Rescue is Coming?

Keep praying for the orchestrating of doctor appointments. I had two possible endocrinologists lined up to see me in the next month or so. Yesterday I found out one was a terrible doctor, highly un-recommended by many. And this afternoon I heard that the other is "old school" and refuses to treat patients with test results similar to my own. But I called one more practice this afternoon in a desperate attempt. I was told the office was booked until mid-July. But they gave me the number for another practice of theirs in a city a little further away. I called.

And I have an appointment for tomorrow. Crazy. Unheard of. A total answer to my exhausted pleading with my Rescuer. So please join me in praying that the appointment tomorrow will go well and this doctor will not be "old school" but will be willing to treat my unusual case. She's from Africa--maybe she'll have mercy on my African soul :)

Waiting on My Rescuer

I take a while to process things. And I am usually fairly easy-going, holding up well under pressure (certainly not in my own strength). But there are times when I reach a breaking point. We all have our breaking points, right? When the proverbial “stuff” hits the fan. Today was a perfect storm for me and a whole lot of things hit the fan as I threw my version of a hissy fit. My life is entirely out of my control and none of us likes to be ousted from the driver’s seat.

As an American, I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing my life. So just what parts led to the state I was in this afternoon? Well, my physical body hasn’t been working or under my control for about 7 months now. I’ve had ups and downs, symptoms off and on, and in my current state I’ve gained 20 pounds which won’t budge, I can’t think straight or focus, and I’m continually exhausted. All things that are quite the opposite of my “norm”. Testing has narrowed it down to a thyroid problem but without going into too many details, it’s going to be hard to even find a doctor willing to treat me.

Most primary care doctors won’t even touch me because I’m an unusual case and the typical wait to see an endocrinologist is 6 months. All of this to say, it seems we know what is wrong but it’s not quick or easy fix.

Meanwhile, I was scheduled to return to Uganda in 3 weeks. I want to be in Uganda. I want to be with my team and doing the work that God has called me to do. But I can’t. In my current state, I am of little physical help and they don’t exactly have endocrinologists in high supply in Bundibugyo. A team that was at one time between 20 and 30 people (including kids) has dwindled to just the Johnson family, Anna, and the soon departing Scott Will. That’s 4 adults, soon to be 3. This is when I am most needed, right? I just found out yesterday that Travis has malaria. To give you an idea of the other things my team deals with in a week, read this.

All of this came crashing in on me this afternoon. Satan is highly skilled at whispering things in the dark that I never would have considered in the light. I feel like I’ve failed my team, my supporters, the Ugandans I went to serve. I feel guilty and angry. I wonder why God called me to Bundibugyo if he knew I wouldn’t be there right now. I wonder how I’m going to get an appointment with an endocrinologist—one who will treat me—and get back to Uganda as soon as possible. We have summer interns coming that I need to be there for, along with 100 other responsibilities. Not only that—I want to be there. I like living in Africa. Call me crazy after the bat and rat stories. But I miss (other) parts of being there. I miss my friends.

I hope this doesn’t sound like a bunch of whining and complaining. Yes, I am hurting right now. Yes, even missionaries doubt God’s love and promises. But I am hanging onto that little baby thread of faith that is left. And I am waiting in expectation for my God, who delights in rescuing his children.

Theme Song

I've always loved music and have often had a "soundtrack" of sorts to my life. Certain albums remind me of places I've been and different times in my life. Since coming back to the U.S., I have a theme song and since I'm feeling pretty exhausted and word-less tonight, here's the song. I recently discovered JJ Heller and highly recommend her other music too!

Crossing the Time Zones

I’m sitting here in the London Heathrow airport with another 3 hours of my layover to go. I enjoyed the luxury of having two seats to myself on the flight from Kampala to London and my first action of re-entry into the Western world—buying a cup of Starbucks coffee. As I have traveled over the last week my movement from one world to another has been gradual; thank goodness.

First, the trip from Bundibugyo to Fort Portal. We exited the blazing heat and humidity and after the jaw-rattling 3 hour ride, we arrived in the cool of Fort Portal. Well, relative cool anyway. We moved from the road that has sharp rocks jutting out by 6 inches to the smooth newly widened gravel road and finally to tarmac and speed bumps. We moved from the place where we make everything from scratch to a place where there are 4—yes 4!—restaurants available. Anna and I enjoyed a morning adventure walk through the tea fields wet with dew; a walk that was free of stares, yells, and other people altogether.

