Before It’s Too Late

I received a late-night call a couple of weeks ago from my friend Kelsey. She had some sad news. One of our former classmates had hung himself in a closet with computer cables when he was at a party… they didn’t find him until several hours later.

I’d known Tony since middle school. For as long as I’d know him, he wore his straight brown hair at least as long as his shoulders. The times I saw him were some of the most chill times I’d experienced in high school; Tony was never in a hurry and he was always very personable. That may have had something to do with his frequent drug use—I can’t recall a time when it didn’t seem like he wasn’t at least partially stoned—but I doubt it…I think it ran much deeper than that.

Despite his less that decent “image,” Tony frequently hung out with me, Alicia, and Erika at school—interesting because we were considered Christian “goody-two-shoes” by most people’s standards.

When I first found out about Tony’s suicide, I handled it pretty well. My thought processing of his death pretty much stopped, however, when I passed a rope hanging loosely from a tree that night. I felt inhuman; when I fully realized the depth and consequences of his situation, I described my revelation to my class. I found myself choked up behind tears as I wrapped up my statement.

Two weeks later I finally felt the full weight of Tony’s death as if I was being pressed in at all sides. My heart started racing, my even breathing morphed into a desperate and strained heaving, my hands shook involuntarily, the room spun in my vision, and my limbs throbbed as every muscle in my body had seized up.

My temporarily hysterical physical response to Tony’s passing stemmed from my friend Danielle’s innocent comment made during our Faith and Learning Seminar: she said she needed to have the “faith conversation” with one of her friends. She said she’d known her for a long time, and that she knew she was a Christian, but she’d never talked to her about her faith.

I don’t think I ever had a “faith conversation” with Tony either. Questions flooded my mind…Where is Tony now? Did I ever invite him to church? Did I ever even have a serious conversation with him about my love for Jesus? What led him to take his own life? I know it’s not my fault that Tony is gone, but I know I loved him very much, more than I realized before.

I don’t know if Tony ever found Jesus, and I’ll never know what would have happened if I’d been able to fully convey what loving Jesus really meant to me. But there is one thing that I do know…. I hope I never pass up that chance again. People have told me for years that we should share our faith with our friends today because we don’t know if we’ll have a tomorrow or “maybe you’ll be the only one that can lead that friend to Jesus,” but it’s never been more real to me than it is right now.

I will never be one to have conversations with people just to win their souls; I’m still a firm believer that first you have to show them you love them for who they are with a love that comes with no agenda, but I also trust that God will present those necessary opportunities to talk to those people about Him in His timing.

Music Cures All Heartbreak

Music cures all heartbreak.

The day was one like any other: I woke up, got dressed, greeted the cool morning air with a shawl, and met the crunch of red dirt with a smile. I got to school, grabbed my laptop, and set up my work station; today is homework day.

After setting up I begin to ponder over my experiences, looking for something worth writing three pages about. How do you pick a topic when almost every minute of your life seems new and exciting? Finally, the words start flowing out of me in the form of elaborate sentences.

Everyday I look forward to lunch… it’s like a benchmark in my day.

Come on now dear, you’ve made it this far, you’re almost to the happy part of your day.

It’s raining outside. I love the rain.

Suddenly I’m lost inside my heart. I never know how it happens, but it always does. My day is beautiful and full of valuable experiences yet my heart gets caught in the net of home at least once every day.

The storm rages inside of me.

My fist is clenching my heart, or is that a massage?

Do peanut butter and jelly really go together?

Finally… it’s lunch time.

The cafeteria on the hill is full of dark-skinned people and fresh outdoor air. It’s rice and beans again today. The servers each throw a heap of rice and beans on my yellow plastic plate and I walk to a table. I look into the faces of my American friends as they talk excitedly about going bungee jumping and white water rafting. I gaze out to the hills that I can see clearly from the dining hall; they are a little hazy today but I can still see up to the top of the lusciously green landscape.

Not long after lunch I head home with Laura and Liz for our cooking extravaganza. After dropping our things off at the house we head out to the market. Even walking down the noisy and busy street I’m still pondering over missing home.

I miss my two long-haired, white, miniature horse-sized dogs. I miss hearing my dad talk about his predictions on when the ice on the lake will fully fall out to give way to the growth of spring. I miss going to the basement to watch movies and eat popcorn with my mom. I miss wrestling with my brother on the rug in the middle of the living room floor. I miss cheddar cheese and ice cold milk. I miss the smell of my painting and ceramics studios. I miss being able to walk outside by myself at night. I miss being ridiculously busy. I even miss the snow. . .

I try to yank myself out of my ponderings but I find it very difficult until I’m able to distract myself with grocery tasks and sweet orange pineapple juice.

We have Silvia, Laura and Liz’s host sister, with us to help price things at the market. She’s silent all the while except for select moments of bartering or laughter. I can’t help but notice that there’s a pure, innocent joy and love in her eyes that simply can’t be explained. My quiet spirit finally feels at home in this culture that doesn’t require much verbal communication; I love not feeling obligated to say anything.

With every step I take I’m pulling out of my pit and when we finally get home I’m in a supreme state of joy as we’re singing random songs and playing Egyptian Ratscrew. In the final moments of the game it’s just Silvia and I; we are laughing as I keep slapping the face cards while she seems to get every set of doubles. Just watching her smiling face makes my heart skip with joy; she is so beautiful.

