, I got a little irritated with people saying things like, "Listen to your gut. Don't get in the taxi if it feels wrong. Use common sense."

Use common sense? I had no common sense. Getting on a boda with a strange man wearing no helmet felt wrong. Getting in an unmarked car that I was told was a private hire felt wrong. Hearing strange noises at night felt wrong. Sticking a pen in a socket to make the plug fit felt wrong. It seemed that I was constantly suppressing my gut feelings.

This year, I realize how far I've come. I don't see a row of shacks strung along a dirt road; I see a chapatti stand, a seamstress, or the place that always has good cucumbers. I look at the same Heritage guards I was confused by last year and see completely different features, shaking my head and wondering how I ever confused them. I notice that a sign has changed or a new place that sells cell phone credit has gone up. Noises in the night are no longer unnamed; I can hear Molly crying, or the Muslim call to prayer, or the ice cream man bicycling by, or the neighbour's gate opening, or a Luganda radio station playing the football match. I don't think that every day is "the same" and that the weather never changes; I find myself saying things like, "It's a bit chilly this morning." (Oh no -- what will happen when I go back to Canada?)

Slowly, I'm also gaining a bit of a "gut feeling" that I can count on, to help me sense potential danger or alert me to any changes.

Power outages? Normal. 

Random man hitting on me? Normal. Random man who gives me a totally different "gut feeling" and causes me to cross the road? Not normal. Getting in a taxi? Normal. Getting in an empty taxi? Not normal. Kids openly using the word "beaten" to describe the discipline at home? Normal. The kid next door regularly screaming for extended periods of time? Not normal. People staring for what I deem to be awkward lengths of time? Normal. Kids in ragged clothing and bare feet? Normal. Thin man in rubber boots herding cattle (with humongous horns!) in front of my gate? Normal.  Kids running up and talking to me, a stranger, and grabbing my hand? Normal. The power going out for a day? Normal. The power going out for a week? Something to talk about. Giving money to a young woman begging on the streets of Kampala? Not appropriate. Giving money to a guard who you've known for over a year when his house burned down? Appropriate.

Hail storms? Not normal. 

Using squatties on a road trip (BYOTP)? Normal. 

Cramming in a taxi and suppressing all feelings of claustrophobia? Normal. 

Even though I can sit back and realize how much more I see here, how much knowledge I've gained, I know that it's a learning curve that I've hardly mastered. Maybe that's why a part of me loves living in Uganda -- it's always interesting, and there's always more layers to learn.

Once any other kids outside of another little shop, now our friends Winnie, Flo and Comfort. 

isaac gives an update

Getting fresh fish out of Lake Victoria at the Ggaba fish market! 

A guest post from Isaac, stolen from his unusually long Facebook status:

I have not posted too much since returning to Uganda almost a month ago so here is a quick bulleted summary on some events that have transpired to keep everyone who cares up to date.

- Since missing our flight in London and having some immigration issues, we are completely settled into a routine in Kampala and I am officially under a dependency visa as a stay-at-home-almost-retired-but-actually-unemployed-husband.

- Three appliances, a coffee maker and rice cooker brought from Canada and a Ugandan kettle fried within 5 days of arrival.

- Our cat Muwala is alive and well and is appearing to gain a lot of weight since our return. Our dog Wally continues to be kind of dumb but still very loving and needy for belly rubs.

- Erica and I celebrated our 4 year anniversary.

- Erica is back teaching middle school English and Social Studies and volunteers at the end of the week to teach English to Congolese Refugees.

- My own involvement with a local organization serving to help Congolese Refugees. Details are currently in the works.

- Experienced a hail storm like no other (the worst I have ever been in) despite literally living on the equator.

- I have taken the duties of head coach of the U16 Boys soccer team at
Heritage and assisting with the Open Boys team.

- I severely sprained my right ankle playing Soccer over two weeks ago and continue to feel the pain but refuse to sit on the sidelines during any sporting activity.

- Went undefeated in the monthly Vanderford Invitational Table Tennis Tournament.

- Unfortunately, I am currently in the process of voluntary release from the Canadian Military due to living in Uganda and the uncertainty of where and when we will end up again in Canada.

- My moustache has appeared to connect with my Goatee. Very exciting.

