More than a Sparrow

I wished we could take her up the hill this Sunday, but the stimulation would be overwhelming. Abby giggled and squealed when spun around, her eyes open but not seeing. A thick film was over them, making her pupil a large, cloudy gray shape in the background - she is legally blind. The other children were quietly playing, so this was her time to shine. The less noise around her, the better – the less anxious she became and the more she could express herself.

“She's really improved,” they had told us.

She used to sit long periods and bang her head against the wall. Now four years old, she was the oldest child in Suubi Babies home. When she was only an infant, she had been found in the bottom of a latrine, and when workers had retrieved her, maggots had already eaten her eyes.

It is rare to go to church here without a baby. Most of the volunteers take a little one with them, have them dressed up in Sunday best, grab the diaper bag with snacks and essentials, and trek the 20 minute climb up Suubi hill. It adds another element to a service, when a child is sitting on your lap with a decent set of markers and no paper, another is grabbing onto the chairs in front – so excited that, despite his neuromuscular disease, he has just began to walk, another is getting hungry and making the most out of his millet cracker (making sure we get the most from it, as well).

Anika and Conner

I looked to my right and spotted my young friend from Friday night. She had written me a note on Saturday, asking if I would come see her. Since her house is right across from my housing, I had walked through the gates and over to her steps, finding that she had gone up to “House 35”.

As I continued up the hill, I stopped at house 34.

“Is Kyra (name changed) here,” I had asked a boy going in the door

“Yes.”

I had gone inside, and been greeted by the entire family, who immediately stopped what they were doing, to visit. After chatting for a while, I looked around noticing my young friend was not to be seen.

“Kyra is here?” I asked again.

The reply was still the same. I kept talking until I realized that most definitely, Kyra was not here.

“So...Kyra is not here?” I tried to reword it. “I am looking for Kyra...”

Somehow, the realization transmitted and I communicated that I was sorry to go, but I had been looking for someone.

On leaving the home, the house mother told me to please come back. Having seen one of the boys who was earlier receiving treatment, I inquired.

“Was he at the clinic?”

“Yes...Yes, and,..” she gestured down to the kidney region. It dawned on me that I had walked into the house of the boy who needed a transplant.

“And they found a donor!” She quickly added. “We will be going to India!”

God allowed me to step in the wrong house and visit, showing me the individual care for each of his own.

Back in the church building, Kyra perched next to the other volunteers, a big smile on her face. The room was crowded...very crowded, as the services that morning had been combined for a Christmas play that the Sunday school children put on. At times, it was difficult to hear, for all the young ones present. However, though the distraction and beyond the noise I was reminded how God loves each and every child so individually. He cares about Abby's eyes and helped Conner take his first steps. He led me to find how he cared about the little boys kidneys and Kyra's smile said enough.

“What is the price of two sparrows--one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10:29-31

Maize Gone Wrong

How about a baking competition?

As Saturday's are only half work days, it seemed like the perfect opportunity  moreover, it was one of Uganda's rainy moments. Kelly and I grabbed two bowls and headed for the beat-up, grease-stained, lined-paper notebook with a friend's cookie recipe from her Saskatchewan home.

“Competition?” I asked.

She confirmed.

I pulled out my flour.

“What is that?” Kelly's face looked funny at my flour bag

“Uh, flour...”

“You bought Maize??”

I had not thought of the corncob adorning the front satchel when I had bought it. Wasn't it all flour?

The culprit

Apparently not. As I churned and mashed my dough, it was nothing but granular substance that kept falling apart. It would not do for any “Betty and Veronica” cooking show, now or to come...ever. I kept positive has Kelly formed her perfectly round dough balls. I would just make squares.

I added extra water to the dough, drizzled some peanut butter on top, spread the mixture into the pan, and placed it into the gas oven. Thirty minutes later, I tasted it. I might as well have taken two dry, raw cobs, given them a good blender ride and spread them in the bottom of a pan, adding some peanuts over top.

Sarah walked in the door, her volunteer hours complete.

“I'm starving!”

“Help yourself” I said from my corner of distress.

“Hmm not bad! Actually not...I'm going to perfect this.” She proceeded to heat up some chocolate milk with the crumbled square she cut, so as to not dry out her membranes in process of first stage digestion.

I promise, although we are eating blended cobs at times, we are not starving in Uganda. Some things just taste better this way.

Maize Disappointment :(

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhuFDK-QlK8: Link to the "Betty and Veronica" Cooking Show

10,000 Reasons

“Do you know what it is like to have no one love you,” she asks.

No, no I don't.

I was born into a safe and protecting home with two loving parents. I had three older brothers welcoming me. I never had to worry from where my food was coming – dad always bought groceries and she always made supper. I had many pretty dresses to wear, and friends to play with. My mom sang to me, made me homemade cookies, read me stories, and my dad brought me back lego sets from his business trips. My siblings all played together, and my brother was kept home a year because we had so much fun together. I had a closet full of toys and the only thing I wanted, as a little girl, I got...A baby sister. My mom gave me 100 kisses every night. My dad drove us across the country to show us new places and people. For 13 years, my mom fought and risked her own life, to make certain we all had the fullest. At her cost, we did. And we still do. I knew love.

Her first mom told her she was adopted, and dropped her off at an orphanage. She now had a second mom. “She doesn't really love me,” she tells me. She chokes on her words.

I listen. There are times you don't have words, and you can't understand.

Earlier that day in the clinic, I was with a young boy who badly twisted his ankle. When wrapping it, I noticed that for his age of 16 years, he didn't understand English well.

“He's been out of school for too long,” the physiotherapist explained. “His kidneys don't work.”

I looked up from what I was doing.

“He needs a kidney transplant.”

“Is he on a list?” I asked.

“There are no lists here. You just have to find someone. They did once, but it wasn't a match.”

I watched the boy limp out of the room, leaning on an older brother - too small for his age. I wondered if he would ever get the kidney he needed. I didn't have words then. Neither could I understand.