As the rest of the group starts on the food, Laura and I run a final errand for ice-cream, milk, and passion fruit. When we return I immediately dive into some tomatoes and then find myself in fistfuls of meat. As I work I sing at the top of my lungs, laugh in-between verses with Silvia, and bust out sporadically in dance—seems fitting as the glow of the pink dining room walls shout “girl power” along with the cooking and Kelly Clarkson playing on Laura’s laptop.

I continue digging into the meat and suddenly find myself envisioning the two men cranking the chunk of red meat through a metal grinder… but before I get too overwhelmed I pretend I’m playing with the mud I find so inviting in the early months of spring back home in Minnesota.

Finally, the meatballs are ready for the pot. As Liz cooks everything on the one charcoal stove I wait in the living room for my turn to be useful again. The boys are playing various types of African drums and before I know it I have one in my lap too. I start playing to the sound of the African drum beat that pulses in my being… I’m liberated. Home falls away and all I see and feel is Africa for the rest of the evening.

Our meal of spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, and avocado is a tasty success with the family. Just after I finish eating I jump up excitedly to prepare the banana splits. As I sprinkly the melted Nutella sauce I conjured up over the ice-cream, my host sister, Milly, walks in. I go out with Milly to Tata James and, after some persuading, we all walk back into the house to enjoy the dessert.

The ice cream hits my stomach like a dozen sweet kisses and I’m all smiles when we transition into a time of worship and dancing. Mama Robina, next to me, is such a beautiful display of devotion as her aged body moves fluently with the music that the big grin on my face doesn’t drop until we bow our heads in prayer.

“Father I thank you for digging me out of my pit again. The power of singing and these beautiful African faces transcends that of any home comfort. Thank you for teaching me to live and love in a place where everything I know is so far from me. Thank you for the blessing of a meal and dessert. Thank you for loving me despite me flaws and failures. Thank you for the gift of music and dancing.”

Rural Home Stays

Rural Homestays – From My Eyes and Mind

If only words could sufficiently describe an experience such as this.

On February 20 the entire lot of USP students loaded two vans and a bus to go to the rural part of eastern Uganda.

I love road trips.

A couple hours later we were winding around the mountainside roads. Looking out the window it seemed as though the world were all out there, yet within sight. I don’t know if you’ve ever looked out across an ocean but that’s what the land below looked like… a golden brown, never-ending sea.

Soon, after bumping through several dirt roads, we cumbersomely pulled through the narrow “road” to my new homestead. My eyes feasted on the sight of two simple roundish mud huts and a larger rectangular mud house… and at least a dozen new African faces. They just stared as I stepped out of the vehicle and unloaded my stuff; even after the vehicle left I just stood there as they all silently stared at me.

Finally, after I asked where I could put my stuff, my new host mom, Irene, showed me to my room—it was just big enough to fit a bed.

Man I love this; simple living at its simplest.

I feel like a blur of faces and laughter passed me through the night and into my bed. I woke the next morning in a sort of daze as I rolled out of bed.

Where am I? Oh yeah…I walked out into the brisk morning air to see the sun peeking just above the horizon. No one else was awake and the other villagers were just heading out to their land to plow their maize fields.

This place feels like my cabin.

My senses clashed as I felt like my skin had just stepped out of the guest house at my grandparents cabin to look across the lake and soak in the cool morning breeze but as I looked out I saw a bunch of red dirt, foreign trees, my compound with mud huts, and no body of water.

I don’t think I’ll get a grip on this feeling.

So I gave up trying to consolidate my senses and rushed back inside and pulled my camera out from under my bed. As I walked about the compound I caught the scent of a floral wonder. I searched it out and found a tree with pea-sized white flowers. As I approached it a small hummingbird flitted in towards several bunches. It was about half the size of any hummingbird I’d seen in America and painted in with splashes of yellow and orange with traces of black across the neckline.

This place is so familiar, yet so strange… I feel like I’m in a parallel universe of my American home.

From Irene.

She was wandering around the compound when I walked out to the cooking hut this morning. I know she came in last night but I’d forgotten this young white girl would still be here this morning. I watched as she sat at the side of the house writing in her journal until I remembered I needed to put the tea on.

When I walked back out she was still there so I walked over to here to wish her a good morning.
She looked up at me smiling, “Good morning, how are you?”

“I’m fine, how was your night?”

“Oh, it was good, I like the bed.”

“Mmmm.”

Good, she likes the room.

“Tea will be ready in the sitting room for you to take with Bonaface and Davis.”

“Ok thank you,” she said, still smiling.

She seems different than this other Kristin we had… I guess I didn’t think they would be different. Every time I go in to check on her she’s either writing in her journal or reading while taking little sips of her tea. Maybe she can’t handle so much tea? But she does always finish it. The food, however, is a much different matter. It seems that no matter what I make she barely eats anything… Kristin ate much more than this muzungu. She does always thank me for the food though saying how good it was, it’s so sweet.

Throughout the day of course I’m doing some work whether it be laundry, smearing, cleaning, cooking, or fetching water. I’ll often look up just to see what she’s doing and often find her observing me or taking pictures of me—I do like those cameras. As soon as she seems ready she will come over and work beside me—her company makes me smile. Even though we only exchange a few words as we work I do love her company and the extra hands are helpful even if they don’t get nearly as much done as quickly as mine do.

