Beyond Expectations

One last sunrise over Uganda. The colours changing and fading as the morning sun takes it's rightful place over the lush green valley. A new day; the last day. The day I would be going home. I flip open the pages of what has become my life guide.

“When He had stopped speaking, He said to Simon,“Launch out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch.”

“But Simon answered and said to Him, “Master, we have toiled all night and caught nothing; nevertheless at Your word I will let down the net.”

And when they had done this, they caught a great number of fish, and their net was breaking.”

I stop and think. Within our own life, we also have a tendency to create boundaries around our expectations. Like a net, built to contain only a certain amount of fish, we set ideals for certain dreams, accomplishments or goals, that we believe to be possible. We hope for what we desire, we create expectations of what could be, and finally we set out to bring them to pass, throwing our nets over the side of the boat and waiting. When we try on our own to meet the expectations we have written for ourselves, sometimes we reap little...sometimes nothing. But once God enters the picture...everything changes.

Jesus meets with the disciples, and knowing they have had little success, He asks them to launch out their net again. They obey. The result? “they caught a great number of fish, and their net was breaking.” Their own boundaries of expectations were stretched and burst, by the abundant work of Christ in their life. When they listened. He performed. The original desires planted in their heart, but His blessing for them, going far above and beyond anything they prepared for or imagined. Their greatest dream, small, in comparison to God's intended plan for them.

I reflect on my own life. I tend to hope for more, pushing the boundaries of reasonable expectation. On my own, they have failed time and time again. Yet looking back on my life, the core of my heart's desire, the dreams and hopes that have been building in me...I am beginning to see that my net has long been ripping. As I am called, asked to live a life with Him – walk with Him – He has been filling, pouring into my life's net in ways that I would not have thought on my own.

For the final time, I walk into the clinic. The treatment room is now organized. Equipment is sorted and in it's rightful place. I treat my last patient. Another patient enters, holding out an African dress she has for me. A gift. Lunchtime comes. I eat my last Ugandan meal.

“The last supper, together.” says Stella.

We take pictures. I start my walk back home. Friends from the village are on their way to say goodbye. We hug in the middle of the familiar red, dirt road. I continue on, almost back to the apartment. A tap on my shoulder.

“Thank you...”

I struggle to put a name to her face. She holds out her hand. I remember. I am staring down at what used to be an infected, gaping hole. It has closed and new tissue is forming over top.

I give her a hug

“Praise God...”

Once again...He has done more.

I pack my final bags and eat the remainder of my bananas. We sit around in the apartment, grateful for what we have left, sad for the time that is ending. A van comes around the side of the apartment. He comes in and takes my luggage. It is time.

Kyra is waiting outside with Maureen. She has a box for me with three notes in it.

Maureen gives me a bracelet.

“You and I” it says.

Kelli, Jess, Anna, Anika and Sarah follow me outside. I hear the babies crying from the Home, now behind me. I hug each of the girls goodbye. Kyra is crying. All our eyes are wet.

I get into the van. The wheels start turning, making their way out of Suubi village. I put my arm out the window and wave until they are out of sight. Homeward bound.

When Jesus speaks. Listen. When He commands. Obeys. He knows the desires at our core, and He is able to exceedingly, abundantly above all that we could think or ask. Being here has been proof.

A Gift from Sandra

She had come by the pharmacy window on Friday.

“Can you come next week to my house with the other girls?”

I looked up and saw Sandra, a cleaner of Watoto, standing there. She explained how she thought it nice if we would teach the children in her community to make bracelets. Jess had a supply of mini, colorful rubber bands for this occasion, so we were set.

The girls in our house concluded that we could come on Sunday afternoon. Around 1:30pm, Sandra called and let us know that she had sent three bodaboda drivers for the six of us. We gathered what we needed and waited outside the Babie's Home. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 25 minutes went by. We wondered as we waited; she only lived a 7 minute ride down the road.

Fifty minutes later, after trying to call Sandra and getting no answer, we decided to take matters into our own hands. Sarah picked up the phone and called our regular boda driver, Sam.

“Hey Sam! Can you pick us up at Babies Home, Suubi? And bring two other drivers because there's six of us.”

Perhaps there had been a miscommunication with the other drivers and Sandra, but in calling our own transportation we were now confident we would still make it.

Ten more minutes, we heard the motors coming in the distance. Three drivers appeared from the left hand side of where we stood outside. We did not recognize one of them.

“That doesn't look like Sam...”