When my young friend and I walk into the church, they have already begun singing:

You're rich in love and you're slow to anger

Your Name is great and Your heart is kind

For all Your goodness I will keep on singing

10,000 reasons for my heart to find.

My young friend has her head bowed and hands folded. Maybe she is seeking out meaning. Maybe she is trying to find reasons.

Inside the building, about 500 people raise their voices together. It is one thing to sing about 10,000 Reasons in the Western world, it is another thing to stand among people who have been through so much and lost so much, and here them singing the words; maybe some praying for the strength to sing the words. Many of them, when talking of desires or loses, refer back to their only Source of Hope and definite Source of Strength. In Him, I have heard them find reason after reason. In their losses, they talk of blessing.

Testimonies are inquired. A teenage girl runs to the front. First she praises God.

“Now,” she continues, “I want to thank my mama.” She pauses, looking out towards her village mother.

Then moving the microphone aside, she kneels down on the cement floor.

“No...I want to kneel for her.” Eyes in the room are not dry.

“She has done everything for me. I would not be where I am without her. Thank you for loving me, mama.”

They call her mother up, who takes into her arms, the girl she loved and raised as her own.

My heart hurts.

A second lady stands close. She looks older, more worn – even thin.

“Praise God.” She begins.

“Amen!” The room choruses.

My little friend turns to me, and cupping her hand to my ear, she tells me.

“She was very sick with cancer, but God completely healed her.”

It feel it crack.

I look to my side. She's rasing her right hand, eyes closed. Maybe finding reason. My own tears tell me that I have reason...no, I have reasons. Far more than 10,000.

Jesus said “Blessed are the poor in spirit...the meek...those who mourn...those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...the merciful...the pure in heart...the peacemakers...those who are persecuted for righteousness sake...”

We experience. We feel. We turn again, and see He has always been there.

We respond:

Bless the Lord, Oh my soul...

Worship His Holy Name

Sing Like never before, Oh my soul

I'll worship Your Holy Name

We are both singing now.

As Guests in their Homes

This is the third time I have been to a villagers home for meal, in the three weeks that I have been in Suubi. I feel I speak of this frequently, but the warm reception and generosity here seems to have no limits.

We were congregated at house number 22 in the village, with “Emma's” family, for a “going away” for Sheryl, the other nurse volunteer. On arrival, we had been greeted by some of the eight siblings, plus the neighbouring house who had been invited for dinner, as well. It was nearing 7pm, so the table had been pre-set with a lantern in the middle, to give light into the single room - living and dining area. Extra mats were rolled out on the floor for more sitting room, and I joined three girls under age seven. Two sat quietly in observation, and one moved beyond anyone I had ever held. I removed her rubber-soled shoes at one point for fear of bloody noses, and she sat down hard, and with a frown, strapped them tightly back on, continuing with her joyful routine. A tiny kitchen stood off to the side, with a coal pit for cooking, and counter space for preparation.

Mardi smiled. “My second Ugandan meal of the day!”

Excited for dinner with our host!

We lined up to wash our hands, one of our hostesses standing at the end of the line with a kettle. I wondered how long it had been since the water had boiled, as it was difficult to check for steam in the dark. Everybody in front of me seemed to be fine, so I extended my hands under the agent and yes, let the mildly cooled liquid burn any germs away. With no soap in sight, I accept.

We are always prompted to go first through the lines, and the family eats last. We made our way through, piling plates high with matoke, posha, chicken, rice, beans, peanut sauce, chunky broth, chipate, cabbage creation and more cooked bananas (in a different fashion). At our places, they had placed water bottles - quite a treat from the jerry cans of water I am used to seeing at work. Coca Cola and Fanta were also an option.

The mothers are outstanding in the amount they cook over the small coal pit. The older ones are incredible helpers, and the children often vibrant and excited for guests. Last week, a little girl only wanted to sing “Joy to the World” the whole of lunch time. Any other suggestion was soon put down with her beginning to sing the first verse again. This meal, there was a continuous reminder that little Miss Joyful was at my feet, as she ate nearby, never stopped moving...and never removed her shoes. A constant tap, giggle and squeal kept some dinner guests on their toes.

One thing is for sure, the Ugandans at Suubi are beyond hospitable and welcoming. I knew this when I left the house, and saw my shoes waiting for me – washed, dried and clean.

Time

A knock on the door. I glanced at the mounted clock. 7:45AM.

“Hey, I'm here to pick you all up!” It was one of Watoto's drivers. We were all headed to Kampala for the day to have a volunteer's meeting and get grocery essentials.

“Are you sure it is now?” I asked...not surprised. “I was told 9pm.”

“Oh, okay!” He walked back down to the van and tilted back his seat for a morning nap.

Slowly, the rest of the gang was up, making French toast, eggs and oatmeal over the gas stove - enjoying a paced breakfast. It is a learned skill here, but everybody else does it, so I am good with that. I never grew up in the city, but I might as well have with the pace I am used to. Usually, I am trying to keep up to my brother Jordan's pace at home, but here I come close to losing the Ugandans in the city, and furthermore  I don't even know where I am going. I need to keep in check. Walking home from the clinic, I will be doubling the the villagers, but the moment I am in step, we begin talking and I remind myself to slow down. I am learning; and it is enjoyable.

Once in the city, Mardi and I plopped down in a cafe to get internet. “Cafe Pap” has incredibly tasty cappuccinos and Banana Malts – I highly recommend the locations. Once we had ordered, we logged on and found that the wifi was once again non-functional. Thinking she might go retrieve some cash from the atm, Mardi surrendered her card to the machine, that did not give it back. Sorry, you cannot get your card back without ID. More taxi rides. More time.

Fred was helping us find Mardi's passport ID, as they keep them in a safe at the church. There was a volunteer meeting at 2pm, and he was moving faster than I had yet seen.

“I just want to make sure you are back on time from the bank, for the meeting at 2pm,” he was saying, holding his phone. “You still have time...”

Mardi glance at her own phone, confused.

“It is 2...”

More taxi rides. More waiting in line. Smiles. Cashback. And 30 minutes later, were back in time for the meeting.