She’s also very enthusiastic about going with me anywhere and everywhere; I find it very encouraging that she tries to always be present and to learn about our culture. I can only guess what her culture is like but I’ve found my assumptions about the people to be quite inaccurate when I compare them with who she is. For example, the day we worked in the fields she insisted on continuing the work despite her sweating—she’s a very hard worker. Then on that same day some of the kids came over again and she chased them around—I haven’t seen the kids that excited and happy in a long time.

I wish I knew what to say to her. I find that I’m not sure it matters though; she’s open to any conversation and tries to help us understand what she’s saying when we’re confused. I don’t feel so much pressure though because she seems to be very peaceful and content sitting with us like we like to do.

I really do hope she’s enjoying this place and our company—it’s so hard to really tell.

Someone Else

The days were filled with sitting, drinking tea, eating, drinking tea, sitting, fetching water, laundry, sitting, eating, visiting some neighbors, sitting, drinking tea, sitting, getting visited by kids from the near-by schools, sitting, eating, sitting, and sleeping. Like a white birthmark on tan skin so was this girl in this village; she was the only white person within 30 min. of walking—even that person was one of her fellow USP students.

Unlike the other white students she seemed fine with sitting; she would sit and read, or sit and write in her journal, or sit and knot that string into colorful patterns that would be put around her wrist or neck. The days passed in long sections of sunlight then faded into long sections of the black net of a sky filled with twinkling stars. They passed fluidly as did the week of her being there. From here to there she passed ever-so quietly, almost like a ghost.

On the fourth day of her stay her skin appeared twice as dark, but yet she looked as though she were growing more transparent. Was she fading into the wind?

People kept coming to the compound increasing in number and would stare at her. She would look up at them and greet them.

“Taqueno?”

They just stared.

So she would turn back to whatever she was working on without another word. They kept standing there and staring. For endless stretches of time the people would watch her as if they were a bunch of Americans in a zoo watching a lion cleaning itself. It was as if they were in a fixed daze. Then finally, when they snapped out of the trance, they would look out at the Africa before them and smile as they hop-skipped their way onward.

She seemed more than fully aware that she was being intently watched and didn’t so much as look up at these frequent visitors anymore than once. Whenever they left she looked after them with apparent relief.

From My Eyes and Mind

The second night at this rural home I walked several miles to a women’s meeting. This group meets once a month to compile money and give it to the person that hosts them. I don’t understand why the circulation of money is helpful, but they do. So each week a different woman hosts the others and serves food to close the evening.

We were there well past dark. The support of Irene and her sister was cute though as I fumbled through the dark winding paths that led us through the banana plantations and ultimately our home. There were several times when I nearly fell and Irene would reach over and take my wrist for a distance—her touch didn’t actually help but it was very sweet.

Everyday I had a plain pattern of existence. The sitting, the tea, the walking, and all of the new experiences were great. But then there were the mass amounts of food, the staring, the frequent visitors, the staring, the lack of a relatable human being, the staring, the mobs of kids, the staring, the degrading questions, the staring, the inaccurate assumptions about me, the staring, the loss of voice, the staring… even when I talked to them in their language they simply kept on staring. I felt myself slipping away into my light shell of a human being. I found myself thinking of the Holocaust victims.

I wonder what’s worse: being put into concentration camps because of your nationality or being sheltered from any human interaction beyond staring because of your color. I think that if I asked anyone from home this question that they would look at me like I was crazy and answer, “the Holocaust victims of course.” But I don’t think that’s fair to me… at least the Holocaust victims could rest on the hope and knowledge that they were being unfairly accused and all the while had people around them going through the same thing to lean on. For me, I’m getting lost as I’m isolated from anyone to talk to as these people unknowingly watch me fall with unashamed attentiveness. I’m swimming in a pool of ever watching, curious eyes… no, I’m drowning. They care for nothing more than my skin. He wants to marry me, “oh, your skin is so nice and you’ll make me rich;” She wants my money, “of course she has money, everyone with white skin has money;” they want me to take them back to America with me, “with all that extra money why couldn’t she just buy a ticket for me too?” Would they ever see me as something more, something human who simply desires to live and love in a world with people who care about things that are more than skin deep? Then again, shouldn’t I just take their comments and toss them aside? They don’t actually know what they’re doing is wrong… but that is what is so frustrating. Isn’t there some way I can show them that the way they treat me is dehumanizing? That it hurts me and makes me never want to come back?

Waterfalls and Euphoria

04 March 2009

At the shuffle of feet stumbling across red dirt the group of twenty mzungus and an African guide began down the slopes to the infamous “Sipi Falls” of Kapturwa. The air still held the brisk freshness of the morning as we embarked at 9:30—we were going to see three waterfalls. The voices of all of us excited students sang loudly through the still ravine as we rounded the corner to take in our first close up of the main falls after 30 min. of downhill hiking. The water fell in cascading, powdery sheets of water and fell on the rocks at the bottom with a light misty crash. We all scampered down to the waterside to feel the shower and cool air that encompassed the area.

After an allotted amount African—long winded and sporadic—time spent there we headed up the other side of the ravine. Within the first ten steps up the steep grade all of us were sweating and huffing up the hill. Each step felt like a step taken with weights attached to our ankles and the sun attached to our head, but eventually we made it up the steepest portion and took a long break at a cave.

