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. 

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.