School Fees

“School Fees!!” Sarah shouts as she raises her two hands in the air. Sarah just received two payments—one payment for her loose beads that will be combined with other beads for Niyee Designs creations, another payment from my pocket for a few of her multi-colored strands that might not have found a place in our recent order, but will make great gifts for my friends back home.

Sarah is one of the key members of Niyee Designs. She has played a large part in training most of the women in Niyee Designs in the art of transforming magazine and calendar paper into beautiful beads. She is a mobilizer, an organizer, and a true artist. She has an eye for colors and patterns and takes delight in her completed necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.

Not only does she take joy in creating beautiful jewelry, she takes great delight in providing for the people she loves. She often mentions this as her reason for being committed to her work. “Why would we not take this seriously if this is what is feeding our families and sending our children to school?”

Paper bead jewelry. Beautiful, unique, and enjoying a growing popularity among those who appreciate the artistry and the story behind each piece. That particular color brings out your eyes and that little bead hints of your love for the earth in the recycled strip of paper which still bears a few of its original words.

But there’s a much larger story behind that lovely necklace. As Sarah shouted when she received her payment last week, those beads send kids to school. The income generated from these beads also help the ladies start up small businesses they can run individually, in their own communities.

Niyee Designs officially launched its brand and business in November of last year and has since completed orders from the U.S., scheduled a small business training course to take place in March, and acquired a “village bank” to begin group savings and loans. Its members include young mothers as well as grandmothers who are providing for multiple children in their care.

Niyee. It means peace in the Luo language. The members chose this word not only to represent the kind of peaceful community they are working toward after 20 years of war, but to draw attention to the kind of peace that entered their hearts when Christ came into their lives.

Niyee Designs' story continues to unfold. Keep in touch and learn how you can partner with us in the future.

Some ideas to think about:

Would you like to do a fundraiser for our organization by selling our beads? Let us know.

Would you like to know anything more about our members or our products? Drop us an email.

Would you like to visit us? You're most welcome . . .

Living in the Tension

Disclaimer: I wrote this at 1:00 am last night when I couldn't sleep so . . . it all made sense at the time.

I believe it was my dear friend (as I like to think of him), Henri Nouwen, who introduced me to this small phrase. These four words seem to find me out when there are no other words to express the feelings that are deep down inside of me, especially on days like today.

Living in the tension takes all sorts of shapes and forms. Here’s one example: how does an American, although living on fundraised money and without much to spare (relatively speaking), know how to operate faithfully in an environment with extreme need—not only of strangers but also of people close to her heart? Tears haven’t helped much. People can give advice, but it’s a decision they have decided for themselves—a decision that might not easily translate into my (or hers, if we’re keeping this in the third person) situation. Living in this kind of tension takes discernment, wisdom, compassion, and a listening heart.

Another kind of tension that I’m facing daily is one of effectiveness vs. faithfulness. I found a quote from a book I had to read last year called “Mere Discipleship” that helps express this kind of tension.

“And yet ‘effectiveness’, as if a quantitative ‘bottom line’ is the only and sole measure of ‘success’, completely ignores the question of faithfulness: to what are we called, and to whom are we accountable?”

I had one of those days today. I think a lot of people from home, including those who support me, picture a very romantic and adventurous life I live over here. I have my moments—the kind of scenes you may picture for one living in Uganda, working with a wonderful community in a small village called Bungatira, just outside of Gulu town. But the majority of my time is not like the pictures I may show you some day. The camera doesn’t usually come out for the mundane.

I spent nearly three hours trying to send out a newsletter—unsuccessfully. This isn’t even the first time I’ve tried to send it—I’ve had a go at it about two or three other days within the past couple of weeks. Yahoo wouldn’t send and wouldn’t tell me why, I had to export the addresses to gmail. Gmail wouldn’t load properly. It finally loaded. It wouldn’t attach the newsletter. It finally attached. The addresses were in, the message was written, the newsletter was attached. It looked like it was sending. But it didn’t send. This small task took up most of my morning, and part of the afternoon.