Before this day I’d never ventured into a cave that wasn’t intended for tourists to walk through. As some of us crouched awkwardly through the first few meters of the cave we found it opened into a pit tall enough to allow us to stand. The bats screeched from the next opening in the cave and a couple local boys waddled over to me asking me for $1000 shillings for the “crystals” they just picked off the cave ground as I was crouched trying to get a good shot of this new wonder. Then from the mouth of the cave a whistle called all of us back out to our hiking adventure and we were off to stumble up the rest of the way to the second falls.

The second falls fell in a tumble across rocks jutting out from the hillside. We stopped briefly here as the view of the hills was wonderful. We walked a short jaunt to the “natural swimming pool” to take lunch. At this point we had a hoard of about 15 younger children following us so Bo grabbed everyone’s leftovers or undesirables and fed the kids—they were very passionate about the food gift.

“Ok guys I have some snacks for you but I need you to all chill out as I hand them out to you.”

The kids all run towards Bo as they notice him holding food. The original group shuffled in closer and held their hands out. Bo starts splitting everything and handing it out.

“Ok now who hasn’t gotten any?”

All of the kids that were pressing in on him backed up, I guess they understood that one. They all stare expectantly as some of them finish munching.

“If you haven’t gotten anything yet come here and you can have some banana.”

Now, Bo is speaking in “American” (this means Bo is speaking a different “dialect,” one that is less understood by the British colonized Ugandans) as the kids look at him in a sort of stupefied wonder. Bo isn’t really sure what to do so he simply gives the rest out and sits back down.

I turn my attention away from him and head to the “pool.” A bunch of us girls throw our shirts off leaving us in out sports bras and pants, or skirt in my case. We carefully feel our way safely into the deeper section of the pool and soak in the cool mountain water… at this point there was a spattering of African children gathered around the area watching us.

Before we knew it we were back on our feet, headed up to the last falls. Shortly after we reached the overlook Megan and I were trekking down to meet the waterfall first hand. We took our shoes off and carefully crossed through the water to the falls. The group of three guys in our group joined us as we carefully slid under falling water. At this point I can’t explain the feeling of the cool pelting water that crashed in streams across our overheated and aching bodies… I can only say that it held an air of euphoria that is irreplaceable. We stood under the water long enough to take a picture and then a particularly heavy stream almost wiped me out as I made my way back to the dry rocks.

Seven and a half hours after 9:30 we arrived back at our campsite… what a day. As I sit here typing I can still recall the smell of the crisp moist air of that last falls and the sudden boost of endorphins I received as the water crashed on top of me.

I Met a Girl Today

19 Feb 2009

I met a girl today….

Her name is Vika and she is from the Ukraine.

One bitter cold winter evening little Vika was left in a pile of snow on the orphanage doorstep. She was bundled in a soft pink blanket and light lavender hat but still by the time Mama Harriet found her in the morning she was only breaths away from her last. Mama Harriet was horrified at the pale whitish blue look to Vika’s face and hurried her inside to warm her in every way possible.

Vika lived that day and was adopted three months later. However, as she grew up she watched her new mother turn more to the bottle than to her for comfort. Since Vika was still yet abandoned by those who were supposed to love her she turned to the streets for self confirmation. She spent most of her days there, even past dark. Fortunately for her she just barely made all of her school exams.

It was another bitter cold winter day when her mother dropped her at the orphanage in town. The snow was falling gently on the already waist high snow banks. As Vika crossed the threshold of her new boarding arrangements she breathed a sigh of relief… finally I’m out of that hellhole.

In only a matter of months the reverend came for her. Turns out the American working at the home had a special place for Vika in her heart and wanted her to see a loving family more than anything, especially since her youth was almost over as she was sixteen-years-old.

The family was so warm that even as she walked into their home she felt the fuzzy butterflies spread through the pit in her stomach—there’s something different about these people.

By the time her father told her they felt called to move to Uganda as a missionary she had the love of Jesus radiating through every inch of her body and she knew that she would never abandon her family.

“Vika, what do you think? Will you come with us?”
“Of course, I would want nothing less.”

Within the next couple months the house was packed and the family of 22 said goodbye to four of its members who decided to stay in Ukraine.

Today at 22-years-old Vika told me her story as we played volleyball in the pouring rain. Even today the rain still held its Africa quality of large droplets falling in a less dense pattern than the US. It was warm and wonderful as we watched all of the Ugandans flee the sports scene for shelter. The cloud quickly swallowed us as my shoes filled with water and the drops ran down my face as I watched the volleyball go back and forth between us.

Vika and her family still live in Uganda today.  He serves the area in any way they need, especially schooling as her mom is there for the kids 24:7. When Vika graduates school at UCU she is going to work at an orphanage.

Worshiping in Africa

Hallelujah, Hallelujah for our Lord God Almighty reigns
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Holy, Holy are you Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb, worthy is the Lamb
For You are holy, holy are you Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb, worthy is the Lamb. Amen.

The chorus of dozens of African and American voices surrounded me as I too belted those words. The red brick walls of the classroom sized church echoed the words back to me in muffled tones. As I gazed around the room my eyes fell from person to person; each of them had their eyes tightly shut as they passionately rocked their bodies in every direction with hands swinging through the air. My eyes settled on the “worship leader.” Her beautiful black face moved in rhythm with her body. I closed my eyes and felt Jesus engulf me with his presence as I sang “For you are holy!” with the loudest singing voice I had to offer.