Previously, I hopped over to “Orange” - a store that sells wifi motems. They had plugged in some data to my motem, which I soon found was not working. The data had gone onto the wrong account (this had been my fault, as the account number I had given was wrong). No problem, they would transfer the data.

“It will take two hours,” they had said.

Two hours later...lines, more time, smiles.

“It will take 24 hours.”

Smiles. I left the store with the employees number, just in case.

Following the volunteers meeting, there was a beautifully decorated cake for those who had served, and would be leaving in the next month. It didn't seem right, but all too soon, as a crowd of us gathered to slice it together. It was the end of my first month here, but also the start of my last. No matter how we seem to pace ourselves through life, whether rushing through a city or meandering through a rural village, time always gets the upper-hand by being a concept that will not be fully grasped or comprehended. It slows down. It runs away. It is one thing, which with I am never in step.

I love cake

Ugandan Birthday

There is this tradition in Uganda, that on someone's birthday you are to dump them with water. And when I say “dump”, I mean dump. It is not a sole cup of water, or even a jug of water; and if they had fire hoses around, I am positive that would be the better option.

I had taken a seat in the lunch room, to enjoy the daily dish of common variety, when I spotted the plastic jug near the base of my chair. Sissy tapped me on the arm, put her finger to her mouth and pointed at it, barely able to contain her laughter. It was Nurse Stella's birthday today.

There were about eight of us around the table, conversing in English and Ugandan. (Not me. Them. I cannot speak Ugandan. Not even close.). Then out of no specific timing in particular, the jug came sailing at Stella. She shrieked and stood up quickly, but water poured down her uniform. I laughed. We laughed. But my own laughter turned into slight awkward confusion, as people were suddenly running to and from the room with empty food pots and pans; soaking Stella with more and more water, and laughing as a miniature flood formed on the lunch room floor. The fun did not end. No really, it never got old.

Some time later, Stella was drying out in the hot sun, contemplating how she would get a dry uniform for the rest of the day. Out came Better, the receptionist with two more buckets, and a chase begin in the yard. It seems you are open game for the whole day, with an endless flow of water, and they all love it.

Getting the birthday dump - for the upteenth time

“When is your birthday?! When is your birthday?!” The new volunteer was now target of the questions.

If I had believed in white lies, it would have been now. I brushed it off, and they asked again.

Now, I have seen them mark their calenders and I know I am on schedule for that day. I covet rain boots, a poncho and an umbrella. Interesting days lie ahead.

Someone to Praise

It was approaching 5am, and the rain was coming down hard outside. Every few seconds, the room would light up – a massive clap of thunder following. Our fan had long since turned off, indicating the power failure. There was not much point in trying to keep sleeping.

I stepped out on the porch, watching the lightening coming down from the clouds, and across the valley. November and December are rainy seasons in Uganda. So far, I had caught increments of the rain throughout periods of scattered days. However, this rain did not look like it was leaving anytime soon. It can rain so hard here, that trees 15 feet in front are an absolute blur. I was reminded of God's power and thought about Job's words “Behold these are fringes of His ways; And how faint a word we hear of Him.” Job 26:14 God's power magnified in the storm, I stepped back inside to get ready for church.

No matter the weather, we would be hiking up the back hill, getting into two vehicles and manoeuvring out to a little church in the bush – the “BushChurch” - as it had been named. A man named “David”, who runs the catering school at Watoto, had founded and was now, leading the church. The BushChurch is only a frame of tree trunks and branches, nailed together with a tin roof on top. Beside it, was a red brick schoolhouse. Only a month ago, a tremendous storm had raged during service, and the people prayed for the church to stand. Beside them, the sturdy brick schoolhouse fell, while the church structure and people, stood firm and dry.

With one umbrella between the five of us, we were not quite dry when we reached the cars. We piled into the two vehicles, and bumped down a dirt road, the co-pilot continually trying to wipe steam enough off the wind shield  for the driver to see. I was amazed we weren't bottoming out on dirt, rutted, slippery roads as these.

Jammed in the backseat                              

The car stopped in the middle of a dirt road, with two small houses on either side. David emerged with a feathery creature snug under the crook of his jacket arm.

“Has that been in there all along?!” Mardi asked.

“Yes, it's my tithe!” He replied. It was one of David's 10 chickens.

The tithe

The cow-skin drums could be heard half a mile down the road. We approached the structure and were greeted by about 30 other Christians. Handshakes, feet stomping, jumping, hand raising, clapping and praising. I have spoken about the foghorn at Central Watoto; in the bush, here it was a plastic pink whistle that came out every now and then. In song climax, the whistle blew and the ladies tapped their hands against their mouths, letting out shrill noises that I had only ever recognized as Native American war cries. Prayers came and they all came at once. Everyone talking...shouting – the cows in front of building went on eating, undisturbed.

The worship went on for about an hour. I appreciated the enthusiasm, the eagerness to praise, the desire to communicate with God. However, it was more of a situation where I could observe, worship God in my own way (quite quiet in comparison), and thank the Lord for the opportunity to be with His people. I appreciated and thought of the quiet gathering together back home, to remember Christ on Sunday morning. His death, bringing us light. That is something to sing about; That is Someone to praise.

Kelly is a good teacher :)

Girl in Sunday School

Mulago

There are some situations for which you can never prepare yourself. We had been warned. We had been told some of the worst aspects. It is still awful. And it is awful because it is human.

We had just entered the gates to Mulago Hospital in Kampala – Loraine, Jon, Mardi, Kelly and I. Jon had called his local friend to take us through, as going without a translator or a sense of navigation would have been most difficult. Mulago is large, with many different wards, and is the hospital where all doctors work during their residency. At the entrance, outside the hospital doors, there were metal and plastic beds with patients lying in them. People without beds, were sitting or lying, blankets and food beside them...waiting. This scene was not reserved for the outside of the hospital. Every new floor to which we climbed, more people were parked outside wards and in the hallway. Many looked quite sick; some were heavily pregnant.

