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.

Best Day of Moments

First there was one, then two, then we saw a family of three...no there were eight. In the end we could not count. The monkeys swung branch to tree and back again. They were light grey with black faces – none of us knew the type.There was even a little baby perched far above the ground, studying us from a distance. Another, perhaps his mother, walked up and wrapped her arms around the baby, then picked at him as he squirmed - perhaps trying to clean his fur coat.

Kyra and I had joined Sarah and Daniel, one of the boys from the catering school, on a walk around the outskirts of Suubi. The intention was to find monkeys. For being in Africa, I had not yet tripped across elephants, lions or zebras and was feeling rather deprived. (Though I am aware this is not expected for developed Africa).We had hiked through the woods, hoping to catch some monkeys swinging in the thick bush, but it was not until we were by the road, that they appeared. The guards we had past had been first to point them out – the daily entertainment from their post.

“This is one of the best day moments!” Sarah snapped away with her camera.

“Don't you mean best moment of the day?” I asked.

“No, day moments,” she explained. “You compile all the best moments in a year, so at the end of the year, the aim is to have 24 hours of best moments that make the best day.”

It sounded like a good philosophy to me, although I would have to figure out the approximate times for each moment, fitting them together into 24 hours for a highlight real. Maybe Sean could create an algorithm for a cellphone application. However, with what God keeps doing, I know I have already succeeded the 24 hour quota 2014. I do not doubt Sarah has as well.

Thinking back over 2014, there have been plenty of best day moments. Only in the past two months, I could probably compile a 24-hour reel. Realizing my love for passion fruits, meeting Calvin, riding bodabodas down dirt roads, stitching in the clinic, administering vaccines, sunrises over the balcony, eating a tub of ice-cream (the food I miss), biscuits and tea with Mardi, reading with Kyra, splunking under Sipi Falls...the list goes on. The days of the year are coming to a close, and I do not doubt that there will be many more moments - right up until midnight of December 31^st.

Eating a tub of ice-cream...each

Another Sunrise

Calvin, of course

Mark - These kids are the cutest

Kayla - my other love from Kampala Babies Home

Boldness for Him

“Have you had anybody try to harm you?”

“Oh yes...We had people chasing us for some time. Angry. Yelling.” He was smiling as he spoke.

“Oh my goodness!! What did you do...” That sounded terribly sketchy, especially considering we had missed the morning session due to volunteer hours.

“We are not afraid...We have God” He was casually strolling and talking. “We just told them they did not have to listen, and kept going.” Clearly...he was not fazed in the least.

Kelly and I had met up with one of the Cell Bible leaders and school teachers in Watoto. Every month, he tries to organize a mission weekend, where he and other teachers pick a neighbourhood  going door to door to talk to people about Jesus. Sometimes individuals. Sometimes large families. Anybody who wants to listen. In the evening, they have an outdoor crusade where they worship in song, preach the gospel and project a film for the village to watch. 182 had come to know and accept Christ the last missions weekend.

“The response is so good, that we only got one fourth of the area done...” He was saying.

“Anybody accept Christ?”

“30 people that we know of, so far”

I thought of the sheer boldness - planning on one specific area, and going door-to-door in a primarily Muslim area to offer the Hope of Christ. The desire? That was easy. Love.

I find it rare back home to still meet people of this boldness. People who not only see Christ as Someone worth sharing, but live their lives in action of this. It is not that the need is less back home, in fact, it is probably greater than here. With so many distractions and security in money, the awareness of a need for redemption lessens. Although the awareness is dim, the need is still the same and the work to be done requires more boldness and labourers to reach those who are blinded by what surrounds them. Moreover, we are taught to be tolerant of all religions. Fair enough, but this was not being intolerant, rather sharing a love and telling of gift offered to all. If we are told to live as Christ, He Himself displayed a life of boldness, never swaying from the truth or creating excuses. Rather for over twenty verses, he rebuked the religious leaders of that time for not practising what they preached, sacrificing what was nothing to them, and therefore, having their hearts far from Him. He said this, although He knew many would reject Him, and therefore, reject His offer of redemption and eternal life.

In listening to the Cell teacher, I was reminded:

“Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great...” Matthew 5:11.

It was clear that these Watoto teachers were living in this light.

We turned up a rutted steep road, weaving between small clay and brick houses, and reached a courtyard. There people gathered from the neighbourhood  curious, to listen to what was being presented. For fear of the Muslim community, many only came out as dusk was approaching. Worship had ended and a teacher was talking about the way to reconciliation and a relationship with God. As the video showing “Passion of the Christ” began, Kelly and I began to head back to our apartment. It was dark, and travel was dangerous at night so we wanted to get a head start.