In the meantime, I became very overwhelmed with the things that need to be done in the next two weeks and seriously wondered if I was cut out for this position. I looked at the stories that should be written for Partners Worldwide, the business plan for our handcraft group that should be improved on, the ideas we have for moving forward even though they all scare me just a little bit since my “official commitment” is up in June even though there’s plenty to keep me busy for years to come. I responded to emails and drew a sketch for a Norwegian guy that might help weld us some racks for storing our necklaces.

(This is an example of this romantic adventurous life I lead)

Then it was nearly 4:00 and it was time to go to the centre. We were going to meet the kids—they’ve been drawing some pictures for a British couple who will be making their pictures into books for kids in England. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I was tired, and I was very frustrated with my day of dead ends. I thought I might take my camera along and get some pictures of some of these kids coloring their pictures. I was proud of myself for remembering to charge the batteries at the office since we still have no power at home. Before we walked out the door I realized I didn’t have a memory card with me. Some days those dead ends really add up to a lot of frustration.

So I went to the center. It was raining when we got there and the kids were under the shelter, cheering and waving and very excited to draw their new pictures.

While the kids were filling the small building and crayons and colored pencils were spreading from one corner to another, I stepped outside. There were four kids outside of the building, looking as if this was their normal and accepted place—on the fringe. None of our kids have different clothes than you’d expect from a war-affected village in Northern Uganda but you still notice a definite difference of a relative affluence even in this setting. The kids outside were shy, fearful, and seemed to understand that this was their place—outside. I brought some paper and crayons to them and started drawing with them. I had to encourage them to draw and kept handing them pencils and crayons until they began. A few of the kids really started to enjoy themselves. Until, of course, a boy nearby started to mock their efforts when he saw their attempt at drawing a cow or a goat. It is still so frustrating to not be able to speak or understand Luo. I knew very well that he was mocking them but could do very little to stop it or counter it, since James (the one translating) was busy. My guess is that these kids outside are not in school. I hadn’t seen them before today; they must’ve come because they heard something was happening at the centre.

I sat with these few boys for the remainder of our time. I wondered what their life would be like as they grew up and if this was a simple case of childhood bullying or if this was the beginning of their identity as they would know it for the rest of their lives—living on the fringe. I was suddenly brought back to why I’m here.

Living in the tension. I sometimes have a hard time finding value in the mundane and frustrating aspects of living here and doing the work I do. A simple email or internet glitch can be enough to set you over the edge when it seems as though someone has been playing a trick on you all day (or all month) and things don’t seem to turn out the way they should.

But what if the emails I send and the conference calls I hold and the measuring beads and buying paper in Owino market turn into a small income for some of the parents in this small community? What if these parents use that small income to start another small business so they are no longer caring only for their own children but also for kids who have lost their parents and haven’t gone to school? If we are judging our days by effectiveness, I would not have passed any sort of bar for today. It was a miserable start and seemed to go downhill from there. But if we’re measuring our days by faithfulness, I have a lot more questions to be asking of myself. Who am I faithful and accountable to? For whom am I working? How much worth do I ascribe to successfully sending some emails? What worth is there in sitting with a few kids for an hour and a half while they color a picture, even if we don’t speak the same language?
Here’s another quote from my dear friend Henri,

“Service is an expression of the search for God and not just of the desire to bring about individual or social change”.

In both the mundane and the memory-making moments, I am searching for God. I am asking Him how to live a life of faithfulness and see my days with this framework instead of simply one of effectiveness. I think this is the way we were meant to live.

I never cease to be shocked each time one of you reminds me that I haven’t written on here for a while. It means that you actually read what I write (and that’s what surprises me.)

I often start writing a blog post and quit because I have too many things I want to write about, and then I never end up posting anything. I’ve concluded that this time I should attempt covering a lot of topics and do my best at being concise (not an easy task for me.)

Here goes . . .

The Holidays.

Different. Relaxing. Not as bad as I thought it might be. I missed seeing my little niece and nephew discover Christmas gifts since they were still pretty young last year to really appreciate it. But I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Mukono spent with people I shared a semester with last year—a couple of fellow students and the directors for the study abroad program (who also have two beautiful kids.)

The Work.