From there, Pat and I entered world #3 as we traveled to Kampala. A city able to offer just about anything I could want and yet inescapably African. Pat and I enjoy pedicures at a fraction of the American cost and travel through the legendary “jams” on a variety of transportation including motorcycles, matatus, and her own personal car. I go shopping and we both meet with a politician for lunch. His desire to improve the lives of those living in Bundibugyo is encouraging but the stories of behind-the-scenes corruption is discouraging. Being surrounded by a group of 15 white tourists in a small craft shop is overwhelming to me  and I hope my cultural tact is a bit better than theirs. I stifle the urge to yell “Mzungu!!” and am thankful I don’t have to travel in a herd in a white tour van.

From there, Pat and I enter the Entebbe airport, where the white face ratio increases yet again. I get on a plane and now find myself here—back in the 21st century, surrounded by the cultural diversity of Heathrow airport along with a good dose of consumerism. Hmmm. Currently, I feel mostly jet-lagged and frumpily rumpled next to fashionable London types.

It is strange to realize I sat in this same terminal 6 months ago, also jet-lagged and rumpled but also slightly terrified as I faced the reality of moving to an unknown and faraway land in East Africa. Now I sit here missing that place a bit already, excited to see family and friends, unsure of how unfamiliar my previous home will feel. I am praying for a smooth transition back into this modern world while realizing that I have changed and hoping that a large part of me will long to return to Bundibugyo. For now, I think I’ll finish my coffee, brush my teeth, and read my book until I take that final step back into the world of America.

The Gift of Pancakes

Earlier this week I felt stretched thin and spent. I found myself thinking “I can’t give out anymore. I’m just too tired to keep giving and giving.” In this place, a day does not go by without several people knocking at our door making their requests. It can range from kids asking for playing cards to people needing money to start a new business or transport money to get to a relative’s funeral. It quickly becomes exhausting to sort through each one and know how best to say yes or no.

Anyway, on this particular morning I found myself asking my Father for strength and energy for the day, including its requests. And I threw in a little “and please surprise me with some kind of encouragement too”. I went to the health center and met up with my friend Bahati. After volunteering there, we walked back together and she invited me into her small shop where she sells everything from sugar to permanent markers.

We had a great time chatting and she offered me two Ugandan “pancakes” her sister had made. They were made from cassava flour and banana and then deep fried—definitely different from American pancakes. But they were tasty and we shared a mango juice box too. As I sat there, I realized the joy of receiving from a friend. I never thought I would be so happy to have someone offer me fried pancakes, free of charge!

Even more than the pancakes and mango juice, I think I was also especially blessed by a real relationship. A friendship free of demands or requests. I left Bahati’s shop encouraged and renewed to give of myself again and thankful for God’s answer to my quickly breathed prayer earlier in the morning.

With Bahati in front of her shop.

Turning 22

Today was my 22nd birthday; not the first birthday I spent away from home but the first celebrated in Africa. In many ways, a typical day but also made special by those who love and care about me. Just a few of the special parts of the day:

Waking up to fluffy pancakes made by Chef Anna. While meeting with Bundi Nutrition workers, Amy came to the door and sang a Happy Birthday solo. Opening a HUGE pile of cards that had been stacking up for weeks at the Bundibugyo Post Office; reminding me of the many loving friends and supporters I have in America. Discovering a waffle maker the Clarks had left behind, after Anna and I had been lamenting our inability to make waffles on Sunday morning. Birthday text messages from family at home; my 4 year old nephew suggested buying me make-up for my birthday and my 1 year old nephew distinctly said my name. Piling in the car, bumping our way to Bundibugyo, for a night out on the town. A true Ugandan feast at the Vanilla Hotel with more plates than could fit on the table. Good dinner conversation with team plus a new friend. A phone call from the Clark family, complete with a beautiful rendition of Happy Birthday as well. Chocolate cupcakes, a firework candle that shoots sparks which is probably illegal in the U.S., and yes, even plastic animals (a childhood cake tradition). To top it off, cheesecake made possible by the Jello company and the postal service delivering it from America. Beautiful gifts and a pair of elephant earrings to add to my growing collection. Piling back into the car, one last birthday phone call from Pat. A cool-ish breeze comes through the windows as we bump back to Nyahuka; Aidan’s little hand finds mine as he falls asleep in his carseat.