- Overall, Erica and I are finding our schedules becoming very full and keeping us busy throughout the week with the school activities, social events, friends, and good neighbours all around.

Muwala supervising Erica's weekend grading sessions. 

Isaac's sprained ankle. 

Tiffany and Agnes making a snowman (ice man?) after the crazy hailstorm. While the snowman was fun, unfortunately the storm did a lot of damage to the homes of many Ugandans living in poverty. 

update: uganda round two

In the midst of the rainy season, the first few days back in Uganda felt cooler than the weather we had left in Canada!

It's been awhile since my last blog post. We had a great summer back home in Canada! Isaac worked quite a bit, and somehow I had a relaxing summer that was at the same time very full. Of course there's always things that you think you'll have time for, that you actually don't, but all in all we were pretty happy with how the summer went.

Flooding on the way tot the airport in Toronto.

On August 4 we boarded the plane back to Uganda. From start to finish, it was one heck of a journey. Driving to the airport, the highway was flooded. Upon arrival we were told that we needed to purchase round trip tickets before British Airways would allow us to get on our flight. Baggage was shoved around, trying to meet the weight requirements. Somewhere amidst the stress we had the emotional good-bye to our parents (except Isaac's dad, who couldn't be there). In London we missed our connecting flight by minutes and had to re-book a Kenya Airways flights for that evening. And then, upon arrival, Isaac had issues at the Ugandan border with his visa due to a paperwork error last year on his student visa. (I was standing in the luggage area peering in through the glass, wondering what I would do if they didn't let him in the country!)

Finally ... we arrived back home! We were exhausted and battered by doubts about why we had committed to a second year. Within minutes of arriving we were welcomed by our friends and pets, and suddenly we remembered how Kampala came to feel like home. Many of us are returning teachers, and last year at this time we were just trying to survive and figure things out. This year we settled in easily on the practical level. On another level, many of us had done a lot of thinking over the summer and we found ourselves in deeper discussions about how to live for Christ in Uganda, how to truly make a difference -- even if that means asking yourself some hard questions.

Teacher orientation started the day after we arrived, and we got to connect with old teachers and meet some of the new staff as well. School kicked off on the 14th, and all of a sudden here we are back in the swing of things. I have a new crop of grade 6 students, who right now look like deer caught in headlights, and have had to say good-bye to my old grade 8 class as they've moved on to high school. Working at an international school with many missionary children, there's always some change in the students -- a few familiar faces disappear, a few new students come in. And, of course, being a middle school teacher, there are some students who have changed so much over the summer that they seem like new students!

Some things that are different about our lives this year:

1. Isaac is no longer in school. He's finished his degree in International Development! Yay! Now he's on the market for jobs/internships.

2. Our neighbours have switched. The Reynolds, with their small son, no longer live on the other side of the duplex -- now they're in the house next door. Our friends Jander and Tiffany -- fellow Canadians -- are now living in the duplex with us. We're looking forward to a great year in "the tripod," as we call our 3 housing units, because we all get along very well. We've started a garden on our compound, dug compost holes, and hope to get a chicken coop soon so that all three couples can have fresh eggs with yellow yolks (for some reason the eggs here have white, tasteless yolks).

3. Ms. Eunice, our day guard last year, is no longer with us -- but she is still nearby, at the house next door! This year Ms. Agnes is our day guard and she is actually going to live on the compound. She has a two-year-old daughter named Molly, who often wanders in and out of our house. She is adorable and enjoys controlling the dogs -- today she was pulling Wally by the ear! I was very impressed that he didn't fuss at all, just walked obediently beside her.

We've only been back for a week and a half, but Canada already feels like a world away. We have no idea what the future holds for us, so we are thankful to have had such a long visit home.

Isaac giving Wally a bath, which Molly found quite entertaining! 

\

biblical blindspots

             

           I recently went to a conference for Christian international schools in Kijabe, Kenya. One of the highlights of the conference was the keynote speaker, Dr. Randy Richards. He has lived and served as a missionary in Indonesia and is a professor at Palm Beach Atlantic University.

                He spoke about culture as an iceberg, with the noticeable things we usually talk about -- clothing, language, food -- as the tip of the iceberg. The bulk of the iceberg is what is below the surface, and it is what "goes without being said." As we read the Bible, we miss what "goes without being said" and we insert our own culture's norms. As Westerners, we have blind spots when we approach Scripture.