Challenging. Exhausting. Inspiring. Coming back to Gulu and facing the dry heat and the scorching sun is always a challenge. But then hearing one of the kids yell my name on a bike while I was on my motorbike and then slowing down so we could talk (in our limited shared language) while riding next to each other was wonderful. (That was not a concise sentence). Such small moments like that can so quickly assure me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I had a similar moment today when I decided to ride on the back of a Lorry with the Parents Group. (Don’t worry mom, it was not a long distance. And very, very safe J.) I’m really starting to love the families in this community, even though I’m so far from really knowing them on a deep level.
Most of my time is now spent building up the handcraft group, trying to market their things locally and internationally, meeting with them weekly and discussing things like creativity and quality and praying hard that I don’t screw anything up along the way. But you’ll also find me writing newsletters, taking pictures of a Heifer Project exchange visit, scrubbing equipment as we open up the new clinic, and networking with local NGO’s. I’m quite sure I’ve never worked so hard before. I’m also quite sure I’ve never enjoyed work this much, despite its many challenges.

The House. (And new roommate)

Almost Finished. I was up early Friday morning moving my things into our new place. Even though there’s no power hooked up yet, I’m still happy with the decision. It’s very near the clinic and the community centre—my little moped (which I should probably name) doesn’t have to work as hard to reach the place. I think my new roommate, Anna, will appreciate the decision too. Anna flies in on Wednesday. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have her here. And since we’re still looking for roommates, we have a nice, unfurnished guest room for you to stay in if you care to visit.

Friends.

In Gulu? Not many yet, unless you count my four year old neighbor that still comes and visits and seems to love me even though our communication is limited. Of course I’m becoming friends with the people I’m working with in the community too. But as far as those deep friendships go, I haven’t acquired too many along the way. But I guess that’s what is helping me reflect; I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about the solid community of people I have at home that I love and respect and really miss.
I had two of my closest friends of 7 years get engaged within about 4 days of each other around Christmas. I was waiting for this to happen, but it’s still a really big deal. I am so happy about the men they’re marrying—I can’t imagine not being happy about someone who is going to spend the rest of their life with your best friend. I only wish I were there to hear them tell the stories in person (Especially Esther because she’s a very expressive story teller and I haven’t heard many details yet.)
I’m appreciating the gift of my friendship with Alicia more than ever these days. Even as we’re a world apart, her carefully chosen words come at the times I most need them. She often reminds me of our friends words that we spent so much time with this summer—Henri Nouwen. I miss our times together with the three of us at our local coffee shop but I’m especially grateful for modern technology when it comes to this area.

The War

Never-ending. Once again, the newspapers here are full of headlines highlighting the most shocking details of Kony’s most recent killing spree. Around Christmas I think the numbers reached over 500 killed by his rebel army. (And for the record, these were outside the borders of Uganda—in DRC and Southern Sudan.) There are many opinions around the tactics of the UPDF’s attacks on the LRA. I was pleased to see U.S. Senator Feingold’s criticism of the operation in the Newspaper today. Since I’m trying to keep this concise I’ll leave out the rest of my opinion at this time and simply ask for your prayers. I’m often praying that fighting will never return to Northern Uganda. I need to start praying more for the innocent victims in the DRC and Southern Sudan who are currently suffering from the LRA’s attacks.

My Heart

I’ll try not to make this too personal for those of you who don’t know me well.
Physically, my heart is probably not getting enough exercise—at least it’s been added to my New Years Resolutions.
In every other way, however, I think my heart is getting plenty of exercise—it seems to cover such a wide range of emotions and dreams and heartbreaks, sometimes all within an hour.
You see, at times your heart really does break over untold suffering you witness, or hearing stories that are almost too devastating to believe they’re true.
And then at other times, your heart breaks because it’s not being broken over the disparities you see in the world. You suddenly realize you’ve accepted that things are just the way they are, and that it’s too tiring to acknowledge suffering around you.
I have been known to suddenly let out a soft but vocal sigh—whether surrounded by others or seated alone. That’s usually when the place in my heart for my niece and nephew takes over. It usually happens when I see another boy or girl their age and wonder how tall Isaac and Laney will be when I get home. I miss them so much.
For some reason, my heart often swells with gratitude around dusk each day in Gulu. No matter how exhausting the day was, this particular time of day manages to still the voices of to-do lists and worries and puts my life and my existence in perspective. Perhaps it’s the expansive sky. It’s always there but you’re busy hiding from its scorching rays during earlier hours. At dusk, you can’t help but try and take it in. The temperature is perfect, every scene seems like it would make a beautiful photograph or postcard. Vocabulary is failing me. I wish you could just come and experience it for yourself.

