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Wednesday, 2 September 2015

bits of braeside

In my grade 7 English class students read "Where I'm From," a poem by George Ella Lyon. The poem is basically random scraps of memory from her childhood -- different sights, sounds, tastes and feelings. Together, they make an interesting picture. Students have to write their own "Where I'm From" poem, and it's always interesting to read what they share.

I've done this for three years, but haven't written my own yet! Last night lying in bed I decided to do my own English assignment and write a poem about summers as a kid at Braeside camp. It was fun to remember the details, and each one brought back even more memories!


Where I'm From

I am from the churning of pedals
Rubbing of bicycle wheels on the grass.
From the endless Pool Hill and
Riding with no hands
From fresh red scrapes and
Wrinkled white spots
The scars we wore like medals.

I am from one-piece bathing suits and
Slippery brown bathroom tiles.
From pool noodles as horses and
Swirling rounds of ankle tag
From warm puddles on concrete and
Cold cannonball splashes
Wet shadows stretched out and
Disappearing in the sun.

I am from powdery sidewalk chalk
Bumps on my knees
Creaking of swing chains and the
Thump of shoes on park sand.
From Fudgsicles fringed in ice and
Small cuts in the corners of mouths
Sucking the last juice from
Rolled-up Freezies.

I am from tan lines and
A riot of freckles
From bleeding, wrinkled toes.
I am from knotted hair shaded
Green
And streaked white by the sun.
From thin legs stretching from shorts and
Sandals left at the door.

I am from dripping ice cream cones
And sticky marshmallows
Tasting of smoke
From burgers and buns and
Crackling candies --
Fireworks in my mouth.
From paper bag penny candies and
Cereal bowls on the porch.  

I am from contests
From hold-your-breath to
Mouths stuffed with sour candies to
“I see Braeside first!”
I am from watching the big kids and
Beating the little kids –
The middle ones know the taste of
Winning and losing.

I am from the pop of a bonfire
The spell of the
Jumping orange flames.
From “White rabbit! White rabbit!”
To drowsy jokes and secrets
From pit after pit
Circles of murmured conversation and
Separate memories
Flecks of fire
Sprinkled under the stars. 

Sunday, 3 May 2015

hats off to missionary moms

During the past two years, I've had the chance to observe an interesting group of people: missionary moms. I realize that they are all different, but there are certain patterns and characteristics that put these women in a league of their own. 

To be honest, I initially found missionary moms to be a scary group. Last year I was a brand new teacher, fresh out of university, and although my parent/teacher interactions were very positive, it was still a source of insecurity. There was a particular brand of parent known to be feisty: missionary moms. You could often expect direct questions, honest impressions, and a distinct feeling that you weren't completely trusted when one of these ladies sat across the table from you. 

But over the past two years, I've grown to admire this group of women. Their husbands are often the ones who inspire a lot of praise -- pilots, doctors, pastors, directors, Bible school professors. (Although, make no mistake, I've met a lot of professional missionary moms, too -- from doctors to reverends.) But behind these men are women who are busy steering the ship of their families, protecting and watching and nurturing. 

The reason I found these moms so scary is the same reason that I admire them: they're a feisty bunch. They don't play games. When they meet a young new teacher, why should they trust them? Their kids have probably had new teachers dozens of times, and they are protective over their children's education. 

There are several moms who have fought to be able to adopt kids and teenagers, and then constantly fight to bring those kids up to speed academically.  

There's a mom who made a commute of one hour every day in horrible Kampala traffic to get her kids to Heritage, because she knew the kids loved the school and that it was good for them to connect with others. 

There are moms who learn how to drive here. Period. (Something I still can't imagine doing.) 

There are moms who camp with their children for several months in the summer while they travel and fundraise for their mission. 

There was a mom who accidentally hit a boda, found her vehicle surrounded by a mob and dozens of boda drivers, who had to lock her doors and pray while driving straight to the police station. 

There are moms who send me messages or meet me in person asking for advice, the concern for their child whose friend has moved or who is preparing to return to the States etched on their faces. Like moms of all teenagers, they sometimes can't get information out of their kids but want to know that they are okay. 

There are moms who drop their kids off at university and then return to their post on the other side of the world, trying to send care packages or arrange a place for them to stay over Easter. 

There are moms who choose to work outside the home, trying to decide on the best child care option in a foreign culture. 

There are moms who choose to stay home with young children, which can be isolating and difficult in one's own country, never mind a new place. 

There's a mom who posted that her husband, a pilot, will be gone on assignment for one month. She wrote that this is "where they shine" -- she loves to hold down the fort while he is away doing ministry! 

