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. 

Goodbyes

Our alarms rang this morning, bringing on the feeling of dread. After reaching home at around 12:30 am from the festival, we all agreed that it somehow felt like we hadn't slept but a few hours. This would be quite normal back home, but one of the nice things about living here is we had all been fairly consistent about closing the day around 9:30-10 pm. Lacking two hours deemed recognizable. Maybe it was that, or perhaps the fact we were bidding Mardi goodbye today.

Late nights to early morning, for lasting friends

I let the doctor know I would be in a little later, and pulled the chairs around the table. Mardi, Kelly and I sat around the end, tea mugs and “Nice” biscuits in hand, swapping pictures, sharing stories and living out the last moments before the departure vehicle came. The last tea time, like the old people we were. Even after a month and a half, it somehow seemed like a lot longer for us. A future road trip across Canada was booked in Mardi's plan, and surfing in Australia was added to my bucket list.

Mardi stopped by the clinic on her way out, for a final goodbye. I had heard that many long-term volunteers, or even locals, do not get close to people, knowing that they will only have to leave. I believe that this in itself is a loss – a loss of someone you could have known, made memories with, learned from, someone who could come to impact your life in a positive way, or even be an answer to prayer. I never wanted to leave Watoto feeling impartial to those left behind and my only joy found in going home. Why go at all? It should be difficult to leave and harder to say goodbye. That signifies time well-spent and days that were worth the while. Anything worth living and experiencing will, in no doubt, be felt on leaving. Moreover, meeting new friends, but discovering sisters, will undoubtedly be felt on separation. Yet in this, there is no loss, but gain.

We should not be afraid to live, for fear of what we will lose. Rather, according to Christ we're often told to “pour out” and lose our own lives, in order to fully live. Loss is inevitable, but serves to demonstrate that there was room for gain and fulfilment in the first place. Leaving Watoto will be difficult for who I have met and what I have learned, yet it is because of the blessing that it has been. Regarding friendships, I trust that the God who joined those distances in the first place, will bring back together in His own timing.

Qualified

The past few days have been very busy at the clinic with lots of sick children and mothers. The treatment room has become a full responsibility  dressing wounds, stitching, giving intramuscular injections and inserting intravenous lines, while Stella manages the pharmacy. As much as possible, I have tried to prepare for overseas, clinic or emergency situations, yet from the vast number of responsibilities within the career of nursing, I have excelled in some areas more than others.

No matter how many times I tried, I was continually inconsistent at putting in intravenous lines – difficult when it has become a part of day-to-day duty. Moreover, each time failed is another time causing someone discomfort while you try...yet again. Few times successful  sometimes almost getting in, but “almost” deems never enough, as a misplaced cannula is used just as much as one that was never inserted.

Frustrated, I concluded this was not my skill or strength, and God needed to help me pass these lines. It is not the first time I knew I was not going to be succeeding on my own. God has shown me before, that the things I am deemed unqualified for, if woven to His purpose, He will be my qualification. It had been a praise for 2014 – the opportunity to study and graduate from Liverpool Tropical Nursing, when I was entering an already-filled classroom with people of far superior experience; and if He wanted me to succeed here, it would be His own working. A simple request for a small task. Therefore, I prayed. Then no longer frustrated but expectant, I passed the next six intravenous lines of the morning, from young boys, to bigger mothers, to chubby toddlers. I dare say, I almost did not believe it due to my inconsistent record, but it shows that God is consistent and does not hesitate to be the qualification of the my “almost” areas and the strength in the middle of my weaknesses.

Following work, Mardi, Kevin and I caught a bodaboda down to the main road, where we flagged a taxi and headed for Kampala's Rugby grounds. Watoto holds a yearly Christian music festival there - some African and some African American artists.