Oh no. Without missing a second, we heard other motors coming from our right, only to see Sam and his two other drivers coming from the other direction. The three drivers on either side now coming into a face-off. The three Sandra had called, and Sam and his friends. This was awkward. Not willing to turn any away, we hopped on a bike each. Six white girls. Six Ugandan men. Six bodabodas. We set out, the strange mixed gang we were, and headed downhill towards Sandra's house. We bumped, screeched and roared past eachother, each driver competing for the best area of the rutted road. Soon, we turned off onto a steep narrow path between some community houses. Sam and Sarah drove under a clothesline, taking a black sweater with it.

“Sorry!” Sam stopped and picked it back up for the family.

Music was coming in the distance and as we closed the gap to her house, I caught site of ballons and streamers. A community party must be going on, but this was more extravagant than anything I had seen yet. The bodabodas stopped.

“Here!”

What? I looked to my right. Sarah's new house (an outdoor garage) was decorated in balloons and streamers. A table was set up outside with shiny pink wrapping paper as a cloth. Bottled water stood on the surface. Beside the table was a loudspeaker with Christian radio music filtering into the atmosphere  Her foodstand, standing to the front of her home, was surrounded by about fifty smiling-faced and clapping children.

On entering, we cut through a ribbon that hung across an stick archway decorated of colorful ballons. A photographer from the community, followed us in with a film camera, taking pictures. Sarah came out in a pretty red polka-dot dress. Two of her neighbors were helping inside to make us a meal.

“You each have your name on a chair.” She smiled. “You have one minute to find it!”

She started the music, and we took off running, opening up home-made looseleef notebooks with wrapping paper covers – our names written in the inside. When the music finished, the last of us were scrambling into the plastic white chairs. Sandra had made every effort to create a special event for us. We felt more than undeserved and incredibly honored.

An archway of Welcome

The photographer

Minutes later, we were teaching the children to make bracelets. The pile of rubberbands went quickly, as we showed them how to create the jewelry. Next we brought out balloons we had brought, then bubbles. I was feeling badly that I had not prepared more ahead of time. I had not expected this many kids, or would have arranged a story and gospel message for them. Kelli was thinking the same. Why not do it anyway? It was difficult to assess how much English the children understood, I reminded myself that the Word of God never returns void. Isaiah 55:11. Christmas was approaching and it would be an simple entry into sharing the message of the Saviour.

Kelli spoke loudly and waved her hands, while Sarah, Jess, Anika and I acted out the story of Baby Jesus. The children laughed and listened, as we exaggerated our impromptu movements in the hot afternoon sun. Kelli continued into the gospel, explaining Christ's love for each one of them, and the way to Heaven. Then, inviting anyone to pray along with her, all the kids bowed their heads and spoke every word. I pray they really did understand, and God knows their hearts.

We were then ushered into the front half of Sandra's house for dinner. The garage door closed behind us for privacy, a cloth curtain divided the little room, and a hot meal lay out in a variety of dishes on the ground. We sat down in a circle, digging into the rice, pork, cabbage and corn, while the Ugandan photographer snapped away. Sandra grinned and gathered other dishes she had made. She had prepared a meal for all the children, and many of their mothers that sat outside her house to watch. I did not talk much, as I was astounded at her generosity and the effort she had poured into this event.

“Take some food with us, Sandra!” Jess caught her as she scurried back into the room.

“Sure!” She dipped her hand into Jess's plate and took a handful of rice.

Our beautiful hostess

When it was time to go, we hugged the children as they ran up, holding out their hands for a “high-five.” Then we hugged Sandra, our cleaner and our friend. We could not express thanks for what she had just done for us. This time, we rode two to a bodaboda back up to our house. Each of us had little words, but only those expressing amazement, as we entered our apartment. I hope these people's generous and giving spirit make a lasting and changing impact in us, beyond the borders of Uganda.

Work, Floods and Eggs

So...the flood was not forgotten

Because I had not been at the clinic the previous day, I had kept dry. There had been no need for the umbrellas, poncho and rain boots that my co-workers had been telling me to bring.

However, my thoughts spoke too soon. After leaving work, I headed by Kyra's house, where she and her friends were chatting on the front lawn. I did not anticipate the kitchen sink to be so approximate to the open window, where Kyra and her friends had plastic cups and containers waiting. Not long after I had approached the house, they were running back and forth like a fire drill, letting it rain. I quickly took hostage Anika and Kevin, who were walking by the house. It was not long before the showers were shared on us all, and Kyra and her friend's had all gotten a part of the “bathday blessing”, as well.