For some moms, accepting a particular post means that they need to figure out how to homeschool their children. 

There are moms who run cooking classes or job skills training out of their homes. 

There are plenty of moms who live abroad with special needs children (biological or adopted). They are constantly smoothing out the path for these kids, making sure that they get what they need. 

There are moms who walk to the market and barter for their family's groceries. 

There are many moms who fight the corrupt electricity company tooth and nail! 

There are moms who kill rats, shrieking with terror, while their husbands are away.

There are moms who pack the birthday candles and banners a year in advance, to make sure that their child will have a special day. 

There was a mom who had to comfort her child, watching them have nightmares and anxiety, because of the riots and upheaval they had witnessed during an election. 

There are moms here who have a very strange sense of humor. So-called 'funny' anecdotes include -- "Remember that time we were bathing the boys and little worms popped out of their heads that had been buried in their scalps?" Or -- "One time we were in a village in Tanzania. Two [of seven!] kids were sick, and we had to use a bucket because it wasn't safe to go outside. They were puking and having diarrhea in the same bucket!" 

Every mom seems to know how to cut hair (is that included in missionary training?). 

I've learned that the moms seem to be the ones who know the ins and outs of international medical insurance. 

There are moms here who really know how to stretch a shilling to keep their families healthy and happy.

There are moms who sneak a mini Christmas tree into their luggage to give their kids a small taste of home when the holidays arrive. 

There are moms here who have to explain what Wal-Mart is to their six-year-old, realizing with a start that their child is separated from their own home culture. 

There are moms who have to return to their home country alone, for months at a time, to receive medical treatment for a disease contracted here. 

There are moms who give birth here in Uganda and raise babies far away from friends and family. 


And the stories I hear from the kids! 

"Yes, one time robbers threw poisoned meat over our wall and our dogs died." 

"Once I was bit by a snake." 

"Here's some photos of when we lived in Chad..." And I see the family standing, surrounded by desert, with their daughters who were so ... little

When the kids share stories, I have to wonder about how the mother felt who was on the other side of that experience. 

I've come to view missionary moms with admiration, a bit of awe, and a touch of questioning their sanity. Sometimes I find them intimidating, as I don't often see a chink in their armor. If I don't hear it from them, I often hear about their humanity and their struggles from their kids.

"When we first moved here, my mom cried all the time." 

"After we left the last place we lived, and came to Uganda, my mom felt really lonely." 

They are human. They can be lonely or depressed. They battle inner fears, not just external challenges. I can tell by the way some of my students talk that their mother is the strongest presence in their lives, and her ups and downs are the thermometer for the whole family. 

Missionary moms are often accustomed to people walking in and out of their lives. This second year of teaching, I've been able to build on the foundation from last year. I've forged new friendships and, once their trust is earned, I've discovered that missionary moms can be the greatest encouragers. They are beautiful and godly, but they aren't passive or merely "nice." They are strong and tenacious, relentless in the pursuit of their call to missions and their responsibility to their families. 

So ... hats off to missionary moms! 












Friday, 27 March 2015

the exciting life of a missionary

As I scroll through my Facebook timeline and my old blog posts, I realize that my life often looks ... strangely interesting. Now, of course everybody's life looks more interesting on Facebook. When we scroll through newsfeeds, we all forget that every post means someone was hunched over staring at a screen.

Documenting the mundane: *someone* (who will remain nameless)
 cannot seem to get the clothes IN the basket. 
But I live in Uganda, and most of my friends do not. On top of that, we recently became "official PAOC missionaries" when we felt we should stay in Uganda after my husband finished his degree (not the original plan!). So, through Facebook and blogs and newsletters, we do paint a picture of life here for people who are back home. Even more intimidating, we strive to send honest "dispatches from the mission field" to people who now support us as missionaries.

Last summer when we visited Canada, I was caught off guard when a few people asked brightly, "So, how was your trip?"

My... trip?

"Where is your tan?!"

Uh ... I work in a classroom every day. It's really not ... Well, it's not that exciting.

I'm afraid there has been some miscommunication, and I'm afraid that a lot of it is my fault. Pictures of exotic birds and monkeys and landscapes can paint a life full of adventure and non-stop novelty. Photos of ministries or volunteering opportunities, along with moving stories, can -- although honest and accurate -- cause people to think that I feel rewarded every day, tangibly "changing" something, seeing an end result.

So I thought I'd describe an average day of whirlwind missions in an exotic location:

5:50 am: Alarm goes off. Fumble for phone, press snooze as quickly as possible.