With the lights and gathering behind us, we hopped a ride with a bodaboda driver who happened to be a preacher himself. He too had meetings to invite others to Christ, and talked of God's love on the way back to our apartments. His name was a demonstration of who we all should be for Christ. Bright.

Kelly and I dismounted the bike at our village on the hill. The stars were out, and we could see that the power was on in the apartments. I pray that we could learn from the love and boldness here, and be a bright light wherever we live...wherever we are.

A Tribute of Love

I has been some months since I heard of this picture, but I was reminded from a girl next to me in the van, who had heard a similar analogy. It was a jar, pouring over her head – the splashes reaching all those surrounding. Overflow...Spring water...

It reminded me of Christ pouring into a life, and that blessing and love being overflowed on those around. Aferall, are we not to live a life poured out? “This is my commandment that you love one another, as I have loved you.” John 15:12

Our van pulled up to the gate, and halted – giving us time to all read the sign:

“The African Ugandan – 2,000$. The rest of the world – 10,000$.”

Well, that was pretty clear. We were approaching the source of the Nile, but were stopped by an informative sign. There was a clear distinction between our Ugandan guide and ourselves, and we would need to pay the visitors fee to get any further. In our dedication to eat by the Nile, we obliged and passed through.

It is strange to think of the Nile as being in Uganda, as I always associated this river with Egypt. Far upstream, through South Sudan, Sudan and into Egypt, Moses had been placed in a basket and floated down these waters.

“Do you think this whole river became blood?” I asked about the following plague.

It is hard to tell, since Uganda was far from Pharoah's words or rule at the time. It would been quite a shock and confusing moment for anybody who had been living way down in these parts.

We hiked down a rock stairway between markets, and settled down at a restaurant on the riverside. Jon, having left Watoto to travel in Uganda on his own, had joined us for the afternoon. Our wooden table overlooked the river and we could see the source – Lake Victoria – from where we sat. We were grateful to have a day in Jinja, yet our main purpose still lay ahead.

Three hours later, we arrived at our destination. It was a simple yet pretty place, situated right beyond a set of train tracks. A main grass-roof building stood off to the left. It was open, with wooden benches lined inside – this was their worship building. On the outside, a volleyball court stood and kids were playing in the afternoon heat.

A white man approached us wearing a red baseball cap and introduced himself.

“Welcome to Amazima”

We had an interesting time trying to find the ministry. After several times turning around, Fred had jumped out of the van to get directions.

“Katie! Yes yes...” Hands waved in one direction.

“You know her?” Nods again.

Every person we stopped for directions, knew her. Therefore, some were pointing to orphanages, some maybe pointing towards the direction of her house, some probably wanting to be polite and giving us any possible answer. Finally, calling the ministry had deemed itself to be the best option.

Nursing office at Amazima

We now stood in a place that took the responsibility of 700 sponsor children's schooling and well-being. All of which lived in the community and who were funded, from outside, to go to school. On the weekends, the children would come to the Amazima property, spend time and worship together. Behind the buildings, was farmland that grew maize and cassava – much of which was given back to the families. The farm itself was also used to teach the community to grow their own foods using resources they have.

“And what is Katie up to these days?” we asked

Katie Davis was back at home, the twenty-something woman she is now, taking care of her 13 girls. The youngest now around six.

I looked around, finding it hard to comprehend a ministry started by a girl of 19 – 700 lives touched, and many changed. She had been known by all those we asked on the street, having long been in the town. It is one thing to dedicate a month or two to service, another thing to dedicate a lifetime, building a home away from home. Life in Jinja has long settled in for her. I suppose you could say she is living the daily and ordinary African life of a mother at home, yet it is clear there is an extraordinary God behind her.

Here was a place of overflow. Although we did not meet Katie herself, we saw the fruit of what she has done with what she had been given. “You will know them by their fruits.” Matthew 7:16. God gave her what she needed and she is one who started sowing early, reaping visibly in the touched lives around us. Her life an example of abandonment to a God who makes possible what has been deemed too difficult, or perhaps impossible, when jars are tipped in surrender to His greater purpose. Overall, it is clear the a tribute of love has been made to God, displayed in the pouring out of love on the surrounding individuals.