Entrance to Mulago

Although we were within visiting hours, and many Ugandans are able to freely get around, we were stopped outside the first ward. The official ask what we wanted, speaking in the native tongue. I noticed a sign hanging above the officials head, “ATTENTION TO ALL VISITORS! Doctors cannot examine & treat patients while visitors are in the ward.”

“They get worried whenever they see Mzungus,” he explained. “They know what they are doing here is not right...”

That is when we entered the first ward. He was only allowing two of us to proceed, and as Mardi and I were a part of the medical field, we went ahead. A man lay on a metal bed with no mattress, about four doctors in lab coats stood around him, a kidney basin was below his eye. Something may have penetrated one, as it was bleeding and they were squirting solution in, letting the drips fall into a metal kidney basin below. I walked a few steps further, hesitating for what I might be walking on. Next to one metal bed, was a large clear bucket, the bottom filled with dark blood. Beside that, another empty bed stood, older blood stains splattered on the floor around it. Sharp containers, buckets and towels were scattered on the ground around the room.

Having seen enough there, we headed back to meet up with the group. We walked across the hospital, outside and down to a separate building for infants, passing many people along the way. I spotted a sign saying “Mulago Hospital. Services here are free.”

“That is only on paper,” the local explained. “Then they come here and if they want to be seen, they need to bribe the doctors with money.”

“How long will people wait?” I asked.

“As long as two months.”

He told us, it is not uncommon that people die while waiting. They are sick, but unable to pay and therefore, left to die in the corridors.

The government of Uganda built this hospital, especially directing it towards poor people who need free health care. However, the gorvernment has little money to pay staff, and they require doctors to work there for at least three years after they have finished residency. Hence, doctors will work elsewhere, where they make more money, and come to Mulago for as a second job. The staff are overwhelmed with the amount of people to be treated and the lack of funds, so bribes have become an only way to get proper treatment. If you do not have money, you often do not get care.

“Then are the officials and doctors here trying to hide the corruption from the government?”

“Many of them are government.”

He told us about the donated medicines to Uganda. The government sells all the valuable ones to private clinics. They only give cheap medication, like Paracetamol (Tylenol), to the patients along with a prescription to go buy their other medications. Obviously, many of them cannot afford it.

Our local had grown up in the slums, and worked his way out, starting an organization to help give slum children a better life. We entered a children's ward, a separate building around the back of Mulago. Mothers sat in the waiting room with their babies on their laps. As I looked around, I spotted a little boy, maybe one year old. His legs and arms so thin, and his bones showing through his skin. His mother was helping him eat a snack, but he was severely malnourished. He looked like Calvin.

“Many mothers have been in here since 6am,” the local said. “My brother came here...”

“Did he get seen?”

“He did.”

It had been too late, He had died shortly after.

Just then, a middle-aged nurse walked out of her office, in a blue dress, and spoke to the waiting crowd, in Ugandan, holding up her fingers and rubbing them together

“She's saying that anybody who can give her money now, will be seen before 6pm.” He explained. One of the mother's stood up and started speaking loudly and quickly at the nurse. One of them looked as if she would cry.

Patient Filing

One of the better filing rooms

Mardi wanted to visit the labour and delivery ward, but the guard would not permit us entry. However, our local kept talking with her, and found out a further reason. She really wanted money from us, if we were to visit the ward.

Cardiology and General Surgery were open wards, lined with beds on either side of the rooms, included two beds down the centre – just enough squeezing space for medical staff to get by. I walked by a faucet to wash my hands – none of them were functioning. There was a strong smell of urine in many areas, patients lying on the floor beside beds, family members attending on their sick – as this was the only way they would be fed. In some instances, there was more than one person to a bed. Online, it is said that Mulago holds around 1,700 people; however, there are over 3,000 patients there.

I thought in asking about visiting the Cancer unit, as this is where I have had my main nursing experience. However, we were getting ready to go – we had seen enough to process for the next week. In meeting with Fred later, we went through the events of the day. One of the volunteers was very quiet for the evening that followed – just processing they said. Nobody blamed them.

“When I heard you were going, I really hoped you would not visit certain wards.” Fred said.

“Like which one?” I asked.

“The Cancer ward.”

I desperately wanted to do more – I know we all did. There is a Hope that lives inside each one of us, even in the most dire of situations. This is what I wanted to be able to communicate and show– not just go to be a spectator. Such corruption has been far from my own reach in the Western World, that it is a challenge in itself to process during first-hand experience. However, showing care and reaching out for individuals is what holds true value. I believe we all hope to return. If our hearts were heavy when walking the hallways of Mulago, I know the cries of God's heart were and are, that much more.

Small Accidents

“Be care...”

*BAM. Scraaaaaapeee.*

“Whoops.”

Our taxi driver put his head in his hands, as I deftly pulled back on my door and closed it again; but not before it crushed in the other car's side mirror, dented the metal at the front door hinges, and scraped the side of her door. When I had moved to exit the back of the taxi, no one was there, but I should have rotated my neck and checked well in back of me. She'd come flying by, inches from my door. I had not even open the door half a foot, before she sailed by, taking brunt of the blow. Thankfully, Musana, our taxi driver – his doors had not even a scrape.

With no insurance to call and no police to fetch, I exited the car and mingled between some nearby cars with Anika. The frustrated lady that exited her vehicle, did not need to know we were white. This could only add to the cloudy feelings. I was not sure what would befall, but I knew the doctors appointment to the city would be a bit more than expected.

Bumps and scrapes in Kampala are frequent. They have an entire ward at the hospital called the bodaboda ward – affectionately named after the taxi motorbikes. It's specifically for accidents that are a result of them. It is hard to imagine how they deal properly or fairly with with vehicle accidents here. If insurance is not in place, or something is done in clear fault of another, who will not recompense for his actions, there is no police force on which to rely.