6:30 am: Stop pressing snooze, get out of bed. Groan to find a crispy dead cockroach by my feet. Scoop it up with toilet paper, wishing Isaac was not in the village all week long so that he could perform his duty of insect control.

Eat something -- anything -- for breakfast. A muffin, a piece of toast, an apple, or a few scoops of yogurt.

Make coffee or tea, fill thermos. Boil water while brushing teeth as not to waste a precious minute.

Student projects -- Medieval manors! 
7:10 - 7:15: Leave the house. As it's wet season, this usually means throwing sandals in my backpack, putting on rubber boots, a jacket and grabbing an umbrella.

7:30: Arrive at school.

Reviewing auditions and making up the cast list for the school musical. 
Spend the day teaching --  giving devotions, prepping, grading, answering emails, calling parents, meeting with the secondary principal, meeting with my professional learning community of other teachers, meeting with student support services, meeting with parents, attending assemblies, writing report card comments, presenting lessons, giving detentions, planning field trips, creating rubrics, stapling things on a bulletin board, refereeing student arguments over the direction of the fan, etc., etc. Common annoyances include printer not working, photocopier backed up, Internet not working, or power going off.

12:10: Lunch. Once a week, it's my turn to get the lunches for the detention room.  That really breaks up the routine and keeps me on my toes.

More teaching.

Special days at school -- Wacky Day! 
3:00: Bell rings. "Stack your chairs, stack your chairs! See you tomorrow. Sam, did you give me that assignment? Whose bag is this? Hey, whose bag? Bye, having a good night!"

Staff meeting, possibly. Or a rehearsal for the school play. This includes running lines with students, listening to students sing the musical numbers, and giving my opinion on costumes made out of margarine containers, cereal boxes and expert use of a glue gun.

4:45 - 5:30: Grading, prepping for the next day.

Muwala interfering with a Saturday marking session ... 
5:30: Arrive back home. Feed the cat. Eat a patched-together dinner for one while watching a show. Lately, that show has been Call the Midwife, thanks to an understanding friend who sent me several seasons on a flash drive with my parents when they visited. Isaac and I often like to watch funny sitcoms when he's home, a fact that someone back in Canada found very surprising and, well, a little shallow. To be there. In Uganda. Watching TV?.... Sorry to disappoint.

Scrolling through Facebook, Pinterest and blogs ... Reading ... Sometimes grading *yech*

7:30: Turn on water heater.

8:00: Shower.

8:30: Call Isaac. Have deep conversations about paying the water bill and, could you pick up cat food and almond extract on your way home this weekend?

9:00: Lights out, bed. As much as I wish I was a more efficient human being, I need my sleep.

Once a week this routine is disrupted by attending our couples' Bible study (which, ironically, only I attend now as Isaac is in the village all week). This means I'm either going to eat at someone else's house, or hosting 25 people at my house. Sometimes I take a walk in the evening to pick up a few groceries, eyeing stray dogs warily and avoiding getting hit by bodas. About once or twice a week I hang out with one of my friends, either at her place or mine -- and my friends laugh at how I politely kick them out or politely begin to leave promptly around 8. I'm very clear -- I need my sleep. School night bedtime is not negotiable for this teacher.

This is not to complain. This is not to bore you (sorry). I love my job, I love teaching. I love teaching missionary kids and Ugandan kids that I believe will have a great influence in the future. I love supporting missionary families -- MAF pilots, orphanage directors, Bible school professors, church planters. Sometimes I feel a little restless to be out "on the front lines," sometimes I envy Isaac's life in the village (which, let me tell you, is also full of un-exciting hours -- hence his developed obsession with birdwatching), but I really feel that right now I am where God wants me to be. I believe that what I'm doing is building the Kingdom of God.

I'm sure many of you can relate -- whether your calling at the moment is raising kids or cooking at a church camp (why does that one spring to mind, I wonder?) or working at a bank or standing at a cash register or teaching at a college or cleaning people's teeth or setting up chairs before youth group. There's always the hum-drum of daily life, the mundane tasks that no one includes in a newsletter.

And it's the same over here, across the ocean in Uganda.


But sometimes the day-to-day is where I find the sweetest gems <3 










Tuesday, 24 March 2015

wounded

When I was in high school, I found a book called something along the lines of Twenty Things Every Christian Should Read. The book had excerpts from 20 great Christian thinkers -- an efficient way to pretend you had read more than you had. I bought the book, and read from Luther and Calvin and Lewis in bite-size pieces. But one excerpt that has stuck with me was by Julian of Norwich. I can't remember it very clearly, and I don't have the book here in Uganda to refer to, but I remember the powerful phrase -- she asked the Lord for "the wound of compassion."