Earlier at work, there were only two of us and it was rather busy for a Saturday. A girl with Bipolar was having a manic episode, and had been in the clinic all night. She was going from one room to the next, asking for medicine, demanding injections, wanting hydration, forgetting one thing in the treatment room and another in admission. One minute she would be walking and the next minute she thought to be paralysed.

“Please go get my handkerchief! I am paralysed...I cannot move my leg.”

She got up, when she saw I kept moving, and followed me to the treatment room. As I turned around, she stopped immediately, falling back into a locked stance.

“A snake bit me!”

“Where is that?”

“Right here.” She pointed and I looked.

No mark

“They treated me, but the poison is still there. Please cut it, Doctor!”

I would not do that, but tried to calm her, reassuring her that she would not be poisoned.

Back to the Pharmacy. Dr. Job needed me to get some prescriptions. She followed right on tail.

“I need some medicine for my eye! It's inflamed.” She reached up to the shelf. Bad idea.

“Jane, put that back on the shelf. We will get you what you need.” I escorted her out, straight away and locked the doors.

We begin locking the rooms behind us, as we went in and out, sceptical of what could disappear from the rooms. Dr. Job had been on call all night, was working today, would be on call again that night and back to work in the morning. With only two doctors and one nearing baby's due date, there is not much rest for them.

On getting home, I opened a parcel that Kyra and her friend, Maureen, had prepared for the 19^th. They had littered the inside with assorted candies, a note from each of them, and “Nice” biscuits. Little did they know that those are our absolute favourite Ugandan sugar and coconut cookies, and we had just ran out a few days ago. Jess had disappeared for a few hours and came back with a vibrant assortment of wildflowers and leaves for Wild African Tea. More blessings, even the day after.

That night, we ran out of gas for the stove. Jess is our innovator, and it wasn't long before she was taking the lid off the kettle and boiling eggs on the inside, holding down the lever with a propped-up bowl, so it would not turn off once the water had boiled. The yolk was slightly runny in the end, but the whites turned out splendid, and paired with toast, dinner was complete. We would get by.

Jess with her eggs in the kettle

My Little Guy

I avoided the floods.

Kelly and I were catching a ride into Kampala in the morning. The clinic was closed in the morning for a staff meeting, so we would take the opportunity to spend the day together and get some errands done before our journeys back home. We arrived at Al's house (the man who was driving us) at the given hour of departure...apparently, right in time for the family's sit-down breakfast. Kelly and I conversed on the sofas nearby, and 45 minutes later we were on our way.

It was a busy holiday season, he said. Living an hour outside of the city, he would be stuck in traffic all the way home, get home at around 8pm, and get up again for work the next morning. He worked Monday through Saturday, taking Sunday as his day to rest. Moreover, on top of his job repairing cellphones, he also consulted for an architecture company. Most people had two jobs, he told us, otherwise it is really difficult to sustain one's self.

The morning was prime time for traffic (or any other hour of the day), yet our driver was skilled at taking back roads and alleyways, whenever he saw the line up in the distance. It is truly a learned skill, as there are few road signs in Kampala (as they would be exploited). He parked at a lot across from Watoto Central Church, where we drove around to find a spot of even gravel that would not take out the bottom of his car. Once parked on the smoothest of rocky ground, we disembarked, and Kelly and I headed out towards the markets.

At the “Craft Markets”, we weaved our way through rows of stand after stand, where once you have seen three or four, it is probable that you have seen them all. Occasionally, you find the rare gem, but by the time you realize it, you look back on the identical row of stalls and realize that it is lost to you. Therefore, not wanting to barter and excuse and thank the past 20 vendors, you press on.

We exited the craft markets and crossed back over to Watoto Central. On the opposite side of the building was a door that opened to “Living Hope” - a sector of Watoto that has taken in vulnerable women. The door opened on us, and women looked up from their sewing machines and beading circles, smiled and put their hands to their lips in welcome. Many of them are widowed and were taken captive from the LRA (Lord's Resistance Army) during the war. Laminendira, a Watoto base in the North, houses women who were raped by Kony himself. Many of the little one's in the Watoto village in Gulu (near to Laminendira), are Kony's biological children. The church has come together to share Christ love, giving them Hope (a Living Hope), and they work together to make peanut butter, body creams, jewellery and other crafts, wherein they sell to support their living.

