gift

On Monday night we had a lovely barbecue at Heritage House with all of the new teachers and returning teachers who have already arrived.

At the barbecue I met a small four-year old boy named Gift, who is deaf and has cerebral palsy. He is from the babies' home close by, where one of the teachers (Cheryl Lynn) is very involved. Previously, the thirty to forty children (aged 0-5) at the babies' home never went outside the compound walls. As a result, they were terrified of their surroundings and didn't know how to function in the city. This also meant that the workers never got a break.

Cheryl Lynn pushed for this to change, and now each worker takes two children home to their village for a month or so. Last year over Christmas, Gift was one of the children left over because no worker wanted to take him home with them due to his special needs. Cheryl Lynn offered to have him stay with her family (she has seven children of her own!) over the holidays. Over that time, Cheryl Lynn's house help, a Ugandan woman, decided she wanted to adopt Gift. While this woman goes through the adoption process and Cheryl Lynn helps her get set up to care for Gift, he is staying with Cheryl Lynn's family. This is how Gift ended up at the staff barbecue.

Gift's story shows another layer of our experience here. It is hard to grapple with the desperate poverty that surrounds us here. When we go into town we are told to ignore beggars -- giving money is not sustainable and will only cause mayhem. When I watched commercials in Canada about "the hungry children of Africa" did I think I would sidestep a young boy holding out his hand for money? Did I think I would fix my eyes ahead of me when women holding babies try to beg through the bus window? I'm told some of the women actually borrow babies to beg with, but even that sad fact points to real desperation.

While I know that my first year of teaching will consume most of my time, and that by teaching at Heritage I am helping missionaries be able to stay in Uganda, I would like to volunteer in some capacity, to feel that I am helping in a meaningful, concrete way. One of the teachers visits the slums every Saturday and helps with a Bible lesson and feeding program, while Cheryl Lynn has offered to bring me to the babies' home.

I keep referring back to my experience in Ghana (I'm sure Isaac is getting sick of me mentioning it!). While there are many similarities, there are a lot of differences as well. In Ghana, I was in a small town. Here, we are on the outskirts of Kampala. This means we have access to things I didn't have in Ghana (like this Internet at home!), but, like any city, it also means that we can't possibly get to know everyone and, as a result, it feels more dangerous. 

From my immediate experience it also seems that the poverty here is much more desperate. I don't remember seeing so many people openly begging, even in Accra. I don't know if this is true, because my experience in Ghana is limited and I've only been here for five days! Just my own thoughts ... We've been so preoccupied with getting ourselves comfortable here, that meeting Gift was a sharp reminder of the greater needs that surround us. 

the sun comes up

I feel that I should write another blogpost as an update on my last one. The last blog post, written during a dip in the roller coaster of emotions, is not the entire story of how we are doing here. It's amazing how much has changed in less than a week. A week ago, we were in Hamilton packing up those last few things -- crazy!

When we arrived, we felt like fish out of water. We were afraid of so many worst-case scenarios. Everyday parts of life here -- like having a wall around your house, a night guard, having to watch your phones and purses -- made us very fearful. Now here I sit looking out the door at the barbed-wire topped gate and I realize that it has stopped giving me a gut reaction of anxiety.

Isaac walking with our goods from the market -- sugar cane and a fan! 

In one week, we've gone from total culture shock to things somehow becoming familiar. Today while I was working at the school Isaac did some shopping on his own and has gotten to know the local market ladies! We've been amazed at how trying to greet someone in Lugandan (even when we butcher the pronunciation) totally changes the dynamic. Solemn faces break into big smiles, and suddenly impoverished African children can laugh at an adult foreigner who is able to laugh at themselves.

On a practical note, greeting someone in Lugandan also sends a message that you are not merely a tourist, that you know what you're doing (yeah right!) and that you won't be easily taken advantage of. It's become a habit now to ask shopkeepers and boda drivers if we are being given the "best price" or the muzungu (white person) price. That usually gets a laugh -- because they know it's true!

The orientation for new Heritage teachers started this past Monday. It's been great to have a routine to fall into. When I asked if Isaac could tag along to some of the sessions (most of them dealing with how to navigate life in Uganda), the director enthusiastically told me he was invited to every session he wanted to attend, including all the meals! On Monday and Tuesday we were taken into town and treated to lunch, and they refused to allow us to pay for Isaac's meal. He has been welcomed into the Heritage community with open arms.