A wound?

I'm slowly realizing how accurate the metaphor is. Compassion isn't a warm and fuzzy feeling. It's a wound, painful and bleeding. It's taking up a problem that isn't yours, attaching yourself to someone else's situation, allowing your own heart to be broken. I've seen compassion lead privileged people to fight for orphans in babies' homes. I've seen healthy people be driven to visit those in hospital. I've thought of my grandmother, recently deceased, who could have kept herself in a warm Christian cocoon but instead reached out to immigrants and inner-city kids. And the ultimate example: compassion drove Christ to the cross on our behalf, to reconcile us to God.

Last week, I met people who have tied themselves to one of the most heartbreaking causes I've seen yet in this country. Along with two friends, I accompanied the team at Sixty Feet on a visit to a children's prison outside of Kampala.

Children's prisons? What does that even mean? The first time I heard the term was a few months after arriving in Uganda in 2013. One of my students, it turned out, had actually been in one. The student had been picked up and loved by Sixty Feet, a Christian organization that reaches these kids who are literally locked up and forgotten. Ever since then I had wanted "to see" what a children's prison was, and what Sixty Feet was all about.

A children's prison houses, of course, convicted criminals who are under 18 years old. A few are 19 or 20, if their sentence slightly spilled over into adulthood. But there are more than just convicted criminals there. Child beggars, often from northern Uganda, are often picked up and dumped in these prisons when city officials "clean up" the streets. Sometimes kids who are hard to handle are also abandoned here.

I can't tell you the history of children's prisons. I can't explain in detail how they function. I don't understand why some of the kids from the north -- even ones whose families have been contacted by Sixty Feet -- can't legally be resettled or put in foster homes.

What I can tell you is what I saw in one afternoon. I'm sorry to readers who work in children's prisons and may shake their head at my limited understanding or possible misconceptions. I'm not qualified to explain the topic, but for many Canadian friends I've had an experience that is not possible for them. So all I can do is share my experience.

I saw very few adults. It was a little like Lord of the Flies. The only adult that is on the premises to care for the younger children (kids as young as 2 years old get dumped here) is someone that Sixty Feet actually hired. When I asked two boys if the kids are kind to each other, they laughed and said no. I can't imagine the pecking order in such a place, with no adults to curb the cruelty of troubled kids and teens.

I saw the dining area crowded with kids, singing and drumming with the visitors. I saw the Sixty Feet team, along with another visiting missionary, preach to the children in Luganda and in English. I saw peeling posters on the walls with Bible verses about the love of God. I saw a young man in prison give his testimony with thanksgiving and joy.

I saw the younger children curl up and fall asleep during the informal service. Different little girls grabbed at my hands, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being "claimed" by them. I sat with one little girl on a bench, her head in my lap, and she fell fast asleep. I tickled her arm gently, remembering how my mother used to do that for me, angry that she doesn't have a mother around to protect her.

I saw a little boy watch me with the girl on my lap. He tugged on my friend's hand and, without using any words, clearly communicated that he wanted her to do the same for him. Why did they fall asleep, I wondered, seeing another little one fast asleep on the back of a Sixty Feet worker. No bed time? Do they feel safe with us, safe enough to let their guard down and sleep?

I saw boys with shining black backs, no shirts on. "The ones with no shirts signify that they are new kids picked up off the street. Keeping them with no shirts on lets them be easily identified as being new, and they sleep in a separate area," I heard.

I saw that the majority of the older kids were boys. Many looked hardened and tough. And I looked at the little girls and I wondered what that meant for them.

I saw the area where the girls sleep. Few beds, all of them taken by bigger girls. "The kids here aren't kind to the small ones, they take the beds." And the little girls sleep in a huge room on cold concrete. I saw chickens on the beds, clucking and pecking at the pathetic mattresses. I saw chicken and goat feces smeared on the floor. Apparently, Compassion donated 300 mattresses last December. I didn't see one -- they have disappeared. I stood on the concrete, frantically calculating how many bunk beds we could fit in our spare room at home, but being told that these small kids from the north can't be resettled with families or put in foster homes even if they were available. A frustrated desire to keep these little girls safe when they lie down to sleep.

I saw the area where the boys sleep. More beds than the girls have, rooms divided based on hierarchy and seniority and punishment. I saw the solitary confinement cell, where new kids are sometimes put and runaways are beaten.