                At the conference Randy made it clear that he is not merely criticizing the West; every culture has blind spots, but he wrote a book targeted to white Western males because he is a white Western male. He hopes that every culture tries to critically examine the blind spots they may have when it comes to Scripture.

                I bought a copy of the book Richards co-wrote, called Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes. I highly recommend it. It has helped me look at the Bible in a different way and, living in Uganda, helped me understand some of the deeper differences in culture.  When I have moments of "Huh?" even though we're both speaking English, it's usually because I'm unaware of the currents of thought running below the surface.

                The book begins by addressing more obvious issues such as language and race. The next section skims just below the surface, touching on the differences between collectivism and individualism, the concept of time, and honour/shame vs. right/wrong. (Retelling the story of David and Bathsheba through the lens of an honour/shame culture was very insightful.) The next section goes even deeper, into rules vs. relationships, what we consider to be virtues and vices, and finally how we in the West often perceive ourselves as at the centre of God's will. As the book goes deeper and deeper into "what goes without being said," I realized how near and dear some Western cultural values are to my heart, even if they are Biblically neutral or even contrary to Scripture.

                Some quotes:

                "We can easily forget that Scripture is a foreign land and that reading the Bible is a cross-cultural experience."

                "The most powerful cultural values are those that go without being said."

                "Church history is a two-thousand-year-long conversation about how the eternal truth of Scripture applies in different cultures at different times."

                [On the Western tendency to ignore Paul's verses praising singleness]: "... what goes without being said amongst Western Christians, especially in America, is that celibacy has no inherent spiritual value . . . Because we privilege marriage as God's preferred way of life for everyone, churches in America, on the whole, do a very poor job of ministering to single adults."

                "The highest goal and virtue in [Western individualist] culture is being true to oneself. The supreme value is on the sovereignty of the individual . . . The highest goal in [collectivist] culture is supporting the community."

                [Interesting note on collectivist culture: Indonesian Christians were shocked to learn that American parents allow their Christian teenagers to go on dates at night unsupervised. "For Indonesians, it seems unfair to leave an individual in a situation in which his or her only real protection is willpower . . . Indonesian Christian teens are relieved that someone else is responsible for protecting them.]

                [On Western tendency to see ourselves at the centre of God's will -- that chapter was hard to read!]: "When we realize that each passage of Scripture is not about me, we begin gradually to see that the true subject matter of the Bible, what the book is really about, is God's redeeming work in Christ. God is restoring all of creation (including me), but I am not at the centre of God's kingdom work. This is a much greater thing to be absorbed with than ourselves ." [Paraphrasing now]: Instead of reading the Bible and asking, "What does this mean to me?" find out what it meant to the original audience and ask, "How does this apply to me?"

                General tips for reading the Bible:  "We are likely misreading when our reading of the text requires us to ignore the context, to shorten the text to just this or that verse or part of a verse. We are likely misreading when our reading of the text requires us to lengthen the text, by pulling in verses from other parts of the Bible until we get all the pieces we need . . . Other times, though, we misread because we read alone. That is, we often hear only the interpretations of people just like us . . . The worldwide church needs to learn to study Scripture together as a global community." 

middle schoolers in heat

We have two pets here in Uganda: Wally the dog and Muwala the cat. Both of these pets need to be neutered or, as Canadians say, "fixed." The task of arranging the vet appointment was clearly on my husband Isaac's to-do list. I tried to avoid being a nagging wife and let it sit on his list. There it sat. And sat. And sat. Now here I sit in Ugandan while he is back in Canada, and the item is now on my to-do list.

Muwala in her younger days ... 

Now, to be fair to him, the man was writing exams and finishing his degree. He did go back to Canada earlier than expected, and only had about 36 hours' notice about his changed flight. He did make a valiant effort to get the animals "fixed" before he left, but the vet wasn't able to come in time.

He left for Canada on Friday. The same day my cat started showing unusual symptoms... I slowly realized that her strange behaviour was not because she missed him but, much to my dismay, because she was in heat.

I've never been around a cat in heat before. As I witness the behavior of a cat in heat (she is my only housemate now, after all) I can't help but think about the middle schoolers I teach and draw comparisons (no offense intended). In many ways, they are "in heat" for the first time in their lives and remind me of my little Muwala, who also finds herself in the midst of hormonal upheaval.