(from the internet)

Season of Giving

The Season is approaching. I knew it when I heard the Christmas music and talk of decorating with toilet paper and cotton balls, in the clinic. Since it is a little different from the environment with which I am accustomed, it is difficult to come to the same understanding that this is truly...the Christmas season. The snowflakes, twinkling lights, cold weather, fireplaces and hot chocolate seem far from reach and quite frankly...missing.

“I remember when they came with the boxes,” Job recalled Operation Christmas Child. “I was in Jinja at the time...”

One blessing in being here, has been meeting and coming to know certain people who have been reached by the very organizations, to which many give and know back home. One can see first hand, the difference these ministries have done for them, and the difference that shows through them.

The receptionist at the clinic has a brother who was sponsored through Compassion.

“He is now going to sponsor someone.” She added. “It is his way of giving back.” She, herself, had been blessed through her uncle paying for her school fees, and in turn, adopted four girls when she was graduated.

It was my turn to give back from what I had learned from Doctor Irene today. It happened through a deep cut on the top of a young boy's foot. I knew it was stitching time, and Irene confirmed, nodding towards the stitching containers and pulling up a stool to watch. Clean the wound, inject Lidocaine, apply sterile gloves, grip the needle with a clamp, and the thread with forceps. Go.

Skin on the feet is ridiculously tough, and Irene reminded me to move my fingers away from the other side of the wound.

“You are going to get the needle through and pierce right through your own hand!”

That would not be good or sterile. I was glad she was there to guide. I pierced through one side of the wound flap, drew the needle up, and pierced through the other side. Then unclamping, I held the needle with my forceps, made a loop in the thread with my scissors, drawing up the remaining thread on the far side of the wound, through the loop multiple times, and securing a knot. Three more times, and it was done.

In the evening, the volunteers headed over to Maurice and Jean's house. They would be leaving in a few hours, heading back to their home in Scotland for the holidays. We entered the door and congregated among the others who often walk in and out of their home, attend their Bible studies and receive the love and counsel of the missionary couple. Around a circle, we were asked to share what God had done for us in 2014. Not one person went blank, but each could have probably talked for way longer than five minutes. One of the girls went on – month by month. God is good, and He gives; He continually gives. "He who did not spare His own son, but gave Him up for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things." Romans 8:32

Walking over to Maurice and Jean's

Around the electric piano, Jean played carols and and we all sang. I wish I could say the snow was “falling softly outside”, but most of them have never seen snow and that would definitely be false. Mardi and I dove into the high part like an elderly church choir.

“Beautiful descant!” Jean exclaimed.

“...death count?!” Mardi looked around confused.

Somehow it was fitting.

Maurice and Jean's house

It was not long before we were bidding the couple goodnight, and headed back through the night to our apartment. If there are a people who understands the meaning of giving, I know I am among them. I am continually touched and blessed by the overflow of generosity. After all, He gave all...He asks all.

Life in Routine

It is getting familiar.

The morning alarm beep of my MTN Ugandan cellphone. A painted sunrise over the veranda with God. Breakfast cooking over the gas stove. The power turning on just after 8am. Rwenzori loose leaf tea with masala spice and sugar. Grabbing my bag with a laptop, camera, tourniquets, pens and scissors. The red, dirt road walk to the clinic. Ugandans in the field to my right, hard at work. Children on holiday, waving on the left, as I walk past.

“I will see you later at the clinic!” Kyra. Migraines these days.

Another security guard on duty.

“Goodmorning!”

Crickets chirping. Morning sun. Another sip of tea.

The clinic doors stand open. I greet Dr. Irene and Job. Stella is already studying for her doctors exam. Sissy is still on her way. I place my bag on the counter of the pharmacy. I walk to the treatment room. It is mess. I clean the counter to the best I can. I check the sink for dirty kidney basins. Dirty scissors. Dirty clamps. Drops of blood still on the work counter. I don't know when the sheet covers on the patient examination tables have last been washed. No soap left in the dispenser by the sink. It's the only sink with soap. The cart containing expired equipment is still there. A tattered book with names and diagnosis is open on the counter. Method of recording in the treatment room. I put on gloves to write in it.

A child enters with his mom. He is reluctant. I check him in the book. Day two of treatment. Another gram of Ceftriaxone. He cringes. I press on his vein and tell him to hold up his arm. The blood does not come out when I take off the cap The syringe with medicine attaches and it flows easily in. It burns, but we are glad the vein is still open.

A mother enters. So does not look well. I read her diagnosis. Malaria. She is in pain. Diclofenac 75mg intramuscular. She lies on her stomach. The needle takes it's course. I never want a needle that size in me. She lies on the table a long time after. I remember and check on her. The drug is working.