Riding the Matato - Mardi, Kevin and I

"Da' Truth"

It was a classic evening. Chipates, pork sticks and coca-cola being sold on the side-lines. Thousands of people excited, clamping and dancing, leaving not many square inches on the grass. A mass gathering under the East African sky to a stage, lights, sounds, music and hopefully with hearts for Christ. A classic evening, while half-way through the performance the power cut. Darkness. Silence. Then people yelling for more of Jesus, while the media crew determined the generator situation. A classic evening, where a man walked strangely close to Kelly, and she swung around and caught his arm, just as a bright spotlight suddenly shown directly on the stunned stranger, who dropped her phone to the ground. 

In all this, one man stood out centre stage. Not by what he wore, how he looked or the attention he received, yet by words he spoke:

“one of the most dangerous terms in English diction...

two words designed and strategically combined

to form the biggest oxymoron in the history of mankind

ALL-MOST...

see, 'almost' is no stranger to Satan. Here's proof:

he only tells lies when they're almost the truth

and it's amazing in our incompleteness we find complacence

but if almost is one of Lucifer's many traits

then we are inadvertently good Satan impersonations

But on the contrary, Christ did his job fully

and he proved he was God when he died on the cross like it was his duty

and to pardon my iniquities that I committed rudely

he resurrected from the grave just to tell death to excuse me

...

See, an almost Christian looks right but lives wrong

Can't stand the conviction in Romans so they sit down to be comforted in Psalms

Never understood worship but loved to sing songs like I surrender all. . .MOST

...

So now all God sees is a pile of ISHmael's when he intended for Isaac's

...even by earthly standards it would be highly insane

to start spending all of your money days before you almost get paid

like parents, you wouldn't send your kids to a school that's almost safe

and ladies, would you really date a man who claims he's almost straight?

and this is the very thing about God that we all try to get around

but his standards are like between two mountains--no middle ground

so a halfway life is unprofitable to you

cuz after all the Sunday service, Bible studies, and prayer meetings

and everything that goes between, God will say I never knew you

But that's not even the worst part of living your life as neutral

it's that you were once arctic but it is your lukewarmness that is causing him to spew you

and this is the very thing that had me

I was bound and held down by the unforgiving gravity of my spiritual reality

I was a Christian, or at least I portrayed the fantasy

With a filthy personal life but a "God bless you brother, how you doin' sister?" personality

I was a male enveloped by guilt because I was stamped a sinner

My message couldn't be received because I didn't represent the sender yet I was almost delivered

Till that one day when I totally, absolutely and completely surrendered

...

You can ask Umar Abdul Mutallab, he'll tell you the same--

you don't almost go to jail when you almost blow up a plane

like you don't almost go to hell when you almost get saved

despised the cross that he was slain and thus the cause for which he came

but don't worry i'm almost done, but before i leave this stage

we have all worked in sin and death was minimum wage

but if it wasn't for Christ we would have almost got paid”

-Almost: By Ezekiel Azonwu

Truth is, I was never qualified to be the person I am now. Not even almost. I was born unqualified through sin's curse, but God knew this long ago and ordained to change that through His Perfect Son. And if He cares about my very soul, does He not follow through in detail, filling any empty jars of surrender I offer, to qualify what I alone lack. As Paul would say, “By the grace of God, I am what I am.” An unqualified man in sinful deed and in character, yet Paul knew best that God's Strength is made perfect in weakness. We sing about God turning ashes into beauty. Yet when even the ashes are gone, God views our lack as quality – a void that God fills and enables, being the perfect qualification through us. “Now unto Him who is able...”

The Heavens Declare

As much as possible, Watoto tries to contact any living relatives or parents of the abandoned children brought to them. Sometimes they find both parents have died and there are no relatives present, other times the remaining family members sign the right of the child to Watoto. If any way, the organization will try and integrate a child back with their families. In some cases, this may happen years later.

Ray came to Watoto as a pre-mature baby, her father long gone and her mother suffering from severe mental illness. She is now around 8 years old, and her mother has contacted Watoto and wants her to come back. Although this is the only life she has known, the situation has been investigated by social workers, and she is leaving Friday. Therefore, today Mardi, Kelly and I went down to her house to say goodbye.

