Feels like home . . .

Two weeks in Gulu and it already feels like home. At least it’s beginning to.

This definitely didn’t happen right away. It seems like every day was overwhelming at first. And overwhelming in every sense of the word. The language seemed almost as unnatural to my tongue and pronunciation skills as French did for the one miserable semester I studied it. The sun completely scorched me those first few days. I knew no one and was living on my own, not to mention trying to cook. (My sisters would be so proud of me.) I was trying to find my way and figure out what in the world I was supposed to be doing and how I was supposed to communicate to a group of people who knew little English. (And Lord knows my Luo isn’t so good yet.) I was starting to ride my new motorbike around Gulu. (I just learned how to ride 2 weeks before I came to Uganda.) And then I made the mistake of looking at some pictures of my lovely niece and nephew and then heard their voices on the phone for a brief second. Maybe not the best idea.

But then the second week came. I got to know my lovely neighbor girls, Lakisa Rebecca and Lanyero Tracy. They taught me a few words, we danced to some music on my ipod like Feist and Natasha Bedingfield. We found games to play when the electricity went out. They even ate some of my food I cooked (and politely tried to finish it.) They are by far one of the highlights of my days here. And now they’ve begun coming every day. (Which I’m still happy about at this point.)


I also started getting to know the community that I’ll be working with. I’ve spent some time with the Karin Parents Committee as we plan for our upcoming Christmas party (which you’re all invited to) and discussed business names for the handcrafts they’ve been making. This is what we’ve come up with:


I’ve been getting to know the kids as well, particularly a small group of them that tried out for a film that is being produced here by a team from Kampala. They’re also helping me learn the language, as slow as I may be.


Unfortunately I had to come back to Kampala for a few days to finish some work with the fundraising I started during my first month here. I was a bit annoyed because I felt like I was just settling into the place and then had to leave again. I was even more annoyed when a businesswoman who said she’d order 2000 Christmas cards from us (and was half the reason I traveled to Kampala) just decided to do her printing from Egypt instead. But it has still been a promising trip and now we have enough money for our Christmas party on the 12th of December. Besides this, I also get to spend Thanksgiving with some American friends at the University I studied at last year here in Uganda.

The trip was fairly uneventful, it took about 5-6 hours to get here from Gulu. I actually got a ride from a friend who’s working in Southern Sudan that I met a few weeks ago in Kampala. I think I’ll be getting a ride back from Timothy Jokenne and his wife on Friday. Keep praying for safe travel. The following is a blog post I wrote while in Gulu and decided not to post at that time because it seemed a bit depressing:

How much joy and how much sorrow can the heart contain?
How much joy and how much sorrow can a small country hold within her borders?

It seems as though the rule here is one of extremes. When there is joy and dancing and ululations here in Gulu, any festivity at home seems to pale in comparison. Yet when there is sorrow, the pain is overwhelming, tears of mourning are replaced with anger as one wonders what the point of such suffering could be. Really, is there always a point to every tragic event?

Hope, my director, was just sitting next to me as she received a call from her husband.
“Peter? Oh no, . . . oh . . . . Oh God.” She gasped, paused, gasped again.
“No . . . oh no. Let me come.”

Peter, a friendly young man who had only been married to his beautiful wife for two years just died in a car accident. It made me think of the man I saw on my way to Gulu who was killed right in front of us, on his bike. I wish I could forget this image. I’m sure he also had a family. As soon as it all happened, I wondered where his family was, how they would be told of his death. It was tragic, and so maddeningly wasteful all at the same time—it was simply because that truck was going too fast and driving wrecklessly.

If it’s not car accidents, it’s war. If it’s not war, it’s AIDS. If it’s not AIDS it’s some treatable disease that could’ve been cured with a small dose of medicine that costs less than a pack of gum, maybe less than a stick of gum.

I think of that verse about sorrow lasting for the night and joy coming in the morning and I try to believe in its truth, in its hope. I try to believe that this verse is not only true for those of us living in rich corners of the world, but that it is the same for Peter’s wife tonight.

I’m sorry for the despairing tone of this post. I don’t know how people aren’t exhausted here. Such extreme joy and extreme sorrow must be tiring after a while.

Well dear friends, the sun is hot right now and it’s been a long day of running around Kampala connecting with businesspeople and trying to raise some money. My director should be coming soon to deliver some paper I need to bring to the printer tomorrow for our Christmas cards. And then, I’ll be trying to come up with a dessert to bring to our Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m thankful for you. I’m so thankful for those of you who supported me in getting here—with your words, your finances, your prayers. I’m thankful for you faithful friends who continue to read these posts, as if I have something to say. I really am encouraged to know that you care enough about me to read a bit more about my life here.

And with that, I hope you Americans have a lovely Thanksgiving tomorrow. There’s so much to be thankful for.