Some similarities between my students and my pet ...

1. Change in appetite. The boys start to eat more, some of the girls start to watch what they eat. In Muwala's case, she has hardly touched her bowl of food for the past few days. This, I read on Google, is normal for a cat.

2. Annoying loud noises. The boys in my classes are loud and rambunctious. The girls giggle much louder than is necessary, "whisper" secrets that can be heard across the room and explode in sudden bursts of laughter. Muwala is yowling. Especially at night. Even after locking her out of my room, I can hear her regular meows. Everyone is trying to get the attention of the opposite sex.

3. Emotionally needy and unpredictable. Google told me that a symptom of a cat being in heat is that they will be "more affectionate than usual." Muwala is a people cat to begin with, but now she is all over me. I can't get any marking done because she sits directly on my papers. She purrs and leans into my petting more than usual. And then, without warning, she'll turn around and swat at me! Oh ... the middle school years and the emotions that are oozing everywhere. I remember my own embarrassing emotional roller coasters and I have witnessed those of my students. Tears, hugs, fights, break-ups, make-ups ... Middle schoolers are emotional. I know this: I read their poetry.

4. Pushing the boundaries and becoming difficult to control. Being a female, Muwala is much more of a priority of being "fixed" than Wally is. Now that she is in heat, I'm trying desperately to keep her indoors and she's trying desperately to get out. Windows are closed despite the equatorial temperatures. I have to slide into the door sideways and push her out of the way with my foot as I do so. She is sniffing around the door frame. In the past week (before I noticed she was in heat) she was wandering further and further away, even going briefly outside the compound walls. (When did she stop being content to hang out close to home?) The connection to middle school is obvious. They want to go to the mall without their parents for the first time. They don't follow the rules as easily. They sometimes talk back. They often have no clue why rules are set, and are often convinced that adults just want to ruin their lives.

5. A little awkward. Middle schoolers are awkward; sometimes their coordination has suffered as their body grows and changes, and socially they don't always know the right thing to say. Let's just say Muwala has been doing awkward things the last few days that make me a little uncomfortable to discuss. On top of that, she's embarrassed me in front of my neighbours on the other side of the duplex -- when I asked this morning if they could hear her yowling at night they hesitated but admitted that yes, yes they could.  *Awkward.*

6. No ability to foresee future consequences. I have explained to my students many times this year that, by no fault of their own, the frontal lobe of their brain has not fully developed. This is why, for good and bad, young people are more likely to take risks and ignore (or have an inability to see) the future consequences for their behaviour. Let's be honest: Muwala wants to get outside for only one thing. She wants to hop over that compound wall and come back pregnant. She can't foresee the difficulty of raising kittens alone, or calculate the vet and food bills that would cost us, or consider the fact that in two weeks I will be leaving her for two months. While Muwala's choices are much more serious than the middle schooler who decides not to study for a test the next day, they are both thinking in the moment.

I read online that cats are in heat for SEVEN to TEN days ... This is going to feel like forever! And isn't that how it felt when I was in the midst of middle school? For. Ever.

*Sigh*

I can't believe how much my middle schoolers have changed over the past year. Students that were shorter than me at the beginning of the year are taller than me, voices have deepened, and -- dare I say -- in many ways they've matured.

And as I look at my little kitty, the furball Isaac pulled out of a gutter on Christmas morning, I can't believe how big she is.

When did they grow up so fast?


[... Can you tell I'm home alone and procrastinating on my final grading? Nothing to do but observe my cat and get sentimental about the end of the year!]

the greatest saints?

"Some of the people we met had nothing, absolutely nothing, but they were so happy," Kimberly said. She extracted a photograph from the crowded back of the piano, of her daughter with two Indian women, their skin dark and weathered, their smiles showing missing teeth. "These women were so wonderful," she said. 

Ifemelu would also come to learn that, for Kimberly, the poor were blameless. Poverty was a gleaming thing; she could not conceive of poor people being vicious or nasty, because their poverty had canonized them, and the greatest saints were the foreign poor.