“She thinks she is going on holidays.” Barbra, her village sister told me.

“You haven't informed her?”

“We have, but she sees other kids going places for Christmas (some visit family members who want to see them, but can't care for them), and she thinks she is like one of them.”

The sisters were sitting in a circle on the dining room floor, eating there beans and rice. We had been blessed in eating with this family, twice now, and they held a special place in our hearts. We bid the girl goodbye, and I sincerely hope that it goes well for her.

Towards evening, Mardi, Kyra and I stood at the top of Suubi hill, catching another sunset over the valley. Jess and Anika had run off into the bushes, and seconds later, came back – something squirming under Jess's fingers. I jumped back, as it looked like she was dangling a rat, then quickly realized it was a baby kitten. It was matted, all of it's bones were imprinting his layer of fur, it's eyes were blue and open and it was meowing. He was tiny - not more than two weeks old.

“We just heard something meowing and found him tangled in a bush...” Jess was saying.

Thinking there must be more where that came from, we headed back. No noise. I glanced five feet to the left of where they had found the kitten. A cardboard box...and some sort of burlap brown sack...

I figured I knew what had happened and my suspicions were confirmed. The securely tied sack had a nasty hole on the end, and stiff white paws were poking out. However, the hole was not big enough and it was clear the mother had died while trying to stick her head out. Somehow, her baby had escaped – who knows how much time had passed.

Kevin took the kitten back to his home, while Anika got milk and a syringe to feed it with. The concern is small in comparison to many things that happen around us here, everyday. I can't help but think that God is Someone who also cares for detail, and considers the smallest of things. At the Grand Global Hotel, where I first stayed, the manager had found a pigeon on the roof with a split in it's abdomen, sewed it shut and cared for it, until it could fly. Rare, but sweet acts of compassion.

As night came, we hulled our mattresses onto the roof of the Baby Home. There are staircases on either side going all the way to a levelled out deck on the roof, running across to the middle and into the centre that widens into an open and flat area. The clear visibility of the stars shone directly above, and were a reminder of our Cell study with the security guards, the previous night...

“The heavens declare the glory of God...”

We had met with the security guards for study and the Cell leader, one of the guards, had talked long and passionately about God's glory in creation. He and the others are hired through their company, and their company is hired by Watoto. They make under 100$ a month, yet once again I saw them show an excitement for a God of goodness, a God of provision and proclaim a God of absolute glory. There did not seem to be a doubt that a God who proclaimed His glory and power in creation, cared about the everyday details of life.

“The heavens declare the glory of God...”

Looking up, I know that If this is only a demonstration in declaration, I cannot even begin to imagine the true essence of His glory.

Cell group with the Security Guards

The Good Gift of a Friend

When I look back at the times that I have gone somewhere on my own, I am amazed at how God has been constant in providing a good friend each time, within that destination, and without fail. By no means is this required of Him, or is it something He promised; rather, I am reminded that He is a Father who loves to give His children good gifts. "Every good and perfect gift is from above and comes down from the Father of Lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning." James 1:17 And what better gift is found than in that of a good friend?

Whether it was schooling for my Nursing degree, Liverpool school for Tropical Medicine, a medical missions conference in North Carolina, or working in Uganda, I have been thankful beyond words by those I have met, spent time with, and learned from. Not knowing anyone from the start of these occasions, I have come away changed by the new sisters and friends He has led me to - some halfway across the world.

Of the girls living at Suubi, Mardi was the first to meet me - the new girl from Kampala. We had just been receiving a tour of the Watoto Villages and on return, Kelly asked her what the new girl was like. I had been in the van, sitting next to the elderly volunteers and being friendly with them, thinking I would be sharing an apartment with the older ladies when I arrived at Suubi.