I was lost in the awe of it all: “Thank you, God, for the voices of your African and American children worshiping you all around me. Thank you for finally giving me an extreme sense of an uplifted spirit because of the simplicity of their worship. I love that they are not dependent on the fancy effects of instruments, a stage, and stage lights.” [1]

How many Americans would tolerate “worship” without that the flashy effects?

How many Americans would “be able” to “worship” without it?

I’ve had the privilege of worshiping with nothing but voices a few times now. However, unfortunately, I’m not usually humble enough to surrender my heart to God without the euphoric strum of a guitar or the beating of a drum, but when I am I feel God in a more real way than ever before.

I’ve felt the Father at crusades in Kenya when I danced with beautiful little girls, while singing something that sounded like “tila umboyo!” The presence of the Father has been electric through the off-key voices and drumsticks of a ten-year-old boy in Mombasa, Kenya. He invited me into His presence at morning tea time as I sat on the cement floor with Eva, Olga, and Jackie as we worshipped with Hillsong United tracks. He filled Kaimosi Guest House as our mission team sang praises to Him with a couple guitars, sheet music, and a flashlight. He fills my new African home every night with the voices of my new family members as we sing before our evening prayer. And, as I sat there in that service on January 25^th, He permeated my spirit as I sang with my dark and light skinned brothers and sisters while a young boy played mismatched chords on the church keyboard.

How could any of this worship be wrong?

Years ago the Europeans started colonizing Africa. Along with those colonists came the missionaries and they were very firm in their “converting” practices. I can’t blame them too much because if I hadn’t known to be culturally sensitive I probably would have pushed my beliefs on them too. When I was in Kenya I even found myself wishing I could teach them to sing or play their instruments better, but that wouldn’t have been right. Finally, I’ve learned that yes, if they want to learn then of course I’d love to teach them, but if I’m teaching them for my own selfish reasons then that is wrong.

John V. Taylor speaks of how the European faith presented to the Africans is against every part of their being and culture as they ask the natives to “worship” God by standing up straight and singing hymns.[2] He then quotes from Chants pur Naett:

“…My God, my God, but why should I tear out my

Shrieking pagan senses?

I cannot sing your anthem nor dance it without swing,

Sometimes a cloud, a butterfly, or a few drops of rain are on the window of my boredom.

She drives me incessantly through the space of time.

My black blood pursues me into the solitary heart of the night.”[3]

I’ve been learning a lot that it’s through our bullheadedness that we push Africans to places they should never be asked to go. Who are we to say that they are wrong in worshipping God the way they do as Rev. Rebecca says:

“There is no absolute ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ form of worship, in fact, it may be that certain forms are more assessable to some people than others. But worship that seeks to glorify God (and not merely make the individual most comfortable or stimulated) will strive to create a worship environment that is utterly pleasing to God, whatever form that may take.”[4]

If only we could focus on that. I don’t want us to worship our “worship” anymore. There’s no certain way to love the God we serve. “…worship is a joyful service we give to God because we owe God our abundant praise: it is entirely God-centered and God-focused.”[5] We shouldn’t rely on a building, some lights, fancy instruments, those around us, or anything else but the fact that we are praising the Great Creator, our Father in Heaven.

It’s an amazing feeling being stripped from everything I know and learning to wholly depend on the Great Provider and Comforter, even in worship experiences. I’m truly getting a taste of what it’s like to have nothing to call your own but the love of the Father for “God is close to the tears of the poor, and those tears are often a long way from the centers of power.”[6]

---

[1] Hagberg, Kaia. Journal Entry: 24 Jan, 2009.

[2] Taylor, John V. (1963). The Primal Vision. London: SCM Press.

[3] Leopold Sedar Senghor, Chants pour Naett, translation by Sangodare Akanji.

[4] Rev. Rebecca. “Why Liturgy.” 28 Jan 2009 <http://www.franciscan-anglican.com/Liturgy.htm>.

[5] Rev. Rebecca. “Why Liturgy.” 28 Jan 2009 <http://www.franciscan-anglican.com/Liturgy.htm>.

[6] Claiborne, Shane; Haw, Chris. (2008). Jesus For President. Grand Rapids, Michigan: The Simple Way.

A Life-Changing Event

Blog: 20 January 2009

Written: 6 February 2009

The road I take on my walk to school

6:15 am

When I woke this morning I rolled out of bed motivated to get to school early—I was going to get to talk to my parents on Skype. I got ready for school and left in the dark without taking tea. Josh called at the perfect time as I left the house and that way we would have about 30 min of conversation while I walked to school. I was particularly excited about this since I was a little intimidated by the dark.

As soon as I crossed onto the dirt road outside my house I heard dogs barking behind me. From past experiences I’ve learned to stay calm so I just kept walking up the dirt road. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the dogs to back off and retreat to their sleeping quarters again.

After climbing the steep dirt road I met the main road and turned right, the way that would take me to school. At this point in the morning the sky was only light enough so that it looked like it wasn’t the middle of the night—I could see the shapes of buildings and the horizon line.