In addition to feeling more comfortable with Ugandans, we are becoming very close with other teachers here. Today the family arrived who will be living on the other side of our duplex, a young couple who taught here last year, along with their eight month old son.  We continue to fall in love with the family that lives in the compound next door. While I expected most of the teachers here to be retired, most of them are very young. There are several who are in their first year of teaching (like me!) and the "oldest" among us have elementary school-aged children! There are two houses (about twenty minutes' walk from here) where the single young female teachers live. The little pockets of teachers' compounds and houses, all within walking distance of the school, creates a very close community.

Today in our session about transitions and culture shock we were given some tips on coping strategies (also to keep in mind for missionary kids or other international kids who may end up in our classrooms):

- exercise regularly
- be kind to yourself; the occasional treat will help ease the transition!
- acknowledge your feelings and the feelings of others; don't bury them
- be realistic; don't tell yourself (or someone else) it will be all better tomorrow!
- when you feel self-pity, do something for someone else

Above all, do not isolate yourself -- something you may want to do in a moment of depression. It is crucial to reach out to others, to bind yourself to a community, and to find others you can share your experience with. The Heritage staff have become this for us, and we are so grateful that God has been some of these new friends in our path!

Getting used to the boda-bodas ... evening enjoying them! 

jet lagged -- 1:30am

Well, day 2 in Africa has come to an end. 

So far, our days have been great. Yesterday we were greeted at the airport by two Heritage teachers, ready with bright smiles and warm hugs. Although we were exhausted from two overnight flights and a day layover in London, we were both wide-eyed and excited on the drive to our apartment, taking in all the new sights. We got home, we unpacked, we slept (finally!), we visited the school (found wifi!) and in the evening we ate dinner with other Heritage staff. Terri, one of the school leaders, had even brought two Costco bags of chocolate chips back from Vancouver with her so she could serve chocolate chip cookies with ice cream. (Apparently chocolate chips are one of those things that are almost impossible to get here.)

Over dinner we met several more teachers, most of them single girls in their twenties and early thirties. I was relieved to find that they were “normal” – interesting and honest, making me hope we’ll become fast friends. We went around the table sharing our stories of how we ended up here in Uganda – from Holland, Tennessee, Texas, Vancouver and Britain.

At the end of the night, Terri called a boda driver for us. A boda-boda is a little motorcycle that is a popular mode of public transit here in Uganda. Boda-bodas veer in between traffic, sit at street corners waiting for passengers, and I have already seen somebody holding a metal bedframe sideways while riding one (?). Kembe, one of the drivers Terri knows in the area, picked us up since it is not safe to walk home at night. I took Terri up on her offer of a helmet and Isaac and I climbed on the back behind Kembe. Even though it was only a few minutes through the neighbourhood, and even though Kembe drove slowly, I have to admit my knuckles were white hanging on to Isaac and the back of the boda for dear life.

[Don’t worry – while Isaac and I will probably use bodas around the neighbourhood, we’ll avoid using them on any busy road!)

Today we slept in till 9:30, enjoyed tea on the porch, and completed our unpacking. We walked to the school campus (only about ten minutes) to meet up with Bill and Sharon, a couple who had invited us to their place for lunch. Bill and Sharon will both be working at Heritage and their three children will be attending as students. We had a delicious lunch of rice, beef and fresh mango and pineapple for dessert (deeelicious).

Bill informed us that he had set aside his afternoon to show us around if we were interested – we were! He would also be guiding our neighbours, a family newly arrived from Tennessee. The group of us trekked around town with Bill as our guide. He showed us how to take the mantatu buses, how to negotiate boda-boda fares, how to greet people in Lugandan, and where to go to get what we needed. Isaac and I feel so much more oriented now, and we really enjoyed getting to know our new neighbours. (I’ll have to describe them another day – what a clan!)

By the time we got back from wandering around the market and shops on Ggaba Road, we were exhausted. We unpacked our groceries and supplies, showered and relaxed for the rest of the evening.

Which brings us to … our nights.