A great day thanks to friends and family in America and my new family here in Uganda. And what is the perfect end to a great birthday? A rat running down the hall while Anna and I hop and scream, shutting him into the back office and baiting him with a banana stuffed with rat poison. Bundibugyo Birthday complete.

Banking in Bundibugyo

Today was a truly cross-cultural experience as I entered the Stanbic Bank in Bundibugyo Town on a mission to become a signatory for the Bundi Nutrition account. Thankfully, John Clark was along to guide and help me jump through the bureaucratic hoops. Below is a (more or less) play-by-play recounting of the morning. See if you can find how the experience differs a bit from what might happen in the U.S.

First, I hop on the back of John’s motorcycle while wearing a skirt. We make our way to town on dusty dirt roads, attempting to avoid the jagged rocks sticking out of the dirt (which is much harder than it sounds). The ride is about 30 minutes long and I’m sure we pass cows, large trucks kicking up dust clouds, and kids yelling “How are you?!” but I don’t remember. I guess it is becoming normal to me? Maybe.

We arrive at the bank, slightly windblown, and find out that “the network is down” so we cannot withdraw funds, check our account balance, or make any changes like adding a new signatory.  We decide to burn time—adding money to our electricity card so we have power at the mission, sitting at a little cafe eating chapatis and drinking hot tea.

Eventually we went back to the bank. The line of people had grown by a lot. Within minutes of standing in the line that never seemed to move, a woman comes and (by American standards) “cuts” in line. No one says anything. It seems to be a pretty typical thing here. You stand in line for a while, go run some errands, and then get back behind the guy you were behind before. No big deal.

When there are about six people in front of us in line, the person speaking to the teller ran into some kind of problem. The six people in front of us crowd around him, looking over his shoulder, all giving him advice. Banking privacy and security are defined a little differently here :) On a similar note, a man dressed entirely in yellow (think African version of Curious George’s caretaker minus the big hat) is crouched in a corner of the room with a huge pile of crushed bills, counting them out and creating piles, probably to deposit.

As we got closer to the front, the personal space factor diminished. For the last 30 minutes of waiting, an elderly woman behind me stood so close that her bag was resting on my body the whole time. I kept picturing the entire, winding line as human dominoes. Weird? Yes, but I had been standing in line for an hour with not much to do.

We finally reached the teller window. Victory! In order to withdraw cash, you have to write yourself a check. Which then has to be signed in 5 places and given the official stamp. Stamps and multiple signatures seem to be the name of the game here.

From there, we stepped into another line to request a provisional statement—a surprisingly quick and painless process! And then we went to the bank manager’s desk to turn in our paperwork and hopefully receive approval as a new signatory. We wait. And wait some more. And wait a little more. After about 30-45 minutes, he appears.

He rattles off a long list of documents that are required to process the request—3 passport photos, a signed letter from our local chairman, signed meeting minutes, filled out applications, and a photocopy of ID. Thankfully John has done this before and we have all of the above! The bank manager seems almost disappointed that we have everything and decides that my driver’s license is not a valid enough ID. My passport is in Kampala awaiting a work permit. Thankfully, I have a photocopy of the passport at home and he agrees to accept it and process the request when I bring it. Success!

After 5 hours, the banking for Bundi Nutrition seems to be in order. I hop onto the back of John’s motorcycle again and we make our way back to Nyahuka with the equatorial sun beating down. A few months ago, I probably would have thought it had been a long and frustrating process with little merit in the end. And while it did take a lot of time to do something seemingly simple, I understand the importance of it today.

Being able to withdraw those funds from America in a Stanbic bank on a dirt road in rural Uganda is going to save lives. As the dry season continues and food becomes scarce, malnourished children will be hungry, lose weight, and be less able to fight common sicknesses here like malaria or diarrhea. The Bundi Nutrition programs provide important food supplements that will keep these children alive or at least give them a fighting chance. So while the process of banking here in Bundibugyo is different, I am thankful for the system that provides funds for programs that save the lives of children here.