One time, a volunteer from Norway had her purse stolen, so a volunteer coordinator had taken her to the police station to file for a report. He warned her ahead of time that this police station was not going to be anything like she had ever seen. She probably would not even see a computer in the building. The girl entered a small room, with one wooden bench in the entryway, and a man came up to them with a big tattered notebook. The moment the police saw the white girl, and heard that she had her purse stolen, he spoke to the coordinator in Ugandan, asking him to please “tell the volunteer if she wants help finding her purse, she will have to pay us.”

“She just had her purse stolen. Go ahead and ask her yourself.” He had challenged.

The Ugandan police could not bring himself to do this. Instead they stalled the report process for three weeks saying they did not have the insurance paperwork ready, until the coordinator told the police man the Norwegian government was getting involved. The policeman was very upset - the papers were ready the next day.

Our taxi driver chuckled as he walked back over to us. I think he saw the whole situation as slightly humorous. I was incredibly white in the chaos of Kampala.

“She wants 70,000,” He stated. The victim driver had called the mechanic and that is how much he was asking to repair the mirrors and dent on the door.

“I called as well,” Musana added. “I have a friend who works in mechanics so it is the correct price.” I was grateful for him, who has been a faithful taxi driver for us, many times, and was deemed trustworthy

Seventy thousand is under 30$ Canadian, so I was more than happy to extend that for my rather distraught deed. On returning to the apartments that evening, we tipped Musana, and I disembarked out of Anika's door.

Innovation

The power is functional perhaps 60% of the time in Suubi. I was working as clinic administrator, entering patient data into the computer system, when the lights went out. That is when it dawned on me – the importance of “save”. I had just completed 30 patient entries, that had now vacated into thin air. I really should have known.

Betty, the administrator, was not in for the day, so Dr. Job had given me a quick run down on the tasks. The patients sign in on a sheet upon arrival, and all their data, post-visit, is entered on a spreadsheet on Word-Exel file. Simple enough. Furthermore, Betty performs minor triage and assessment on sicker patients, retrieving their files and bringing them directly to the doctor.

A normal orientation is one month. Not here. If you are a nurse, there are many other things they will be asking and teaching you to do. If you show yourself competent once, it seems you are competent for life. You really need to stand up and say “Hey, I am really not comfortable performing this C-section, could you please help me..” Well, not quite to that extent.

Administration was not the only new job for the day; Thursdays are immunization days. Following administration orientation, a nurse, Cissy, trained me in the small vaccination room. A desk and sat in one corner with a non-functional computer (thanks to the lack of power), a freezer with the vaccines in the other corner, and a bench for the ladies and their babies. Cissy and I worked on giving out vaccinations until partway through lunch.

I walked home in the rain, knowing I would be needing my headlamp, or “torch” as most people seem to call it here. (The first time I was asked if I had brought a “torch”, I was thinking it was a kind of weapon-security test question. “Why no...I did not bring any flaming torches...”) Thankfully, we have a gas stove at the apartment. It has been multiple evenings that the headlamps come out and we shuffle around the living space, like fireflies through the dark, trying desperately to fry the rice, bake the banana bread, and roast vegetables, hoping that the ingredients are as we feel them to be. Every now and then, you hear a howl from a corner of the apartment. Someone who perhaps forgot any portable lighting device and tripped, or the sensation of a cockroach taking advantage of the dark situation. Worst case, we forget to turn off the light switch when the power goes out, then we all go to bed and a few hours later...HULLO...all the lights turn back on, the fan, the microwave, the kettle, the washer and the house is suddenly being invaded by power at 2am.

During the day, Mardi had taken a motorbike to the markets and picked up bags of potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and peppers. She had three pots boiling when I walked in the door. Once they were cooked, we lugged the gas can over to the mega oven on the other side of the Baby Home, to roast all the veggies together. Turns out that gas stoves take a little longer to heat things. At 9pm, the six of us were dining at a candlelit table with toilet paper for napkins, a large pan of roast veggies, a jug of boiled water, sliced local fruit, banana bread and homemade fudge from Sarah's family in Virginia. They say, “creativity is the fuel of innovation.” With the restricted options here, innovation will be in plenty

Dinner Time!

Left to Right hand: Kelly, Anika Mardi, Jon, Me, Sarah

His Grace in Miracles

 She was 27 weeks pregnant, riding home on a bodaboda, the local motorbike taxis, when the accident occurred  From where she landed, they were telling her the baby would never live. She had already lost her first child from heart failure in the first four days. “Favor”, she had called the little girl.

Now her face was broken up and bleeding, her arms twisted upward at an odd angle, unable to move, and her swollen stomach scraped, bloody and bruised – where the main impact had gone.

“Please God,” she had cried. “Save this baby and I will name him whatever you want. He will be for you. Please...”

“Gracious”

The scans had shown no broken bones, and she walked out of the hospital that day, knowing she would be giving birth less than two months later. His name is Gracious.

“God still performs miracles today.” Maurice was saying. He and his wife, Jean, are missionaries from Scotland, and currently living as teachers in Watoto's Suubi village. I was sitting in a small circle of people, in a local's home, on the outskirts of the community. Each week on Wednesday, everyone who works for, or is part of Watoto Church, attends a “cell” group. There are hundreds of these groups, as they are composed of about 7-10 people – an accountability circle and discussion on God's Word. Often, there are a list of questions and thoughts discussed from what was shared in church on Sunday; following, people share what the Lord has done for them, or showed them in the past week. They have showed to keep the church together in relationship, and learning and growing in Christ. Maurice was reviewing the book of Jonah, drawing out miracles that happened throughout the account, while referring to current events he had recently seen happen in Uganda.

“We don't seem to realize the weight of Jonah's assigned task, to go to Nineveh and tell the leader he was terribly wrong, and him and his people would befall judgement and die,” he was saying. “What if you...” he asked a group of Ugandan girls, “were woken by God in the night, and told to go to Kony and tell him he was wrong, and would suffer God's wrath for what he did.” Woah. That hit home. I probably would have taken the nearest boat out, as well.

“Then think of how when Jonah did finally go, the king repented...” In that light, that aspect of the story really did seem like a miracle.