“So what is she like?” Kelly had asked Mardi when she returned back to their house. (I was to arrive at Suubi in a week).

“She's nice” Mardi replied.

“And...”

“She's kind of like an old person.”

However, plans changed and I was relocated with the younger volunteers, and soon unpacking my bags in the Suubi apartments above the Babies Home. I pulled out a book I had found during my stay at the Grand Global Hotel, “Diaries of a Pupil Midwife.” Seemed nursing enough, and something informative to read on slower days. I glanced over at Mardi who was quietly sitting in her own corner like an old lady, a book propped up on her knees. “Tales of a Midwife.”

One day early on, when the girls had left on an excursion, I spotted a jar of “Nutella” on one of the volunteer's shelves. I thought I could make it without during these months, and was trying to be strictly cultural. It was a lie to myself (and Steph Heron), and I resolved I was going to fess up to whoever owned the jar. It is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission (and this completely applies as they were nowhere nearby). The jar was Mardi's, of course, and from that night forward we started creating “snickers” with biscuits, peanut butter and nutella and double-creaming oreos with peanut butter (sounds disgusting but it is really not, and this is Uganda), and this later led into the traditional biscuit and tea evening. (I guess Mardi was not so off about the elderly lady comment, but perhaps it was a surprise to herself).

In meeting someone, you normally get down the basics and sometimes are surprised (yet it happens) at the things you have it common. Mardi is in nursing, specializing in midwifery, and me having been through nursing school could relate on these medical conditions. Moreover, same “financial” goals, travel aspirations, kitchen plans, we comment in movies all the time (that is the fun of them), are reading in the same book of the Bible, and strangely enough, have had the same prophesies spoken to us. The list could continue, but when I knew we would be friends was the night I offered her a leg in the pair of shorts I found. She jumped right in, and we made a spinning ground out of the room.

When Mardi arrived at the clinic after her work shift and we headed home, it wasn't a surprise when we found we were seeking God in the same ways, asking Him similar questions and looking for direct answers, frustrated that it didn't always seem to be as direct as we wanted. Yet able to pull from two perspectives, share experience on either side, and resolve to keep with each other in prayer, I was once again thankful for who God had placed in my life at this particular time. Moreover, I was reminded how He has done this over and over, showing me His goodness and encouraging me through another, time and time again.

I believe that God intends certain people cross paths, maybe for a season, perhaps for a lifetime, but always for a reason. Therefore, this isn't just to Mardi, but Steph Heron, Anne Galgano and Aleisha McPhail - Friends that I have once, and yet again learned from, in single hours of being with them. This is because God ordained the timing, having us all jump into experiences on our own, full knowing that we would meet another one of His own who would challenge, change and grow us for the path ahead. It is a reminder that we are truly not on our own, but when stepping out by ourselves, God provides with exactly what will we need and whom we need, in order to fulfil His purpose. This is truly a good gift, demonstrating that no matter what is ahead...He is a good Father.

Days Going By

My alarm rang early. This morning, there was a volunteer meeting for medical staff helping with the Watoto Christmas Cantata in Kampala. The Cantata is a Seasonal performance, put on each year by Watoto Central Church, and is for the city of Kampala. Oodles of time, effort and practice go into the night, in order to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to the population. The church had wanted a group of people to be on site for any injuries that occurred with the performers, or audience. Usually they have some sprained ankles, sometimes severe headaches or other minor incidences– last year a woman went into labor. I had offered my help a week previous, so I was heading into the city with Dr. Job to participate in the meeting. Perhaps we would go through a set-up, expectations, or protocols. Sarah, needing to run some errands, was coming with us.

The sun was just rising in the sky, when the three of us hopped on bodabodas and rode down the hill to the main road. These motorbike rides have probably become a favorite part of being in Uganda. The drivers are extremely good at navigating the right areas of the path, and sailing them quickly down steep roads. While bouncing along the back of the bike at side-saddle, you catch glimpses over the valley, wave to the passer-byers and feel the breeze of the truly, great outdoors. For the cost, I would catch rides on them for fun. If I were here any longer, I would consider an investment.