My heart has been especially difficult to manage in the last week for some reason. It turned into an opportunity to be very thankful for a God who can handle such matters even when I can’t.

In Conclusion

Turns out, this post wasn’t so concise. I have plenty more to tell you but it will have to wait until next time. Thanks for making it to the end.

Christmas Time in Gulu

True, not your typical Christmas party like those at home.

This kind of party lasts all day--morning until the sun sets.

Things begin at "8:00 am sharp". I am starting to catch on and so I show up at 9:30. There are a few people around and one of the tents is halfway up.

I walk with Timothy's wife and daughter to visit an aunt. We stay there for an hour. I noticed a scar in the back of this elderly lady's head. She was attacked once by the LRA in her home, cut with a machete. They set her hut on fire and left her to die, but she escaped. I don't catch any of this when we are with her because they speak in Luo of which I still don't know much, but Joska tells me later on.

We return around 11:00 and things are beginning. We cover quite a bit in this Christmas celebration. We celebrate the purchase of the land, the launch of the Heifer program, the opening of the clinic, and the microfinance program. The ladies are displaying their beautiful handcrafts, the kids are dancing their traditional dances and I wish each one of you could be here to experience it because I can't do justice in words or pictures (although I tried, and have hundreds of pictures to share with you some time.) I was tired because I had been sick the previous two days but I couldn't sit and rest, there was too much to be taking in.

Oh, and besides all of these highlights, you also missed a few other things. We were planting a number of trees around the land in celebration of the purchase. I was speaking with my director while the speeches were continuing by the head of different organizations/churches in the area. Suddenly I heard my name. Indeed, it was my turn to plant a tree and make a speech. I was not told of this, of course. But I did my best to fit into this high context culture and tried to come up with a speech. I was also given a new name at this time--Ayee Rwot Akello. You can call me Akello for short (because that's probably the easiest for you to pronounce.)

I'm sure the entertainment for most of you would've continued as you would've watched about 40 kids surround me, wrap one of the traditional cloths around my waist and tried to teach me some of the traditional dances. (I'm still working on them.)

At one point, some small Christmas gifts appeared from somewhere for all of the kids. As they received them, a few of them would come to me and ask what they were for. How do you explain a slinky when there are no steps around? I pulled one smaller brick in front of a larger one and tried to explain it. I think my explanation failed but they smiled politely. A few girls came to me with a jar of playdough and asked what it was for, then a group of boys approached me and asked how to put this small airplane together. Some of the pieces were already broken but we made it work.

I'm glad we had a Christmas party because it doesn't seem like Christmas very much at all as the sun is still scorching me in the hot mid-day sun. I do, however, wake up to a number of Christmas songs most mornings coming from some unknown source in town. Yesterday it was Feliz Navidad. But the Christmas party reminded me of the Savior and the people He came for. I was reminded of our need for this Prince of Peace in each one of our lives, whether we've lived in a war zone or not--our need for Him is still the same.

Look, I'm using my education . . .

I’ve recently been revisiting some of my books on development theory as well as the journals I wrote for my capstone class.

I met a guy who works with the Mennonite Central Committee in Gulu the other day, specifically the Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative. Speaking with him reminded me of how much I resonated with the Mennonite approach among the theories we studied.

The journal I found regarding the MCC challenged me to examine the way I’m thinking and living and see if it lines up to what I say I believe.