-- Americanah by Nigerian author Chimamanda Adichie

I just finished Americanah, probably the longest book I've read for quite some time. I had shown my grade 8 class the Ted Talk by Chimamanda Adichie called "The Danger of the Single Story." (Take 20 minutes and watch it! The best quote: "The trouble with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete.") One of my students told her mother about it, who is a big Adichie fan, and since then they've been feeding me Adichie novels one at a time.

I have to say that I enjoyed Purple Hibiscus more  than Americanah. Americanah is the story of a Nigerian woman who moves to America and then back to Nigeria, with a love story woven the whole way through. Americanah was too long for my taste (477 pages!) and I felt that it started to get repetitive after awhile. I also didn't like the fact that the guy in the book leaves his wife to get back together with his one true love when she returns to Nigeria. There were some funny parts in the book when the character Ifemelu first moves to America and experiences culture shock, which I found interesting since it's the flip side of what I've experienced here in Uganda.

One thing Adichie is really good at -- in both of the novels I've read -- is complicating things. In the scene quoted above, when Ifemelu is working in America as a nanny for the wealthy, soft-hearted Kimberly, Adichie complicates the view that many people in the West have of "the greatest saints ... the foreign poor."

The greatest saints.

I have to admit I've been guilty of that. My sister works at an addictions centre in Canada, and I recently said to her, "That kind of urban poverty scares me. It's so complicated. Here in Uganda, it seems more black-and-white: this hardworking woman needs $100 for a sewing machine to start her own small business."

But the longer I'm here, the less I know. Everything gets so complicated, so gray. Sometimes it seems that every way to "help" is analyzed, criticized, and somewhere, someone has a reason why such practices are actually doing harm.

And whether I'm negative or positive about Ugandan culture, up or down, "the Ugandan poor" refuse to fit into the mental boxes I build for them.

There's the woman who tends her shop all day, every day, and makes around $3 profit on a good day. There's the kids who will smile and grab your hand. There's also the kids who swarmed a friend of mine, holding her hands and smiling at her while one kid dipped his hand into her purse. There's the woman who does your laundry, who you know lives in basically a shack the size of a walk-in closet, and she returns the 5000 shillings ($2) she found in your pocket. There's the people who must have watched my neighbour's house, robbing them in broad daylight when the house was left unattended for less than an hour. There's a shopkeeper who takes a microloan and invests it. There's a shopkeeper who takes a microloan and wastes it.There's the Congolese ladies learning English at a nearby shelter who don't know where their families are or whether or not they're alive, and yet they are bright and cheerful and somehow find optimism.

There's the hordes of young men who are jobless and who insist that, if given the chance, they would work hard. There's the night guards who sleep on the job. There's the Ugandan church lady who slips a wrinkled 1000 shilling note (40 cents) into the hand of hospital patient she is praying with. There's the alcoholic sucking waragi out a plastic bag, reeking of alcohol and leering at you. There's the stranger who will take you to the store you're looking for downtown, even if it's far out of his way. There's the person who will unzip the top pocket on your backpack to rob you as you are walking downtown (which happened to Isaac this past week). But then there's also the guy who hissed protectively to Isaac, "Mzungu! You need to take care! You were almost robbed."

Everything's complicated, and why am I surprised? Isn't painting an entire group of people in a positive light still painting them with the same brush? Isn't endowing someone with virtues simply because of their class or skin colour the same as pegging them with negative assumptions (ex: the stereotype of the "noble savage" in Canada).

People are not projects. People are not objects of pity. People are not perfect. People are not predictable. People are people, and people are complicated. (Even poor people in Africa!)

unexpected reminders

Last week was Spring Break. Isaac and I, along with another young Canadian couple, took a five day trip around southern Uganda -- Lake Bunyonyi and hiking Mt. Sabinyo in Mgahinga Gorilla National Park.

Among other money-saving strategies, we took public transit the whole way. We got to the crowded Kampala bus terminal and we were immediately approached by a man with a slight limp who wanted to know where we were going.

"Kabale," we told him.

As happens so many times here, he took our situation upon himself and led us through the winding, confusing bus park to find the bus to Kabale.

"Sabo -- a soda?" he said before we got on the bus. Isaac gave him two 500 shilling coins (about 40 cents total) for a tip.