From the main road, we caught a public matato into the city of Kampala. The drive is about an hour long, wherein you experience a loss of personal space, and increase in body temperature and a co-adaptation of smell. We were happy to arrive at Central Church.

Following devotions, given by Gary Skinner and his wife (founders of Watoto), I was introduced to the other medical volunteers who would be at the performance evenings.

“Write your name here, please!” A leader asked, in entering the room.

We jotted down our names on a sheet of paper, holding them up for the camera to see.

Click. Click.

I suppose, they wanted our pictures for reference as to who would be present. I waited for the next instructions, feeling slightly tired after the early wake-up, and the hour journey.

“Thank you for coming!” The camera man left.

Job smiled. Always happy. Picked up his bag.

“Ready to go?!”

That was it.

Since we were already in the city for the very important meeting, Job thought he would stop in and check on a patient of his, at the “Case Hospital”. It was Geoffrey - a boy we had treated for Sickle Cell disease less than two weeks ago. Tests had shown his hip had become necrotic from the lack of blood supply to the area, and he was operated on to receive a prosthesis. The environment at “The Case” was fairly collected, organized and clean – a relief from what I had seen of “Mulago”. We were happy to see him doing well, and he should be home by the end of the week.

More than once, I have spotted Ugandans carrying umbrellas in the hot sun. It seems like a reasonable way to remain cool in the rays of heat. As we were headed back to the church on foot, to catch a taxi, it began to rain. Job quickly ducked under a tin-roofed shelter, with twenty other Ugandans, just as the water began to pound down. Suddenly, there were no umbrellas. Everybody waited in shelter until the rain died down. We were about 400 feet from the church building, and I couldn't see a single Ugandan walking. Those who had umbrellas were probably under shelters as well. I guess umbrellas are really for the sun.

“Um, how do you think the rain will last?” I knew Sarah was finished her errands, and waiting at the church.

“Ohh, maybe 30 minutes?” He smiled and glanced down at his watch.

No hurry, no problem and no worries. We would wait patiently until we could walk and not be wet, as there was seemed little point in running and being weary.

Back at Suubi that evening, our Bible study group met on the hill behind Maurice and Jeans, as they have returned to Scotland for holidays. Kelly baked a cake for Jess's birthday, and a watermelon was lugged along. It wasn't long after we finished discussing the 10 commandments, that we were slicing watermelon through the air with knives and making the most of the rinds in war. It carried part-way back to the pond near Suubi church, where Jess was caught a little too close to the water's edge, and the Ugandans, Daniel and Kevin, made the most of it.

“Happy bath-day!”

She was pushed into the middle of the pond, where the fish delightfully found her toes. I keep forgetting about this tradition.

Jess soaking, and the rest of us enjoying Ugandan life, we headed back down the hill, some stopping to cut through the bush and see what animals appeared in one's path at night. We made it back to the apartment without too many infirmities.

Sorry, Jess...

“Martha!” That is one of my names. The other one is “Mary”. They either hear the first part and stop listening before life gets too complicated. Or some faithful ones hear me out until the end, and try to put the “Mara-natha” together in a reasonable fashion – that's “Martha”.

“Hey, Kyra!”

“When are you done work tomorrow?”

That all depended. But we will get together if I am done work early. Sometimes we read. Sometimes we walk. Sometimes we scout out monkeys. It was a pretty good life in Suubi.

We found a baby Mango!

I headed back inside, aware that the party was not over inside. Lara and Naomi had trekked up from the city to surprise Jess for the evening. Pasta, tea, cake and Uganda stories. The latter are what kept us going further into the evening. It is hard to believe that in less than two weeks, most of us will have left for good – every current moment weaving itself into a story, and becoming a part of the past. Thirteen days left, and a lot of best day moments to happen.