There were more, before and after. The way God weaved his timing and purpose into that account was miraculous  For one, after being in the belly of the great fish for three days, Jonah would have been bleached white from the acid. The Ninevites feared the “god of the sea”, so perhaps when they saw Jonah walking up to the city, bleached white, from the sea...

Not long ago, a young boy suffered a stroke in Suubi Village. He was unable to move anything on his body, save his eyes. For two weeks, they joined to lay hands and pray for him; the third week, Maurice shook his hand as the young boy walked into church - completely and totally healed. With a stroke...that does not happen. It simply doesn't. Yet even in these days, God has shown to be able. He is ...the God of Grace. “But unto every one of us is given grace according to the measure of the gift of Christ.” And how great...is that Gift.

Sunrise from our Balcony

Wounds and Stitches

“Is the doctor in?” A young boy's head popped up at the window.

“She is seeing someone right now, but you can...”

“Can you fix my toe...”

I looked out the window and down at the toe. The nail was totally gone, and a dirty, bloody surface was left exposed. Soccer game gone wrong.

Leaving the pharmacy, I led him back into the treatment room, and cleaned and dressed the wound from what was available. His young friend sat giggling nearby, while the injured boys face showed no change. Some of these kids are are seeming to be fairly tough when it comes to pain.

Today, a young man hopped in the treatment room around 10am, his left foot bound tightly with tattered and stained socks. I could see why. Dark red, blood was beginning to seep out near the sole. While working in construction that morning, he had been deeply cut with a blade. I turned my back, retrieving scissors to remove the sock. Meanwhile, he rapidly flung it off with his hands to reveal the wound, flinging blood into the air. I needed to communicate more quickly.

In inspecting the wound, he took our his cellphone and *click*, took a picture.

"Facebook?" I asked. He laughed. Some things really do not change between countries.

The wound was at least 1/2 an inch deep, tearing through fat and muscle near the base of his foot. I irrigated it with Normal Saline and Hydrogen Peroxide over a plastic basin, while Dr. Irene prepared for Lidocaine for injection. She handed me the syringe.

“Just inject around the area.”

These people have tough skin. It wasn't smooth, but I managed to inject mL of Lidocaine all around his wound to numb the area, praying the needle would go in each time. I heard him praying too...

His skin was so tough, that the needle bent during the first stitch, and then threatened to not come through the other side. Thankfully, there were enough suture kits at hand.

Forty minutes later, after applying a dressing over the final sutures, he hopped out of the clinic towards home. I hoped it wasn't far.

“I knew that skin would be tough,” Dr. Irene stated. “You do the next one.”

I made a mental note of the number of oranges I had to peel and stitch, back at the apartment, and grabbed a couple expired suture kits from the cupboard before leaving work.

The beautiful little clinic

A Ugandan Meal

A couple students from the catering school appeared at the pharmacy window, but not for any medical reasons.

“Delivery?” They asked.

Their evening menu was pasta and minced pork – this is entirely different from the daily food I've eaten since I arrived. I do not suppose there has been reason to mention the food, as nothing will quite compare to the experience in St.Marcs, Haiti. However, if you have had one lunch here, you probably have had them all.

Pharmacy Window

Stomach grumbles. Enter. A counter laid out with pots and containers of various shapes and sizes. I pick up a plate from the front of the line, and search for a fork (usually, I find one). The first lid opens, revealing a mass of greenish-brown leaves; of course, this is not to be eaten. The beauty is what lies underneath the foliage. Matoke – mashed and cooked, green bananas. It's fruit, right? I shrug and accept a dollop  Moving on, a container of white rice. America! I take two dollops  Next comes the meat container. I peer in and find a sea of murky brown broth, with few scattered chunks of various shapes and sizes floating. As I am not sure what kind of meat this is, and the remainders are usually more to do with animal aspect, but not always the meat part of the mammal, I politely continue down the line. Another open lid. The color is green; the consistency is stringy. I call it the Cooked Cabbage Creation and don't miss out on my vegetables. Now I'm wondering how many pots there are. Next...potatoes! They are small and round, fried and then boiled. It is like Sunday lunch and I take a few. Funny, I spot another Sunday lunch dish...mashed potatoes? I don't mind the double potato portion and take a scoop. No, it is not mashed potatoes.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Posha!” Or more literally, it is flour and water. I am told that you can either have maize mixed with water, or millet and maize mixed with water; millet on it's own with water will give you an upset stomach. I am confused. Won't they all? Posha is a local favorite.

I am reaching the end of the line. Brown beans.

“What type of beans?” I ask, curious.

“Beans!”

They taste quite like re-fried beans, and are flavorful. I take some. Now for the topping – a light, purple sauce to pour over your plate. Just before the liquid-paste engulfs my plate, I ask. It's purple peanut sauce. The color confuses me, but I accept and sit down to enjoy, yet another, Ugandan lunch.

This was the only meal I ever got with noodles, and a noticeable chicken leg. Hmm

What to Sow. What to Reap.

Much of what happens in life comes through the choices we have made: the words we speak, the places we go, the people with whom we spend time, in what we invest our money, and where we spend our energy. Someone was recently saying “Your desires shape your destiny,” implying that many of these decisions are often based on what we want, and these choices will work to shape our future. Therefore, through these choices, there are many times where we “reap what we sow”. Furthermore, this morning it was mentioned that there are also instances where we receive, but not because of what we have planted. I know that in these situations, we still have a choice.

When I think of choices that shape our destiny, Naaman comes to mind. Inflicted with leprosy and therefore, paralysed from his position in the army and an outcast of society, he sought help from the prophet Elisha, expecting to be instantly healed for money or goods. Instead, he was faced with a decision. Elisha told him to dip seven times in the Jordan River – a filthy river. What seemed unreasonable, senseless and perhaps insanity, proved to be a simple test of trust and obedience; and Naaman had a choice. In the end he put down his own pride and reason  and doing as he was told, he trusted the man of God and was healed.

This morning, the pastor talked of the widow whose sons were going to be taken from her because she could not pay her taxes. She too went to see the prophet, Elisha, and asked for his help. She might have been thinking the answer would come in the form of “money from heaven”.

