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 

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.