We paid our 25,000 shilling fee ($10) each  to the conductor and climbed onto the dark, crowded bus. It was already almost filled, which meant that on the bright side we didn't get stuck waiting for the bus to fill (that can take up to two hours) but on the downside most seats were taken. Our friends sat near the front and we made our way to the back.

Although we couldn't find two seats that were together, we did find two seats on the aisle. I found myself sitting beside an older Ugandan woman, with short fuzzy gray hair and poor English. A jaja, a grandmother, as they refer to older women here in Uganda.

At first we thought the TV screen at the front of the bus was a promising sign. We soon realized that, as the bus lurched out of Kampala, we were in for over 6 solid hours of irritating music videos: everything from Dolly Parton to Westlife to Celine Dion to Britney Spears to cheesy locally-made videos with Lugandan lyrics.

As we rode along, I found myself getting lost in the landscape and thinking. Graceful cows' horns seemed to pierce low-slung clouds. The rolling green hills were a relaxing change from Kampala. After feeling so discouraged, so fed-up with aspects of living here the past few weeks, I was happy to feel stirrings of affection for Uganda again.

Strangely, I found myself thinking about my maternal grandmother. Baba, we called her. When my brother-in-law visited Uganda in January, he was reminded of his own children when he saw the children here. While I have thought, "Wow! That boy is the same age as my niece and look at him carrying that water!" I haven't actually seen my niece in the children here. I haven't even seen myself in the young women here, who carry on completely different lives than I do. But for some reason, I saw my Baba here.

I saw my Baba in the way that the woman beside me was travelling alone. I saw my Baba in the way the woman groaned every time the bus bounced us -- sometimes clear into the air -- and held her hip in pain. I saw my Baba in the way she had food carefully wrapped in plastic, the gentle smell of an older person's body odor mingled with the smell of it. I saw my Baba in the way she slightly spilled over into my seat, the way she was embarrassed to have to ask the conductor when the next stop was, she had to use the bathroom.

Strangely, more than anyone else I can see my Baba as a Ugandan. Maybe because she's the most "ethnic" person out of all my close relatives, who knows. But something about the jajas draped in their wraps, squeezing down the aisles of a crowded bus, clucking their tongues at the younger generation, simmering pots of matooke over coal stoves for hours ... It was a strange thing, to be reminded of her here, to be suddenly yearning for her heavy breathing and quirky habits and banana boxes of perogies while bouncing along a road to Kabale.

african rain

I'm pretty sure when I was in Ghana in 2009 I had a blog post with the exact same title. There is something wonderful about rain here, a magic that is new to me.

The rain here is different from the rain in Ghana, at least during the season I was there. Every day the sun rose and the heat swelled until rain broke in the afternoon. People were forced to stop, take shelter, rest, and a rain would softly fall for about half an hour, relieving the heat, and the sky would clear again.

This is the first time I have ever experienced the end of a dry season. For two months the sun crawled across the sky every day, the dust rose off the dirt roads, and there was no cloud cover to soften the sun's searing power. For two months Isaac and I cleaned our outer ears, surprised at the blackened Q-tips. For two months Ugandan men drew sewer water in buckets and tossed it across the streets, trying to keep the insufferable dust in check. The grass got browner and the lawn developed bald patches. It wasn't terrible -- I don't think the weather here is something I can complain about! -- but after two months you realize with a start that it has not rained at all and the world feels quite parched.

Ugandans who have lived here their whole lives can't understand the thrill of that first snowfall in November, or the way Canadians take that first warm spring day as an excuse to wear shorts and sandals. After a long winter, the first time you can emerge from the house without a jacket on is a milestone.

Until now, I have not understood the joy of rain. One night Isaac and I were sitting in the living room and we heard a light pitter patter. We both froze.

"Is that rain?" Isaac said.

"Let's go watch it!" We ran out to the porch to watch the rain.

This past week we had our first rainfall during school hours since before Christmas holidays. My class was totally disrupted. The wind whipped through the windows, shaking the palm leaves outside; the clouds gathered and swirled, thunder rolled. And then the downpour began. Vicious pounding on the tin roof. The leaking tin roof, I was reminded as I watched a puddle form in the middle of the classroom. Students high-fived each other. A grade 6 boy shouted, "Thank God for the rain!" and one senior even slid down the muddy hill on his stomach.

 A friend of ours who works with Samaritan's Purse was telling me about his work in refugee camps in Sudan.