Our days (all two of them!) have been great, but our nights have not. Something seems to settle in on us at night – homesickness, fear, uncertainty. The fact that we have a night guard, and are cautioned not to go beyond our compound walls after dark brings home the reality of risk in Uganda. The jet lag also has us wide awake in the middle of the night, listening to the strange sounds coming in through the window. Last night we fell asleep quickly at 10pm, only to wake up at 11! We finally gave up tossing and turning and watched a movie together. We didn’t fall back asleep until 3am.

Tonight, Isaac has finally fallen to sleep but I haven’t slept yet (it’s around 1:30am, and I am not a night owl!). When night started to fall, we both started to wonder why we’re here. All the preparation, all the mental energy of culture shock, all the homesickness … remind me why we’re here? Our feelings have gone up and down so much in the past 24 hours alone – from “Yup, this’ll be good as a one-year thing” to “I could see us staying for longer” to “I want to go home.”

It seems a little ridiculous to have homesickness set in so soon, but I think it’s a different mindset when you know that you’re here for ten months. It’s daunting, having all of that time ahead of you. I think the hardest part will be this first bit, before we become familiar with people and places, and before we fall into a routine.

I’m thankful that we have each other, and that we already have people around us who can relate and who are honest enough to share their own struggles with culture shock. I’m thankful that we can pray about it – the only place where I can bring gnawing anxiety and get a measure of peace.

Now you might be thinking, “What are you complaining about? Playing the martyr, acting like some tragedy has been put on you? You went there, you agreed, you pursued. Boo-hoo – you’re a teacher in Africa! Only your dream come true!”

Okay, maybe you weren’t thinking that. Maybe that’s my inner voice scolding me.

[sigh]

I’m getting tired now, I can’t let this opportunity to sleep pass me by.

three hours in london

Well, we're off. For Isaac and I, our "year abroad" begins today. If you're wondering what the heck I'm talking about  or if you don't know why we're going to Uganda (AND if you actually care to find out) you can check out my previous post about the details here. 

I didn't post much about our two months at home in Ontario (we were busy!). The short version: we had a great time with friends and family and I've cried a lot the past few days saying good-bye to my people.

Now we are en route to Uganda --- looking forward to the next adventure, allowing ourselves to get excited, but also taking Gravol to force us to sleep on the flights.

We had a long layover today in London at Heathrow airport, so we planned to take advantage of the opportunity to explore the city. Our flight was delayed this morning, so instead of arriving at 8:30 am we finally got off the plane close to 11am. Despite the delay, we were still determined to "do London."

We took the underground into the city centre (17 pounds for both of us to buy a day travel pass) and spent some time walking around. When we first arrived, we were thrilled to be there and quite sure that the hour-long subway ride was worth it. We got off at Picadilly Circus, and were amazed by the double-decker buses, gorgeous white stone buildings, statues and red telephone booths.

However ... after about two hours we both hit a wall. It's 34 degrees in London today, and while we were thankful for the sunshine the heat did not help our sleep deprived bodies, nor our jittery stomachs. We both just kind of ... wilted. Literally. On the sidewalk. We draped our stuff and ourselves on stone steps and shared a Sprite.

While we both thought London was a great city, we figured, "What's the point of pushing ourselves if we feel like garbage?" So we took a few more pictures, skipped Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey (even though we were SO close!), and hopped back on the subway to head back to the airport. All in all, we still think the short visit was worth it. But dragging ourselves around for a few more hours just because we're "here" and risking throwing up in public? It would not have been worth it.

After cooling off, changing and getting a Starbucks we're feeling much better relaxing here at the airport. We love you, London, but we'll have to enjoy you another time!

And the thought that haunts us now: We are going to melt in Uganda.

(Note: photo documentation of our three hours in London to follow in a future post -- having trouble with it now)

when old people sing

This week is seniors' camp at Braeside, the Christian camp I have gone to since I was a child.

I've gone to a few of the services, and I have to say, a part of me missed that old-time Pentecostal flavour. We loved our church in Halifax, but a band of young adults in a movie theatre isn't quite the same as tambourines shaking or wrinkled arms waving hankies at a camp meeting.