How Jesus Might Do Development
The MCC Approach

Starting with such a title feeds right into what my friends have been mocking me about lately. They think I’m on the Mennonite train because it’s a trendy one. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is just a passing phase because they DO embody some things which are trendy to talk about but harder to live—social justice, peacemaking, living simply.
Regardless of my own commitment to living the Mennonite way, I really do think they’re on to something. I think their focus on Jesus’ life instead of just focusing on his death and resurrection (which it seems like many of us protestants/evangelicals might be guilty of at times) makes a noticeable difference in their ideas about and practices of development. Maybe it’s a stretch to say that Jesus would work for the Mennonite Central Committee if he had to make the choice, but I think there are some pretty clear marks that their way embodies much of the way he lived.
I wrote “freeing” in the column next to the paragraph that talked about how MCC doesn’t accept funding from USAID and that it “is not driven by timeframes or results, believing in the importance of intangible results that cannot be measured in quantifiable terms.” I’m not sure if the MCC always lives up to it but I’m convinced that as far as large development organizations go, they are probably a step ahead of the rest concerning qualitative results instead of quantitative. Although this is a flawed analogy, I would compare this particular philosophy quite easily to Jesus’ life. It’s commonly believed that Jesus’ actual ministry started when he was about 30 and lasted for about 1-3 years. (Sounds quite similar to an MCC field assignment J ). Surely Jesus came into contact with a lot of people during his few years of ministry, yet he kept a few close friends and invested much of his time and energy into a group of disciples who often didn’t really understand him or what he was saying.
This might be another stretch, but I think the Mennonite’s way of finding answers and solutions within the home culture and tradition is similar to the radical words of Jesus when he said that the Kingdom of God is not here nor there, but the Kingdom of God is within you. Whether it be development solutions or Church growth strategy, it is easy to see our human tendency for looking for an outside solution or the next greatest thing that has hit the bookshelves. There is a similarity in their search for within the person or within the group of people that speaks to the search for Shalom.
Without falling into a dangerous picture of development workers being the saviors of communities, I think MCC’s servanthood approach and minimizing of power differentials reflects Christ’s way. Again, the analogy is flawed because Jesus really was the Savior and actually did have power and authority because of his identity. Yet, Western born Mennonites really are born into a place of privilege and opportunity. They could easily follow the way of other development organizations and set their own budgets, drive their SUV’s, build a compound equipped with tennis courts and golf carts to drive to other expat houses (this is not an exaggeration, by the way). Instead, they emphasize a small stipend so as not to be set apart from the people they live with. In my class on Christology, we have discussed what the incarnation actually means. Not only did Christ not have to be born into a low income family instead of royalty, the fact that he even entered into this world is an emptying out of his power and privilege.
Although all of my analogies are flawed, if we were looking for the best development model according to Christ’s way, I feel like I could hold my own in defending the MCC.

Although I’m not living in a large compound or driving around an SUV, these words I wrote inside a classroom in Michigan last year still act as a mirror for me right now; I am looking at my reflection and realizing that what exists at the core of why I live the way I do is evident to those around me. And I wonder what those around me see . . .

Is it a love for God that drives me and is expressed by loving those around me? Or is it a desire to be successful, to be known, to be recognized that drives me . . . We think these motives are hidden well as we carry out our various activities but they, in fact, are very evident to those around us, and very evident to God.

Saturday (This is a really long one.)

“Our man has not yet come to sign this peace agreement,” Timothy said after getting off of the phone.
“Too bad we’re not more surprised,” I said.
“Yes, it’s not a big surprise.”

Joseph Kony has once again failed to sign the final peace agreement. And people here simply hope and pray he never comes back to Northern Uganda. They slowly continue to move out of the IDP camps, open up land, marry, raise children, and return to some sort of normalcy that they are long unfamiliar with.

And this is where we are tonight—watching a marriage begin.

Timothy was kind enough to offer me a ride back to Gulu on Saturday and I was very grateful. It meant getting a free ride that is fairly safe, smooth, and always very interesting. Timothy owns the place where I’m living in Gulu, he is the founder of Uganda Christian Business Partners, owner of a few companies, and seems to model business in its most redemptive state. He has encouraged so many around him to start businesses in order to care for themselves and their community.

Perhaps he gets this caring spirit from his mother.
After our long trip from Kampala and discussions about education systems, farmers markets, successful business practices, and life before the war, Timothy asked what my plans were upon returning to Gulu and I said I had none. He invited me to come along to his wife’s compound where a wedding was taking place.