“Go borrow vessels at large for yourself from all your neighbours, even empty vessels; do not get a few,” he had told her. Then Elisha asked her to pour her last little pot of oil into those jars, until the oil stopped flowing. It seemed unrealistic, perhaps insane, yet it tested her obedience and trust. Her sons went out to find jars, and she filled all that they brought back to her. Should she have insisted they find more, might the oil have continued to flow? I believe it would have. She had the option of filling as many jars as she could find. She filled what her sons brought to her, paid her taxes – the act of obedience and trust, preserving her sons.

Therefore, I was reminded this morning that we have choices. If we trust God - speak when He asks us to, do what He requires of us, go where He tells us to, we can be assured our destiny lies in the safety of His hands. “The safest place to be is in the Will of God”. Moreover, we reap what we sow. Jonah made a choice and ran; he had the belly of the great fish coming his way. Esther made a forbidden entrance to the king; she saved her people. However, there are time where we will receive what we didn't sow –types of losses, suffering and natural disaster – and in these events, we make a choice whether we continue to trust God. In these times, I think of all I received in life, for which I did not sow - the unfailing love, forgiveness, and Eternal redemption of Christ. Therefore, when suffering and loss seem to overwhelm, I know I can trust Him because He has already given me unspeakable gifts which I never sowed. I have harvested a lovingkindness from Him, which I could never have planted.

I hope that in the difficult times, I choose to respond like Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-nego - If the Lord saves us, and if He doesn't, we will continue to serve and trust Him. “Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace...But if not, let it be known to you, O king, that we do not serve your gods, nor will we worship the gold image which you have set up.”Daniel 3:17,18

Taking little Esther to church :)

Sunrise over the valley

Birthday Party Resources

I was standing on a chair, reaching upward on my tip-toes, and trying to hang the pale pink streamers from the window over the double balcony doors. Mardi handed me the tape.

“You got it?”

It was way too late for this. We had waited until our roommate, Sarah, had gone to bed, before preparing the festivities, as was her birthday tomorrow. However, we had all had a long day.

The windows were quite high. My hands were shaking, trying to reach above the door frame, and then I lost my composure - broke down laughing, tipping off the chair into the balcony doors in front of me, which immediately opened and almost shot me through to the porch. I grabbed the door frame just in time, still laughing of exhaustion and the fleeting thought that I could have been on “Fail compilation of November 2014”.

We had run out of medical tape, and were cutting up Bandaids to hang the last of the streamers. The writing on the glass mirrors in the room, was the courtesy of the hand soap we had. Resources.

Saturday, the clinic is open until 2pm so Irene and the nurses can go home early. There had been plenty of people in the clinic since a bad cold has been going around. One has to be careful when near any children. From first hand experience, there is no shame (and rebuke?) in open-mouth coughing, the type with phlegm involved. I had felt the substance rise into my nares and eardrums.

When infectious diseases are going around, they are nailed with medications quite hard, from the start. I had questioned the frequent use of Dexamethasone and IV antibiotics  but the response was geared towards “hitting the disease on the head” before it infects the rest of the tightly knit community.

Another aspect to mentally overcome is that the IV cannula's do not have clamps. Once inserted  a tightly screwed cap needs to be on the end, but as soon as it is taken off to make room for a medication insertion, blood will start coming out. One has to be prepared by manually clamping the vein above the insertion point and having lots of gauze present, and always...always glove. If anywhere, it would be so necessary to have the IV cannula's able to clamp shut here, before removing the end piece, so HIV or Hepatitis B positive blood doesn't come flowing out of the vein, the moment it is open. Manuel skill and mental awareness are both seemingly critical.

Walking back from the clinic, I had caught sight of a group of young boys chasing a small animal. As I walked closer, I heard the squeals and saw the little mammal. It was piglet - the the size of a kitten, with a leash dragging behind him! He was running for his life, across the dirt road and under a green shed on the other side. I remembered when I was turning four, mom had asked me “Maranatha, do you want an angel cake for your birthday?”

“No!” I had replied. “I want a pig!”

I had a heart for anything that was small and pink. In seeing the piglet running for his life, I think my love for little pink pigs was renewed.

Though the day had been shorter, we all were well spent as the evening approached  The new physical environment and mental obstacles keep the volunteers and I on our toes. I am grateful at times, for a little reminder of the Western World – streamers and balloons. Furthermore, Mardi and I discovered a pair of shorts another volunteer, from way back, had left. We could both wear them - her in one leg, and I in the other. Maybe a reminder of over-abundance and gluteny as well. We criss-crossed the final streamers down the doorway; Sarah would need to be creative in exiting the room the next morning; And we headed to bed.

Part of the Decor

Clinic

Incidentally, today was my first day – not yesterday. The staff were having their Christmas celebration together on Thursday of November, 13. I had stood outside the locked doors in the mid-November heat, squinting at the bright sun and feeling the burn crawling down my arms – seemed like Christmas to me? I suppose it wouldn't matter – Christmas party in October, November or December. Meh...whenever you want it! The more fellowship, food, friends and fun...the sooner the better...

Needless to say, I had toured around the village – meeting and speaking to students, teachers and villagers. I'd met a man who told me all he knew about the eagle (it was actually incredible), and another who told me of a well-known place on the mountain to pray and fast. Kristi, a teenage girl, had given me a tour of the tailoring classroom. Young girls sat at a row of sewing machine – brightly colored fabrics behind them, and a gorgeous aray of clothing hanging on the racks to the left. Jon and I had gone to a buffet that the catering school had put on, and then walked into the community to visit one of Watoto Suubi's cleaners.

Products from sewing class

Today, I was ready to get to work. On arrival, I toured the pharmacy, getting used to where all their medications were, and the brand names they used. Sheryl, a nurse volunteer from Australia, arrived soon after, and together we rolled out a number of cotton balls for the morning. She had brought a large roll from home and we tried only to put together what we would be using during our shift.

“What about alcohol swabs?” I asked.