The next leg of our journey took us 30 minutes across town, as we dodged vans, cars and bodabodas, on a path that I had traversed twice before. Crossing the road is a mere scheme in itself, as you look for the clearest spot available and make a dash for it. It is interesting how back home, pedestrians always lift their hands and hold them out like a stop signs towards cars, whenever crossing a walk. It is as if the driver sitting in your direction has no eyesight, so that unless you hold out the magic palm, he will continue ripping towards you and run you down.

“Sorry Sir, I didn't see the hand.”

A safety measure I suppose.

However, here you need to use your hands – use them. Emphasis on the need and use. Today, it was not the first time that I, walking on the side walk in front of a mall entrance, put my hand out to physical push my hand down on the hood of a car that came forward, nearly bumping out my knees.

“Yes, thank you sir. I am here. Sorry, I didn't wave the hand sooner.”

With no defined lanes, I have been grazed by the handles of bodabodas and smelled the paint color on matatos as they quietly breathe air into my hair follicles, going past.

Using our hands and our feet, and all of our senses (including my instincts, as we guessed a few turns), I saw the sign perched out front and knew we had made it. I knew exactly who I wanted to see today.

The little guy was perched out on the lawn, sitting up and smiling as we approached him.

“Hey buddy!” I laughed.

He copied my laugh exactly. I laughed three times. He laughed three times. Silly kid.

I introduced Kelly and 6kg Calvin, as it was their first time meeting. It did not take long before she adored him and his personality. When you laugh, he laughs, and when I think we make a lot of funny faces, Calvin has hundreds that he pulls out, an expression for every moment. He is progressing steadily and well, as he is gaining weight and able to perform many more of the developmental milestones for someone his age. He still stays in a room for malnourished babies and is taking medicine, but we have high hopes for Him.

Nearing the end of the afternoon, we knew we would have to be heading back towards Central to catch a ride back to Suubi. I didn't think I would see Calvin again, as my leaving date is quickly approaching, so this was goodbye. If anybody gave me a heart for the orphans and fatherless, I know it was Calvin and that he has long touched my life. I held up the little guy, as he grinned and gave him a little squeeze. I laughed and he laughed.

“Bye, babes”

I believe he will be just fine.

We arrived in Suubi after dark. I had dodged the showers...for today, but the blessings had been more than abundant. I would miss the little guy.

Bye Calvin :(

Not My Thoughts

I remember both times quite vividly. For some reason, the conversations I had, stuck with me.

I was only five when Princess Diana had died, yet I had looked at all her pictures in mom's Time magazine, and been unable to stop asking questions. She was a beautiful person and seemed so reputable - someone to aspire to, someone who did something different in life. Beside the magazine, next to where mom was curling my hair, had been a book called “Nurse Nancy”. Mom had saved it from when she was little.

Mom, why does every girl want to be a nurse?” It seemed dull - stereotypical. Perhaps holding no outstanding relevance among the other fascinating or different careers – especially that of Princess Diana. Mom's answer was simple.

“Well not all do, hunny. But I believe many girls want to be a help to others.”

Years past. I remember dad driving me into Hudson, to my bestfriend's house, sometime early in Junior High

“So what do you want to be?” He had asked.

I remember racking my brain for an answer and just thinking “Not a missionary...”

I remember his words breaking my silence, coming as a surprise. It didn't seem like him.

“What about a missionary?”

There are times, when I stop and look around, surprised at where I find myself. Not that I am completely lost, or that didn't know where I was headed, yet I reflect on the past, thinking - “I never thought I would be here...” While I was born with a certain personality, character and certain God-given gifts, God has been slowly molding me, using all those traits I have been given, yet bringing my desires in line with His own, in order to work His purpose.

I remember the year in High school, when the gospel became real to me, and God put it on me to tell others of Christ's love. It was Him who brought in the desire, and while I far from consider myself a missionary, His work of love and complete redemption is too good to keep inside. It is a message to be showed in one's life, and shared through one's word. The desire was planted.

I remember graduating high school, knowing I wanted to be of help to people and pursuing...nursing – a facet to come alongside individuals, a way to share Christ's love. And the journey has been anything but stereotypical, normal, mundane...

The sense of difference, adventure and life was always there, and I could have tried (and many times did and still do) to pursue them on my own, yet the outcome would have been limited to my ability and understanding. I look back on those conversations and I come to understand God saying “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” Isaiah 55:8. The traits God has given me have come alive in ways I would have never imagined – through the gospel and through nursing. Yet, I am not detained against my will, or made to do things I never wanted to; moreover, He has used what He long implanted in me, to show me a much greater plan than I could have imagined. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55:9. And what I only thought I wanted? That changed; because when seeking God, He made our desires align, and I could not have wanted better.