"You're much more excited for the rain when you're hungry or when you're worried about your crop," he said. "I was in a camp one time and it had not rained in 6 months."

I can't even imagine.

Today it drizzled all day. I was comfortable in jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and a light scarf; when I got home, I even wished that I had a pair of slippers! The air smells clean, everything seems washed in brighter green and the grass has already grown. Maybe after a few weeks of the rainy season we'll be done with it, but for now we're all enjoying the rain.

cultural fatigue

Maybe it's because we're nearing the end of third quarter. Maybe it's because Spring Break is just out of reach. Maybe it's because the hot, dry season seems to be dragging on forever. Maybe it's because I'm sick and grumpy.

Whatever the case, the past few days I have not been a very big fan of Uganda.

They -- whoever "they" are -- say that this is part of the process of culture shock. I don't remember the exact steps of culture shock, but I do know what we have experienced. Isaac and I landed in Uganda in August and were hit with immediate shock, feeling completely disoriented. I had never experienced that level of discomfort on a short-term missions trip, or even during my 3 month internship in Ghana. Knowing we were here to live for a year -- knowing we had to reach some state of normalcy here -- made those first few days totally different than someone simply visiting another country for a few weeks.

After the initial shock, I would say that there was the "honeymoon" phase. Everything was interesting. We were determined to learn the local language. I took pictures of every new thing; even the irritations were only funny quirks in our new life here.

Around December, I'd say that I hit a period where my energy started to sag. What was the point of learning Luganda, beyond the greetings I already knew? I felt homesick. My brain was tired of translating things, processing things.

And now I feel that I'm experiencing cultural fatigue. I'm sick and tired of Ugandan culture; everything seems to be wrong. Even as I type that, I correct myself in two ways: 1) I remind myself of the many beautiful things about the culture here, things I would miss if/when we do move back to Canada 2) I remind myself that, unlike Isaac, I for the most part live in a Westernized world that merely brushes Ugandan culture, compared to my full cultural immersion in Ghana.

Even so, here are some things that have irritated me lately:

• Various cases of theft that have happened, major and minor. Someone's house being broken into while they're gone. Someone's backpack -- with a month's salary -- disappearing. Ugandans robbing poor Ugandans, rich Ugandans, rich mzugus. 
• Being told what I want to hear instead of the reality. Me: "When can you be here?" Boda driver: "I'm coming, I'm coming. You will get there on time." Reality: "I'm really far away and you'll be waiting awhile. Oh, and you'll be late." 
• The mini-skirt bill. Apparently this is being looked at again, but it certainly had people talking. The jist of it: wearing a skirt above the knee (even with tights) could result in arrest. Oh, and any Ugandan man above 18 had the right to arrest you -- "civilian arrest", it's called.
• The fact that, as our neighbour quips, "nothing works here except reproductive organs." I never realized that China churns out not just Dollarama-level crap, but a whole other level of crap that gets sent to Africa. Kettles blow up, fans break, lids don't fit on containers, etc. 
• While some people do work very hard, very long hours, seven days a week, many others seem to have a poor work ethic, particularly when they have a steady job with any kind of guarantee. Guards who fall asleep, cashiers who lean on the counter texting on their cell phones, employees that think rain is a valid reason to show up late or leave early, etc. I want to shake people and force them to sit through a customer service training session. This country has a youth unemployment rate of 60 - 80 % depending on who you ask, and yet so many seem to take their jobs for granted. 
• Disgusting stray dogs. Specifically the one that bit me two weeks ago for no apparent reason. 
• Lying in bed and hearing random children crying and screaming as they are being beaten. Tin shacks don't provide a lot of family privacy, I suppose, and now I have a better understanding of why these kids can sit still for so long, help run shops, cook and take care of younger siblings. 
• A friend of mine volunteers regularly at  local orphanage. When an HIV+ baby was almost dying, she and her husband took him in temporarily as foster parents, respecting the legal process of the social workers from the orphanage. His parents -- who, by the way, tried to kill him by throwing him into a latrine -- heard about it and were upset that he was in a mzungu house. They demanded he be returned to the orphanage, because they still have rights. So he was. With his repressed immune system, his health is already suffering. In this country, the idea of temporary foster parenting is foreign; people foster to reach the goal of adoption, otherwise kids languish in understaffed, underfunded and often corrupt orphanages. 
• I spoke to a friend of mine about cultural fatigue today and she told me that she and her husband made a list of things they're tired of running out of here as compared to Canada: Internet, cooking fuel, electricity, air time for cell phones, hot water, drinking water, etc. I ditto that. 
• Rainwater running off into the gutter, where it simmers in the heat and forms a thick soup of garbage, human and animal waste, etc. And then when the road gets too dusty people in this dry season, people get buckets and toss that sewer water onto the road to keep the dust down. Gross. 
• Isaac is also feeling cultural fatigue, understandably as he is the one who is actually enrolled at a Ugandan university full-time -- taking classes, doing assignments, making friends, eating Ugandan food regularly. This week he feels down and generally irritated. Professors coming late, professors not showing up at all, school schedules changing constantly, and chaotic classes sometimes make him feel like he is wasting his time. 
• Ants. In my peanut butter jar, inside my Tupperware container. 
• People burning grass in the field next to us, burning grass in the swamp a short distance away, burning garbage in the field I walk to on my way to work. Why? And can you at least do it when the wind is blowing away from my house?