“They have some, but few. They use them very sparingly.”

To inject someone, or put in an IV, they dip the homemade cotton swabs into Normal Saline or an antiseptic available, and rub it on their skin.

“And I pray.” She added.

The resources are so few from what I was used to. The scissors and forceps had been sterilized in boiling water so many times, that Sheryl had been tossing the rusty ones. The dressing kits were none, so the bandages for wounds were makeshift from the assortment available. However, they do very well with what they had available, keeping accessories organized and labelled checking expiry dates on supplies and medications, and keeping surfaces clean.

Upon drawing up an IV medication, I noticed a plastic piece underneath the plunger, had broken off, and the medication wasn't pulling into the syringe anymore. I learned, this was because I had already pushed the needle all the way down (in removing air), and therefore, it breaks the seal so that medical professionelles will not re-use their needles.

“A Ugandan needle” Sheryl told me.

I remembered reading about the spread of Ebola Zaire. How a man infected by antelope bushmeat, had gone to the nuns for his vaccinations, and received his needle. The nuns, re-using the same five needles for everyone, proceeded to inject the rest of the community with Ebola, unknowingly  I was glad for needles which, on using, broke the vacuum seal.

Upon preparing for a 13-year-old boy to receive 500mL of Normal Saline, I noticed a teenage girl convulsing in the admission room. The young boy with me had wide eyes as he looked over at her, and there was no curtain or divider in a space with eight beds. I sat him and his mother down, and reassured them. Sheryl entered the room, in no time – a needle in hand.

“It's okay Abi” She soothed. “You will be alright.” She injected the needle into the IV cannula in her right arm. The girl stopped, almost immediately.

“What did you give her?” I later asked Sheryl.

“Normal Saline.”

A lot of the children in the village have come from traumatic or abusive backgrounds. Therefore, the doctor was explaining to us that it wasn't uncommon for some to come in often, and act in this way, when really what they needed were counsel and attention.

“We went through so so much medication before we realized what it really was.” she had told us.

I felt very badly for the girl. They had gotten psychologists since, to come see some of the children. However, when they still arrive in distress, the waiting room is full, staff is low and there is unresolved shaking...an injection of water seems to soothe.

Dr. Irene, Sheryl and I, worked together until after 5pm. There are two other nurses that work at Suubi clinic – one is off studying for her medical exams to be a doctor, the other has a child sick at home. Dr. Irene was more than grateful for the help, as she often prescribes medications, then runs off to the treatment room to do IV's and dressings on her own, and then goes back to her office to see more patients. At twenty-six, she always has a smile and an encouraging word. She is the first one there in the morning, has been the only doctor in for 3 weeks, and is on call 24 hours. She is 28 weeks pregnant. Irene is truly a light for Christ in Watoto's Suubi Clinic.

The Pharmacy

Opportunity to Give

Near the end of a path, that led off the main road, and around a corner through a little gate in a broken brick wall was the house. One small single room; dimly lit with natural light, casting shadows on the cement flooring and walls. An old white, lace curtain hung up that separated the bed from the rest of the space. It was the size of a small bedroom – maybe 7x12 feet. The single bed took up most of the space, and a wooden shelf stood on the other side, containing many plastic plates, containers, cups and other kitchen-ware.

Jon and I sat on a two person bench, to the left-hand side of the doorway.

“You're welcome!” Sandra's husband, Nimrod, lay on the bed. His collar bone broken from a fall at his construction site in the city. He would be off for the next two weeks. Beside him, his toddler son lay sleeping on his back, in the heat. Sandra busied about... “some tea?...water?”

Sandra (name changed) is 19. The volunteers in my apartment met her, as she comes by and cleans at Suubi every other day. They have had many conversations with her, and she has invited us down to her shop where she works, and now to her home. At 19, Sandra has 2 children. One of them with another man at 16. The other with her current husband. Her eldest daughter doesn't live with them, as it upsets her husband.

Jon brought along a pineapple, and we sat in their home, talking with them. Her little sister (who lives with Sandra) followed us inside smiling and tugging on our hands, looking to play. Sandra came from outside with cool water and poured it in blue plastic cups. Then she hunched near the floor and peeled off the outside to a long sugar cane, with her knife, putting the pieces in a bowl and passing them to us. Her husband, her niece, Jon, and I, sat – chewing, spitting the roughage and chatting.

“We're moving soon” Sandra was saying. “Tonight.”

She looked sad.

“Our landlord is upset. I sell food at a stand on the streets” She waved her hand towards the corner of the main road, and the path to her house “She does too, but I make more business. So she is raising the rent...We are leaving.” I felt sorry for her.

“I want to leave Uganda.” She choked. There were tears in her eyes. I asked her where she would go, if she could go anywhere.

“America”

Sandra ran out a third time and came back with Cassaba for us. It's like a big single “fries” - a fried wedge of potato-ish vegetable. We tried to refuse but she insisted, so we passed them around the room. More children from the area peered in the doorway, chickens milling in the dirt courtyard behind them.

Sandra and Jon have only paid half of their rent for the new house. They still owe the landlord the other half. It costs them about 23$ a month, but they have to pay for the first three months when they first move in. They still owe about 35 dollars. Sandra showed us their new place on our way out. It was right across the road – a green garage with big swinging metal doors. She unlocked us and showed us the sqaure space inside with pale blue walls and a cement floor. The room is bigger than their last.

“Are you happy to have more space?”

She was smiling.

“How much was the water?” Jon had whispered to her little niece. “And the cassaba?...The sugar cane?” He slipped her a little something on the way out for “Aunty” Sandra (as she calls her) and we began to head back.

We stopped at the market and I bought a pineapple and two large avocados - all for only a dollar. Sometimes it isn't fair. The hospitality we'd just been shown, by a 19-year old and her husband who didn't even have money to complete their rent, was unreal. Yet us...we have so much. I hope we don't cease to take opportunity in loving, by giving to those who need, and thus, spending our lives for the sake of others.

"Let us not grow weary of doing good..." Galatians 6:9

Stopping to buy pineapple