Following God is not about losing your own unique set of gifts, changing your personality or losing your character; rather, in entrusting these things...your life, He will take what you have and make it into something much greater than you can conceive. Desires will change, yet they will align with His, and that plan...is a much higher calling. At some point, I believed this. Twenty two and I know this, and in times to come, I hope I never lose sight of this.

One of Calvin's first days with us.

Dedicated Hands

From days of working in the clinic, I have come to know a number of mothers and their children. (Although they seem to have an easier time remembering my name, than I do their's). They have expressed their gratefulness, yet in knowing them, I feel entirely blessed. Their service to the children of their community and country, leading to the fulfilment of the greatest of His commandments is one of the most devoted and loving acts I have seen. To care for, raise and love children who are not your own, when they themselves have endured so much – it is more than a job, but a dedication of self.

One mother had a large abscess in her hand, that caused an intense amount of pain and swelling. One of the doctors cut open her hand between the middle and forefinger, to drain the pus from the infection, yet the incision was deep and the location was unfortunate. As a mother, I only knew so much how she needed her hands, and I worried how daily, there seemed to be little improvement, as we drained, cleaned and bandaged the wound. Finally, not knowing what else to do, I asked if I could pray for her hand, and motioned another one of my patients to join us. The three of us stood praying, in the Ugandan way where everybody prays at once, and we asked for healing. I had just finished reading in Matthew - “If two of you agree on earth about anything that they may ask, it shall be done for them by My Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 18:20.

The weekend came and went, and she being unable to come back until Monday. The bandage had come off and to my surprise, I saw that the wound looked times better than it ever had, infection minimal, and the gap was slowly closing. I covered it once more, not wanting to give opportunity to infection, and asked her to keep coming back knowing that healing was on it's way. I do not doubt that more than we wanting healing, God wanted all the more to preserve the hands so faithfully and daily dedicated to His work and glory.

The Norms

“Hahahaha, oh my word you look like the sterotype missionary!” Kelly was laughing.

“What do you mean?!” I had long stopped pondering what I was putting on, only to make sure I was adorned for the day.

“Long hair, long skirt, hat. Stop where you are!”

Kelly took a picture.

I guess the new way of life has long set in, and once in a while someone reminds the other of what the “norm” really is. Watoto recently, entirely ran out of fuel for their generators. We mentally prepared the be illuminating candlesticks, dismissing the microwave, washer, dryer and fans goodbye. We were doing it over half the time anyway, so it would not be a big adjustment  However only a couple days later, they must have decided to buy enough fuel until January because the power has never been better – and it is odd. The fan stays on all night; I do not have to strategically be charging my electronics while there is power; I can wash my clothes at any time; the water in the shower remains hot. It really is a luxury and I suppose I realize how much I did not even mind before. The adventure is lost in the predicable.

Around 4pm, I met with Kyra outside and we walked up and around the village All of the village children are on their holidays for the month of December. Almost anyone I ask will tell me they are bored. School is out of session, the libraries are closed, and there does not seem to be a whole lot to keep one busy. The young children are well entertained in the playgrounds or through hours of imaginary play within the yards, but the older kids get restless in thinking up activities. I have seen some of their notebooks, where they consistently write poetry, or compose songs. One of the girls was sitting high in a tree and recording her voice through her mom's cellphone. I often see Kyra's sisters trying out new hair-doos in the front of their house, and more than once my own head has become a playing field. As there are no power outlets in the village homes, there are a handful of youth that sit at the clinic, charging and texting on phones which are sticking out of the wall outlets, under the main desk.

Nevertheless, there is really an incredible amount of talent in within Watoto. I have read the kids poetry, heard some of their voices and watched them dance, and words fall short of proper definition. The potential is immense, and it is evident that some have used their time and talents extremely well. The majority of songs sung in their Watoto choir, which travels around the world, are written and composed by the Watoto children and youth. The organization continually strives for “excellence” and I have heard it repeated time again, maybe that is why here, that talent is among the “norm”, yet it is so far beyond average.

I do admit, there are some Western "norms" things I am looking forward to, on return. Top of the list would be a diversity in food, driving a car, a bathtub, fudge-crackle and candy cane ice-cream (*hint hint* dad?)) and most dearly...the snow. I miss the Canadian winter season awfully and I hope to bask in the flakes for the first few hours. These are a few Western "norms" that when unavailable, I have come to appreciate all the more.