So there. My rant is done. I'm not trying to paint a negative picture of Uganda (which I realize I just did). I'm trying to be honest about the process of culture shock, about what it feels like to be thinking thoughts you'd never thought you'd think, about being convinced that "my way is better!"

This is not a racial thing -- it's a culture thing. I'm told the next step of culture shock is acceptance and adjustment. I've also been reading some books by a Nigerian author who writes about culture shock going the other way, moving from Africa to the West, which has been beneficial. 

Needless to say, I'm craving Tim Horton's right now.

resting in the shadow of the almighty

Psalm 91 has become a bit of a theme for the teachers at Heritage this year. For some reason sickness has been more rampant than usual; some of the teachers seem to always have somebody in their families who is feeling sick. When the school community was going through a particularly tough time one of the teachers posted on the staff Facebook page that she felt led to pray Psalm 91 over the school. Little did she know, there were also dark spiritual battles going on at that time with a particular student who was later discovered to be deeply involved in Satanism.

This week I return again to Psalm 91. On Sunday evening I was bit by a stray dog, even though I was on the other side of the street and minding my own business. At first it seemed like more of an inconvenience than anything; being bit meant four trips to the clinic across town (over the course of the next month) to get a total of 8 anti-rabies shots. Some people back home reacted with the "Oh, too bad!" attitude that I had myself. People here in Uganda had different reactions.

The next day I got to hear stories of people here who, unable to afford the medication, die of rabies. A staff member showed me scars on his arm from when he was attacked by a rabid dog; thankfully his father had money to get him the medication, but five other people in his village died. As a Westerner, it is always a little startling to bump into something that can't be solved by modern medicine. "Wait? Rabies has no cure and is almost always fatal in humans?" (Now, the vaccines -- given promptly -- are almost 100% effective and the dog that bit me is not rabid for certain.)

Ever since renewing my commitment to regular prayer two weeks ago, I have felt mentally attacked as well. Negative thoughts, beating myself up, nightmares, feeling weary, and having people in my life do or say hurtful things seem to have popped out of nowhere. My old battle with fear and anxiety has risen up again, triggered by dog bites, school stress, and threats of terrorist attacks in Kampala.

So today I opened my Bible, first to Ephesians 6 where I'm reminded that I "wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against ... the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."

On my break I turned to Psalm 91 and read it again.

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
    will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.[a]
2 I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
    my God, in whom I trust.”

3 Surely he will save you
    from the fowler’s snare
    and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
    nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
    ten thousand at your right hand,
    but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
    and see the punishment of the wicked.

9 If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
    and you make the Most High your dwelling,
10 no harm will overtake you,
    no disaster will come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
    to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
    so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
    you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

14 “Because he[b] loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;
    I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
    I will be with him in trouble,
    I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
    and show him my salvation.”

It's strange how I used to read Psalm 91 metaphorically, but here in Uganda things like cobras, pestilence, and terrors in the night seem much more real. Our world is broken, and I don't believe that I have a guarantee of living in it unscathed, but I know I have a guarantee of God's peace and salvation. He alone is my refuge and my fortress -- where else can I go?