A group of boys run towards the door. A girl is limp in their arms.

“She is having her hysteria again,” I am told.

It does not look like hysteria. She does not respond. Job takes vital signs. I insert an intravenous cannula. Dextrose 5% does the trick. We hang an IV line with normal saline. An hour later, she is chatting to the congregation of village ladies in the room.

Lunchtime. A line up. I scoop the usual
“I thought you said you were hungry?”

“Take some more!”

“More beans?”

“Here in Uganda, fat is beautiful!”

“You need to go back to your country with more weight so they know you ate well!”

A Jerry can of cold water. I look for a clear glass and down a cup. They talk. We all talk. Life. Medicine. God. Wars. My country. Their country. I like them.

Lunchtime is done. Back to the pharmacy. More prescriptions  More sick parents. More sick children. Rhinitis. Upper respiratory tract infections. Lower respiratory tract infections. Malaria. T. Coporis. Hepatitis B. More Fungal infections. Parasites. Diabetes. Hypertension. Epilepsy. Sports injury.

Kyra is at the window.

“You almost done.”

I don't know. It is 5:30pm. The clinic has been full.

Power is out. Another intravenous to insert. It is too dark to see clearly. I bring the young girl to the back door. There is light there from the setting sun. I can see her veins better. Another nurse gives the drug, but she is getting tired. The medicine is given to fast. The girl throws up in the sink. I wipe her blood off the floor near the back entry.

Almost 7pm. Kyra is still waiting. We walk back together. She talks about her first mom. She wants real family. She wants to be home for Christmas. Her village sisters think she should not be here. They say she has a mom. Her village mom says the same. Her first mom does not want her.

“I think I will call her.” she says.

“When is the last time she picked you up?”

It was 2009.

The power is out when in the apartment. The sunset disappears over the valley. I make supper in the dark. Bible Study already ended. I turn on my headlamp and read before the girls come back. We laugh and share. We live life together.

Days have developed their own routine. Life has set in. Beauty is present. Frustrations are too. But with every sunrise and sunset, I know that what has become everyday living, will all too soon see an end.

I pull down my mosquito net, set the alarm, and fall asleep.

Suubi Babies Home. I live upstairs.

A Taste of the Western World

Calvin is 5kg. I visited him today, taking off half a day at the clinic and travelling into the city. He was pushing up with his legs and looking all around him, smiling more than I had seen before.

“He is one of the best babies,” one was saying.

He gives little trouble and makes a lot of happy sounds these days. I picked him up from where he was lying down, and took him out for a some sunshine. His ears perked towards each car, and person walking by, head turning to see the events around him. Then he settled down, laying his tiny brown hand on mine. I am going to miss him.

Following the visit, Sarah and I left for dinner at Acachia mall. Sarah and I have a couple things in common. We are both keen on someone going by the name of“Brad”, (Bradford and Bradley, to be specific), and we both were missing foods from our culture. As a true American, Sarah b-lined for the pizza menu. I longing for the raw culture of home, swiped at the first salads. It has been almost five weeks since I have eaten an actual salad, so I was beyond willing to skip out on the octopus special of the night. And when it came, it was not cabbage or grass or matoke leaves, it was salad - beautiful green lettuce leaves with sliced, glazed pears, roasted and sugared cashews, topped with crumbled blue cheese. If I were meant to give up all of home in coming here, I know have cheated five weeks in.

For an hour, the atmosphere almost swept me back to the Western World. Acachia mall attracts visitors, where I would see someone of my color tone more often than the usual rare sighting. Previously, whenever seeing someone who looked like a Westerner, I wanted to say:

“Hey! Why are you here?! Mission work? Business? What organization? You work for a company? Say “hi” to my family if you get back first!” It was always exciting.

At Acacia, there were more than a few Caucasians – enough to think that we are not alone here.

Approaching 9pm, we headed with Musana back to the Village. It is an hour drive from Kampala City, wherein we hit traffic. (There is really no explanation or questioning “why” anymore). At that time, I was once again reminded that we were definitely back in step with culture. Walking between the cars were men holding, anything and everything for sale, after 9pm. Perhaps some soccer balls for your game tonight? Maybe a bath towel if you are getting nervous and hot in the traffic? How about some peppers and tomatoes for a midnight supper? Perhaps some dead grasshoppers in a large, clear container, in case you wanted a little snack on your way home. Musana locked the doors from the front to wane off further the intimate solicitors, and not feeling incredibly needy at the moment, we carried on back to Suubi Village.

Jon left today :( This was our family dinner the night before