I know that the staff advised us not to walk around town at night but my logic was telling me “it is morning… and this is the best time/only time to talk to my parents on Skype.” So I kept walking. The conversation with Josh really helped me feel more comfortable and gave me even more sense of purpose as I turned left onto the gravel road. Now, I gave this turn a couple seconds of more thought since it was dark and turning would mean leaving the lighted road, but I knew that I didn’t know the other way to school and that I still could see well enough without lights.

I made my next turn, right, onto another gravel road and was about halfway down when I heard some footsteps behind me… they were running.

He’s probably just late for something, I thought.

Yeah right, it’s only 6:15 in the morning.

I could see the man in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t panic. I couldn’t see anyone else on the road so I knew it was up to me to fight this guy off as he suddenly seized me from behind with his arm in a chokehold around my neck. Yup, my wishful thinking was definitely inaccurate.

I screamed… just once.

Fortunately my right arm that held the phone was blocking him from having a debilitating hold on me.

“Josh?”

Josh, call the police.

No, that’s stupid… I’m in Africa.

“Give me your phone,” the man said. He was a thin man, but about a head taller than me. I could tell from then that if I needed to I would be able to out beat him, but I wasn’t sure I could out run him. My mind flashed to the movie “Miss Congeniality.”

S.I.N.G.

Solarplex… I think that’s what she said.

I elbowed him in the space between his hit bone and groin.

Yup that’s where she hit him in the movie.

I turned, somehow, and punched him in the ribs as he asked for my phone again.

He got a little better of a hold on me.

“Give me your phone and your bag!”

Oh, if that’s all he wants then that’s fine.

I’d made up my mind to be a little more cooperative unless he tried to rape me.

He threw me to the ground.

I landed on the side of the gravel road in a sort of “ditch.” My upper body was facing up but my hips and legs were swiveled to the side. My skirt had flipped up, I don’t know how far but I was wearing the spandex that Sarah gave me.

He sat on my hip and brought his arms around my neck and started choking me enough to make it uncomfortable.

He goes to hit me… but he misses twice.

You’ve got to be kidding me… I’m right here.

I can tell he’s pretty hyped up, but I don’t smell any alcohol.

That’s a good sign.

At the third punch he hits me in the eyebrow.

There you go, but why did you have to hit me there? I hope my eyebrow ring didn’t just get ripped out.

“Where is your phone? Give me your phone,” he said in surprisingly good English.

If he can speak English this well then why is he attacking me. I’m sure he could get a good job if he’s really that educated.

“It’s behind my head,” I said through a little strain.

“Do you want me to box you?”

I guess that’s what they say instead of “punch.”

“No.”

You already did anyways, so why are you asking?

Oh… he’s nervous.

… he’s trying to scare me…

I’m not scared of you. I know I can take you if you try any funny business.

“Give me your phone.”

“I’m on top of it.”

“I want your phone,” he says as he’s looking around, “give me your phone.”

Ugh, how many times and different ways am I going to have to say this before he understands?

“It’s under my head, I’m on top of it, and you’re on top of me,” I said with a little impatience, but I didn’t move.

I follow his eyes as they wander to my stomach and to my legs.

He readjusts a little and then turns to me again, putting more of his weight on his hands that held my neck. I’m relieved that he turned his attention back to my face; his eyes are dark put squinting with disguised fear.

I think he’s more afraid than I am.

He seems hurried. He wants to get my things before someone else comes by and sees him hurting me.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks with a little more force in his voice and his eyes narrow in frustrated anger.

“No.”

“Give me your phone.”

We’ve already been through this!

“It’s under my head,” I say again.

“Where is your bag,” he asks, “give my your bag.”

“It’s right here,” I say, looking to my right arm and find that it’s not too difficult to lift my arm.

He grabs my bag off my arm, but he hasn’t forgotten my phone…

“Where’s your phone?”

When he shifted I was able to swing my phone around and hand it to him.

He loads up to punch me again. I watch as his fist comes down and hits me on the left side of my face by my lip.

I wonder if he’d be angry and not go away if I put my hand up and blocked my face?

He hits me again… in the same place.

Well, it’s worth a try.

I put my hands in front of my face. He takes a few more attempts at my face. Then rises and takes a few steps away from me.

“Don’t you come after me, you just go that way,” he says and points in the direction I wanted to go anyways as I’m getting to my feet.

“Don’t you dare follow me.”

He turns after he’s run a ways down the road and chucks my plastic water bottle back in my direction. It lands in front of me.

“Here, take that,” he says as I bend over and pick it up.

Oh thanks… you’re so considerate.

I watch him turn and run away.

I turn back to my intended path and start walking.

Well, I probably shouldn’t be walking should I?

I start running and about halfway down I feel the fatigue.

I thought people were supposed to get an adrenaline rush that gives them super human powers when they get in situations like this?

None-the-less my feet keep moving as I round the corner and see the house that Megan and Nicole stay in.

Good idea, it is still dark after all.

Before I dart into their front yard I see another man in a tree across from their property.

I really hope they answer their door but he doesn’t look like a bundle of fun.

I knock on the door… I knock again… I knock on the window. I turn around to make sure that man didn’t follow me and then I knock again. Finally, one of their host brothers comes out.

“Hi,” I say a little feebly.

“Hello,” he says with a friendly smile that spreads a little warmth through my body. I was expecting a look of shock, especially because of my face, so his welcoming face was a relief.