We reached home and I quickly changed my clothes and we set off—but first we had to stop at his mother’s place. Timothy talked about how much he misses village life and what it was like before the war.

“The elders were so respected. I remember my grandfather moving through our compound, settling arguments and keeping order. Everyone respected the elders. But the war has changed that, these young people no longer even respect their elders.”

We reached his mother’s small beautiful compound. I wish I could’ve taken multiple photos of Timothy and his mother talking as well as their beautiful compound to share it with you but I knew then that I would have to describe this experience in words. It was getting dark, and flash photography seemed rather intrusive and highly inappropriate for the peaceful tone that settled on the place. We took tea, enjoyed the sunset, and Timothy talked about how his mother used to care for anyone passing through their village. Their compound was always a place you could stay, eat, and relax.

We said our good-byes and moved on to the next compound. An elderly lady came out of one of the huts. She was bent over and seemingly trying to come to terms with her lack of mobility compared to her younger years, yet she was absolutely stunning. It reminded me of the lecture, I think it was Lauren Winner, gave on beauty at the January Series last year. She was not beautiful in the sense of what history she might hold in her small frame or the love that she poured out on her children or the suffering she must’ve experienced in her long life—she was simply beautiful.

This was Timothy’s other mother, his father’s first wife. He looked at me and laughed and knew I couldn’t understand, “but this is the way we grew up” he said. I should’ve told him I recently was trying to sensitize a couple of Americans who were working here to the benefits of polygamy and how the way missionaries entered the scene actually might’ve done more harm than good in some ways—especially when it comes to men taking responsibility of their children. I am still a proponent of monogamy, believe me. But when the missionaries emphasized one wife for each man, many of these men still continued to have girlfriends on the side or cheat on their wives. Yet if they fathered children with these women, instead of caring for them as family he would emphasize that he only had one wife and therefore was only responsible for her and her children.

Timothy listened to her tell him about the granddaughter who had committed suicide. He also explained to me that her son had been killed by the LRA on this compound and her grandson had been abducted at the same time. It’s hard to reconcile the papers I’ve written and books I’ve read about this conflict and finally be here and know families who have truly suffered through it.

We said our good-byes and moved on to the wedding. We arrived in this village compound just as it was becoming too dark to see very far in front of you. I wondered how this would work if no one could see anything. My questions were quickly answered when I heard the roar of a generator and two lightbulbs strung from trees flickered and then lit up the compound. We sat in some chairs under a tent between one of the huts and the small concrete rectangular house. Timothy explained the whole process to me including penalties of speaking out of turn and shaking your mother-in-laws hand.

The grooms family was in the house, discussing what they would bring to the wife’s family as a dowry. The wife’s family waited in the hut to hear their offer. At one point you saw the grooms family leave the house with their lantern, bags of soap, and other gift items. They walked single-file to the hut. They removed their shoes and crawled inside on their knees. The grooms family has to hold such high respect for the wife’s family that they can be fined for a number of things (such as looking at the ceiling or pleading or speaking out of turn.) And so we waited, friends and well-wishers. After a while most of the well-wishers became impatient and actually left. Timothy explained that quite often, a decision might be put on hold until morning if the offer wasn’t good enough.

We waited almost three hours when the grooms family all poured out of the hut again.

“Oh, this is a very bad sign, the wife’s family hasn’t accepted.”

I must admit, I was quite tired at this point and was ready to contribute what they still needed. A bar of soap? Sure, got it covered. But I think it had more to do with cows which I could do very little about. I found a baby to hold and actually fell asleep at one point in the chair while I was holding him.

The grooms family discussed among each other what to do and re-entered the hut. Perhaps 30 minutes or an hour later (I have no idea, I might’ve fallen asleep again), we heard the ululations by the brides aunt. This was a good sign—the offer was accepted.

This is when they started eating and celebrating together. It’s also the time Timothy took me home so I could sleep—I was exhausted.

And so life continues in Northern Uganda, despite a rebel leader who is unwilling to sign a peace agreement. People are being given in marriage, children are finishing exams, businesses are growing, and everyone hopes and prays that this place will never return to war.

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.