I didn't see love or care, or anyone protecting that little girl I carried who was so painfully thin, wrists like a little bird's. The only ones asking questions, knowing the kids by name, feeling frustration on their behalf were the Sixty Feet workers.

Afterward I went out for burgers with my two friends. Trying to process the day. But the reality didn't swell up and burst in me until later, crying hot tears and feeling angry and broken and powerless.

I didn't see any clear solutions. I didn't see a 1-2-3 step plan I could do.

The only avenues I can think of?

Check out Sixty Feet. Check out Emily Ryan's blog, one of the social workers for the organization who is bringing Christ into that prison.

Raise awareness. Read and question and feel pain and look at the photos my friend took while there.

Pray.

Whether it's about this or another issue God has placed on your heart, it's a worthwhile question to ask: Are we willing to be wounded?
An ironic sign in the boys' area.

The girls' sleeping room.

Chickens on one of the beds in the girls' quarters.


Isolation cell. 

Dining area. 

Kids praying during the service led by Sixty Feet volunteers.

My friend Sarah with one of the newly arrived boys. 

Where the little girls sleep ...  

Boys' sleeping area. 








Friday, 20 February 2015

a poem for grandma

My Grandma Miles is a hard person to put down into words... This is a poem I wrote after she passed away this past week. It's a bit long, trying to get down some of the memories and lessons she left with me. Dad decided to share it at her funeral as part of his tribute to her. I know that,as she pursued Christ, she gave many others inspiration and an example to learn from. 

A lot of people say that they believe
There is more to this world,
More than what the eye can see.
I do.
But sometimes people put that belief on a dusty shelf
Brought out for church and funerals.
I can. 
My grandmother was rare.
The belief that there was something more was the window
That filtered and coloured everything.
The only way to view her life,
The only way to understand her reasons,
Is to press against, peer through the glass of that belief.
Even when she put her hand to daily tasks,
To raising five children,
To keeping the linoleum floor clean
In a busy farmhouse,
The chores were done in the shadow of
Marantha --
The promise that there is something more.
Daily meals prepared
Dinner always finished with Scripture and
Kneeling in prayer.
The mundane was lit with
The reminder that there is something more.
The reason she was called to holiness,
The reason she wasn't afraid to say
What she felt was right.
She believed that there was something more;
Someone else she would answer to,
Someone else she was chasing
More than mere people to impress.
The reason that she could befriend teenagers,
Spend time with people whose rough edges
Grate on others' nerves.
Visit hospital rooms and shut-ins
Pile sometimes foul-mouthed children onto
Church buses,
Smiling and handing out cookies.
Only many years unveiling  
The teary thanks from adults who said that
Her smile each Sunday
Was the only one freely given
All week. 
She believed that there was something more,
Something more to their surface appearance,
Something more important than her comfort,
Someone else who had died for them.
Us grandchildren were kissed and hugged but
There were many other people to reach,
And on youth retreats (yes, on youth retreats!)
I often heard others call her Grandma and
It was so normal, and we were so well-loved --
I never thought to feel a twinge of jealousy.
She shared herself with many,
And I saw her pray the Holy Spirit, wrinkled hands on the
Heads of my high school friends --
Caught up in something more.
In those last few years, her sharp mind
And strong body began
To slip.
My husband and I were headed to
Uganda,
--  Africa! --
Nervous of the unknown,
Stopping in to visit her before leaving
Wondering if it would be the last good-bye?
Wondering if she would know who we were?
And in the hospital bed
Thin legs under white sheets
Gripping my hand her frail body filled up with
The Spirit
Like air, like water
A leaf blowing in a wind.
She prayed protection over us,
She prayed in tongues
She prayed with a knowledge that could not
Be explained
That surprised even Grandpa
We saw a withered body and wandering mind
But
There was something more.
In her final days -- sleeping, shallow
Panting breaths
Even over Skype I could see the room
Around her beginning to fade,
To pale and to shrink,
Another reality coming into focus.
The glitter of a gem-studded throne
A voice like cracking thunder
Angels collapsing, crying,
"Holy, Holy, Holy"
As steadily as the pouring of ocean waves
Over sand.
The Lamb, the King
Alpha and
Omega
Standing strong in
Furious glory.
And now she has arrived, and I know,
---- I can guarantee  
She has already flung every crown at His feet
Because she has walked the truth that
He is worth something more.
As she slips from this life and runs and breathes
Deeply of eternity
She tells me one more time
                   even from that shining shore –
Reminds me,
            -- Let me never for a moment forget --

That there is something more.