“Can I come in?”

I know it’s ridiculous, and very up front, but I don’t want to be out here anymore.

“Yes, come,” he says as I’m still explaining that I know the two girls that stay with him.

Wow, that was easy, he didn’t even ask me any questions. What if I was a crazy person?

We go in and wake the girls. I tell them the story as he’s out in the main room calling my supervisor Brooke. I ask if I can use a phone to text my mom and as I do I feel the tears welling in my eyes.

Shoot, I always start crying when I think of upsetting my parents. I was totally fine before…

Fortunately it doesn’t take long for mom to call so I walk outside and talk her through some of it. She says she’ll call me after she contacts Josh to tell him I’m ok and the bank to tell them to cancel my credit cards.

I walk back inside and the boy who let me in tells me he called Margret and Brooke and that they would be taking some necessary steps before they call back to talk to me.

“You know,” he said “this morning I had a dream that someone came as I was walking out somewhere and abducted me to their house. I woke up before I walked into their house and started praying. I had a feeling that someone was in trouble and then you came and knocked on our door.”

Wow, that’s really cool.

Even in the dark places and amidst my stupidity God still had others looking after me.

“Mom, really, I’m more than fine,” I say through tears when she calls me back, “I’m more than thankful. It could have been so much worse. I just feel really blessed… it’s incredible.”

Epilogue

That morning that man took off with my wallet, $25, my ipod, a couple journals, my phone, and my schoolwork; He left me with a fat lip punctured from the inside and out, a bleeding eyebrow but the ring was still intact, and a stiff and scratched neck. Most importantly, though, I had my life, my virginity, my camera, my laptop, and a renewed faith.

It’s been two and a half weeks now since I was attacked on that dirt road. My lip it healed, although I think I’m left with a scar, as is the rest of me. I truly am so blessed to have a Father who loves me like he does and I am not afraid to stay here to do anything he wants me to do.

A Crash of Thunder and…

January 31, 2009

The fruit stand on campus

With a crash of thunder and a flash of lightening I was dragged from my dreams and back into my African reality. I looked at the dark around me and then at the time… it was 6:45 am. I rolled over to rest for a bit, but nature called me out from under the covers sooner than I would have preferred.

I pulled at the mosquito net caging me into my sleeping haven and wiggled my way around to the small exit I made while trying not to pull my skirt up in the process. Finally my big toe felt the end of the mosquito netting that dangled down to the floor from my place on the second bunk. I started letting myself down and then pushed off as soon as my head was clear of hitting the top bunk—this way my skirt usually stays down.

I ventured through the dark, found the big metal door that would let me outside, unbolted both bolts, and hobbled as fast as I could to the toilet across our cement courtyard. It was raining, but it was relatively light out so at least I could see. Finally, I reached the toilet and took care of business.

I closed the bright blue, wooden door behind me and headed back into the rain. I rounded the corner with the stairs and before I could even think of trying to regain balance me feet were no longer beneath me. My arms stretched out looking for a way to break my fall, but I flipped through the air; I was facing my doom instead of receiving the hope of a padded backside landing.

I flopped onto the stairs hitting my jaw on the cement shelf next to them, scraping my left side on the bricks, and bruising the right side of me on the stairs under me. When I finally came to a stand-still I simply laid there letting the pain sink in so at least I knew where my wounds were. As I lay there, my rapid stream of thoughts helped me take my focus off the pain:

“Ouch!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me…”
“Thank God I didn’t break any thing or bite all the way through my tongue… because a doctor here would be really sketchy.”
“I’m going to have a horrible head-ache in approximately ten seconds.”
“Thank God I’m conscious.”
“Man, I’m glad no one saw that.”
“Am I going to even get home in one piece?”
“How many scars will I have when I get home?”
“I really don’t want to fall down these stairs again.”
“Oh, my mouth is bleeding.”

I rolled over and shakily get back onto my feet. I took care to safely walk down the last few stairs and cross the courtyard. Before walking inside I bent over the trough to spit out the blood that had filled my mouth. When I rinsed it out, I noticed that I’d bitten my mouth up in more than one place; my tongue, lip, and cheek were all helping fill my mouth with blood. As my swollen tongue felt around for any more damage I suddenly had to choke back tears.

“Don’t cry-it’s not worth it. It doesn’t even hurt that bad.”
“I want my mom here.”
“I want a hug.”
“I really wish there was someone here to fix me up.”
“Well, I guess I’d better fix this mess myself.”

Eventually I stumbled back inside and addressed my wounds. My tongue was purple and swollen so that I couldn’t move it in my mouth very well; my jaw was cut up and bruised; my left arm was scraped, bloody, and bruised; my knee was already shining with a purple, swollen bubble; my cheek was bloody with a flap of skin hanging freely; and my lip had a nice little puncture as well.

Yeah, I’m not going to do that again. African lesson number… well… don’t walk quickly down stairs in the rain.

Ting Ting

24 January 2009

“How a’ you?” asked the men at the entrance of Ting Ting metal yard, “Welcome to Uganda.”