I notice a few things about the old people at Braeside:

1. First, they bring their Bibles to church. Even though the speaker reads from the Bible, and even though they have most of the verses he mentions memorized, they faithfully lug their black KJVs in.
2. Along with Bibles, many of them also bring cushions to help them endure the hard wooden pews. Smart thinking, because a lot of them will be there for quite awhile. 
3. They sing really loud. It's not so much about sitting back and listening to the guy on stage as it is about -- surprise, surprise -- worshipping. 
4. They know a lot of songs. And every verse to every song, verses I didn't even know existed. My husband Isaac is doing powerpoint, and finds it difficult to follow along with the singer or preacher, who spontaneously burst into another Gospel tune that no one has heard in decades. He finally just gives up searching for the song, realizing that all of the seniors there know it off by heart anyway. 
5. The seniors love their preaching, not just their teaching. A calm guy with square glasses sitting on a stool, carefully flipping through his iPad notes? They'd rather take a sweaty, red-faced preacher in a tie waving his Bible and literally jumping on the front pews any day. (That's what the guy did last night -- jump on the front pews.) 
6. They assume they are participants in the service. They shout out encouragement to the preacher, stand up and clap when they feel like it, or pipe up and add to the sermon. 
7. Pretty much every service ends in an altar call. Again, the assumption that they are participants, that what was spoken about can be experienced today. 
8. They keep Kleenex on the front pew for said altar calls, and they aren't afraid to use them.  

I sat between my grandparents last night. Right as the preacher was finishing a string of punchy points and snippets of verses, my grandma squeezed my knee. 

"That brother, that brother sitting beside you," she said, motioning to my grandpa, who was nodding and saying "Amen." "He actually believes all of this stuff." She laughed and then said, "And he's right, too, you know!" 

Although the style is different than what I've become used to, you can't deny that it's the same Jesus who is being praised, and the same Spirit that is present. There is something very sweet, very significant about a group of people praising God after they've walked with Him for decades. 

Sometimes I wish they'd turn the microphone around so I could hear the stories from those old-timers and find out what, in their life, has prompted them to belt out "Great is Thy Faithfulness" with such sincerity? 

another angle on grace

Grace is one of those words that can quickly become a filler word, a "Christianese" term that floats around like a cloud, nothing but a ball of fluff. We take grace for granted, or fix it into one simple formula, one expression.

Grace is not a one-time experience. It's not only the doorway into the Christian life, not simply the initial baptism into a relationship with Christ. It is the foundation, the lifeblood of our walk with Him. It is the soil and the sun and the water for a growing Christian.

I hope I am always baffled, always taken by the grace of God. Too often I am comfortable with grace or fail to see what's so "amazing" about it.

Lately I have felt myself drifting from God. In the midst of a move and the busyness of visiting friends and family here in Ontario, one of the first things to slip is my own devotional time. I'm not going to pretend that I was perfectly faithful before, but when a few weeks go by and I haven't cracked open my Bible I start to feel it. And -- when I really stop and think -- it's been more than a few weeks!

When I neglect to refresh myself spiritually, I start to feel a little disoriented. I cave into anxiety more easily and become discouraged, irritable, impatient. And then I start to feel guilty, which is ridiculous because it only makes me avoid one-on-one time with God.

I finally got hungry enough that I sat down and started reading several chapters of the Bible, thinking:
"I'm dry and disconnected? Okay, I'll fix this. I'll pull up my bootstraps and really get into God's Word."

And in the order of my reading, I was brought to Psalm 80. Threaded throughout this chapter is the repetition of a few phrases, just in case (like me) you didn't get it the first time:

"Turn us again to yourself, O God. Make your face shine down upon us. Only then will we be saved." (v. 3)

"Turn us again to yourself, O God of Heaven's Armies. Make your face shine down upon us. Only then will we be saved." (v. 7)

"Turn us again to yourself, O Lord God of Heaven's Armies. Make your face shine down upon us. Only then will we be saved." (v. 19)

I was also struck by verse 18: "Revive us so we can call on your name once more." Or, in the KJV (love my parallel version!): "quicken us, and we will call upon thy name."

What a mystery! We need the grace of God to turn us to the grace of God. While there is something to be said for spiritual discipline, I cannot stir my own spirit. I can put myself in His Word, or adjust the conditions, but I can't do it on my own.

God has forged his relationship with me by paying for my sin and clothing me in righteousness. He sustains his relationship with me by turning me toward him.