We entered to the sound of “Ting, Ting… Tang!” It was a surround sound of metal hitting metal sheets, metal poles, and metal tools instantly as we crossed the threshold of the metal gate that protected the work place. It was a group of 16 Americans entering Ting Ting and we immediately caught the workers’ attention. The square was about ten paces forward, ten paces right, ten paces back, and ten paces to the left to the exit. On either side of us there were wooden structures that served as “workshops”— the space only allowed for a person to stand hunched over. Each structure overlapped the other in disarrayed uniformity with planks of splintering mangled wood. The place smelled of metal, fire, and African soil.

As we entered, our faces acted like magnets, drawing every brown face up from his work to gaze upon the pale-skinned creatures before them. We walked at the pace of a grazing goat as we meandered in the square. Every set of brown eyes looked up to meet my green eyes and I couldn’t help but allow my mouth to open into a toothy, cheek wrinkling, eye sparkling smile to match expressions of excitement and curiosity. Behind every smile too there was a hint of speculation that seemed to say, “Is there any way I can get this white American to be my wife?” Upon noticing that, I made a game for myself to see how many of the men I could get to “blush.” I would look into the eyes of each “inquiry” as my big toothy grin sat beneath my smiling eyes set in a way that would say, “I know what you’re thinking and although you are an attractive man and hard worker, the two of us would just not work out.” With that they would turn their head to the side and into their shoulder as they smiled a bashful grin.

Suddenly my happy thoughts were interrupted by a man standing to my right.

“Madam, those men over there just gave you a new name,” he said through a chuckle and a wide set smile.

“Oh yeah?” I said still smiling, “What is it?”

“They have named you Esther,” he said as his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm behind his words and then he laughed a sweet laugh as he pointed across the path to a couple men at the back of one of the shelters. The two men were laughing and wore such big smiles I thought their lips would never go back to normal.

“I’ll keep it,” I said and watched their smiles grow impossibly wider.

I took to an inner monologue while we rounded the corner to meet the street again: “I am a white, American woman. Some may call me beautiful, some may call me ‘sunshine,’ some may call me prideful, some may call me child-like, some may call me ‘mzungu,’ some may even decide to call me ‘bitch,’ but these men, on this day, gave me the most honorable name of all.”

It seemed that time froze in a lull of inner peace; the noise around me grew dim as I got lost in observation and inner thoughts. Esther was a woman of great faith and perseverance and that’s exactly what I need to cling to as I live and learn in a country that either presents a person with a surpassingly joyful spirit or a heart so heavy that it can barely be picked up off the ground. Therefore I will keep my new African name and live up to it with all that I am.

Safari

29 Dec 2009

Safari: means “journey” in Swahili.

This blog is probably a blog a lot of you wanted to hear about because this is how we picture Africa if we’re not picturing it as a war torn and starving nation. In this case, I want to preface it with a statement: Africa is SO much more than Safaris, starving children, war, red dirt, underdeveloped villages, and green forests. Actually, although that’s here, I’ve seen very little of such things—except the red dirt.

We were on our last legs of our journey together in Kenya when we got to drive through Nakuru National park for our very own Safari. We pulled off in the truck after we paid our fees and I watched the red dust clouded behind us as headed for the entrance gate. It took only a matter of seconds before we saw our first antelope—we got used to those quickly. Then we pulled out into a beautiful view of Lake Nakuru to see a flock of birds that covered the shoreline as far as I could see. There were flamingos, storks, and that was as far as my knowledge went. They let us wander the shoreline for a few minutes and take some pictures. I saw birds that looked like vultures with wide, long beaks. I watched white birds that were inches off the ground scamper around on two orange stick-like legs. And of course I saw white, pale pink, hot pink, mixed pinks, and tan-pink flamingos of varying sizes.

As I wandered my way back to the truck I took great care not to step on the massive amounts of poop surrounding me. We pulled back onto the dirt road, paused for some lazy Buffalo lying along the lakeside, and then we saw the Rhino. As soon as I saw her in the distance I knew I’d met the highlight of our trip. Until that moment I didn’t know I loved Rhinos so much but as we pulled closer I watched as she walked over to a tree to scratch her face and saw the trees shadows dancing along her stone back. We were only yards from her when we idled the truck. As I was taking pictures we all became fully aware that if, at any moment, she decided we were unwelcome, we would have more than just pictures to show for our time spent with her. Even still, as we pulled away I couldn’t help but watch her until she was well out of sight.

After I finally turned around we were driving past a giraffe. For an amount of time that stretched out endlessly, but wonderfully, before me we drove up to the top of the “Out of Africa” hill. It was a great time of peace but I couldn’t help but tear up as I thought about the team leaving me for home the next night.

We pulled up the last steep stretch of slope and found a mountainous view before us. Despite the hooting and hollering of the team playing with rocks and stuff, the place was dead silent. I felt like I stepped into a real-live version of The Lion King.

As we all piled back in the truck, we began our long decent down the hill. Before our excursion was over we got to see some white rhinos (more in the distance), some more antelope, warthogs, giraffes, and a few other creatures that I don’t know the names of. Then, as soon as we were about to get to the gate the truck ran out of gas. The boys and I got out of the truck and pushed it out of the way until Dr. Ogoli and Mama Roy came back from the Petro. I had a chance to wash my face and rinse my dust-caked hair since cleanliness is extremely important in African culture. While we waited, the group watched as more baboons appeared to entertain us.

Finally, the rest of our party came to revive our empty gas tank and we exited the park and were back on the road to Nairobi. When I dreamed of Africa, this is what I imagined.