This also gives me faith for the people in my life that I am praying will turn to God. I can try to point them to Christ, but I don't need to agonize about what I did or didn't do, what I said clearly or what I miscommunicated. This is God's work, not mine.

Turn us to yourself, O Lord God of Heaven's Armies. Make your face shine down upon us. Only then will we be saved.

review: girls like us

I just finished reading Rachel Lloyd’s memoir, Girls Like Us. Lloyd, originally from England, became entrapped in the commercial sex industry while living in Germany as a runaway teenager. While in Germany she broke out of “the life” through the church community at a nearby military base. She moved to the United States as a missionary, and eventually started her own non-profit organization, GEMS, an outreach to girls who are in the sex industry in New York City.

In Girls Like Us, Lloyd frames general information about the sex industry around her own personal experience. Chapters focus on different aspects of the industry: recruitment, reasons girls stay, pimps, johns, cops, what enables women to leave, etc. Each chapter begins with her Lloyd’s own experience, and then launches into the experiences of other girls at GEMS, supported by psychological and sociological research.

This book is a powerful one. Lloyd’s passion burns off the pages. I became emotionally connected to the different girls’ stories that Lloyd shared, as well as her own healing process that she shared so honestly. At the same time, I learned a lot of information about the reality of the sex industry.

One of Lloyd’s major points is that we need to stop viewing exploited girls as criminals, and start viewing them as victims. While for many people the word “prostitute” conjures up surly, drug-addicted, “loose” women the reality is that the average age of entry for prostitution in the United States is thirteen! When you hear “teenage prostitute,” think of a twelve year old. An eleven year old.

Lloyd raises the important point: when a prostitute is from a foreign country, why is it so much easier for us to see her as a victim, even if she made the “choice” to move here?

Although Lloyd doesn’t focus on spiritual conversion, and it is not the central mission of GEMS (although prayer and faith play a major role), I was so encouraged to read how it was so clearly the love of God that plucked her out of the sex industry. I was humbled, reminded how Jesus loved the shunned, the prostitutes, the sinners, the broken, the oppressed. Guess what? He still does, and we’re called to do the same.

Some quotes from Girls Like Us:

“In one way or another, through abuse, neglect, abandonment, we’d [exploited girls] been primed for predatory men, for an industry that would use us up and spit us out.” (27)

“I find that there is a common belief from people asking about my work, that sexually exploited girls must be drug addicted, and that it is the addiction that fuels the exploitation. Yet. . . I’ve found very few girls who are addicted to ‘hard’ drugs and for whom the addiction came prior to the exploitation. . . Girls weren’t drug addicted, they were love addicted, and that, I’d learn, is far harder to treat.” (38)

“Of course many children who grow up in challenging economic situations thrive, but the reality is that far too many don’t, and too many children’s futures can be determined by zip code.” (40)

“Children are vulnerable just by virtue of being children. . . Pimps understand child psychology and adolescent development well enough to know the dynamics at play and skillfully manipulate most children…into a situation where they can be forced or coerced into being sold for sex.” (46)

“Prostitution is viewed as a victimless crime, a statement that denies the humanity or victimhood of the women and girls involved.” (126)

[When Lloyd decided to leave her pimp:] “But the thought that maybe I have a greater purpose leads me to a small nondenominational American church the following Sunday, and that sets me on a path that will result in my walking away from the life two months later and never going back. This inexplicable belief in God’s love for me at a critical moment sustains me over the next few months, and ultimately over the next decade.” (171)

“ ‘Rescuing’ trafficking victims may sound like a fantastic idea, but talk to any service provider who works with these children and youth, whether in India, Cambodia, Ukraine, Atlanta, or Brooklyn, and you’ll hear that the reality is a little more complex. Victims rarely rush gratefully into your open arms; they’re not immediately compliant with shelter regulations; they don’t trust the people trying to help them. They’re tired and traumatized and hurting and lonely and depressed and scared and to them, missing the life is as normal as breathing. Healing is a messy, complicated process that’s rarely linear.” (163)

“Domestic violence is often framed as a result of uncontrollable passion, leading girls to believe that men who don’t hit are apathetic and uncaring. It’s not surprising that so many teenage girls accept violence as part of their relationships – violence as an expression of love.” (199)

“The sex industry isn’t about choice, it’s about lack of choices.” (219)