Mbale is Beauty

Mbale.
Beautiful. enchanted I think. There must be fairies and angels moving harmoniously about the air here.
Roe and I sit in an internet cafe... nestled next to this great green mountain.
I felt sick this morning, but then better. Seems to be the trend.
Woke up in the middle of the night with an ill stomach.
I walked toward the bathroom. Heard this strange buzzing sound. I jumped. But everyone slept.
I jumped again, buzz... buzz....
eery. Eventually I did what needed to be done, but was freaked out all the while.
I laugh now, thinking of myself jumping around last night in the dark like a crazy person. All because of a little buzzing... but the buzzing bug PROBABLY could have killed. Silly me.

And Yesterday we met the staff.
We drank Kenyan tea. And Sang together praise.
9 of them, all locals from Mbale.
Paul 1, Paul 2, Paul 3
Patrick
Livingstone.
Vicki, Susan, Mariam.
Moses.
Each with hearts that glow.

I took a shower from a bucket and felt so clean. Refreshed. It was fun.
Yesterday Livingstone took us on a walk throughout the hills. Again. I was taken aback. My breath robbed from me. The green plants. The red dirt. The dark and beautiful women, children, men.
We walked up and down and around. Mulembe. Peace. Mulembe.

The sounds, the birds, the beauty. The cows. The goats. The chickens. Roe and i want to steal one, and I want to name it Frederick. But that's what I named my stomach illness...

Yes my heart is confused. Where do i fit in this world? What exactly is required of me? I'm not even doing anything... yet why am I still here? Am I lonely? Or content? And what does it mean to be content in this moment and not always thinking ahead or behind? Thinking about home... and Africa... and the relations of all things.
And questions storm my mind. So I rested yesterday. I journaled... writing about the things I know that make me content. About chocolate cookies and love. And connections with people. And conversations that feel as though the souls hold hands. And the warmth of a blanket. And a cup of coffee. And relieving one's bladder. You must admit :). And Sunshine and rainstorms and dancing and singing. And painting and drawing. And smiling. And hearing Acapella voices cry out to God through Psalms, as we did yesterday morn. So I write out the makings of momentous joy as I sit under my princess bed. Yes. It is a bigger bed than I've ever slept in. Pink sheets. A mosquito net. And I feel like an African princess. Probably the only time in my life I'll be comforted by the color pink.

And Roe and I woke up from our rest and conversed. Sometimes these conversations feed the heart. This one indeed did, as we chatted about race and color and how this all must be both reconciled and celebrated, rather than turned into hostility among human beings. And we spoke of the moment. Of how one balances comfort and discomfort. How one can live an American lifestyle yet still love the African children... and where is this balance found? I have yet to know. and must never know. or at least never be numb to this question.
Because the point is to be broken enough, yet not too much. A broken heart allows one to feel,
yet a destroyed heart disables one to love.

Ill keep exploring this, as I sit here in the heavenly Mbale.
Tomorrow we go to the feilds. I am frightened and eager.

And ill continue these beautiful conversations with Roe, the staff, and the people I encounter.
I indeed miss home, but I indeed love this day. Because how can i feel down when I walk through such beauty and the sun dances around my face?

So today dear Vicki is taking us to her village. :)

"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
 when sorrows like sea billows roll;
 whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
 It is well, it is well with my soul." 

Drips of paint and beauty

Julia, we have arrived in safety and we miss you already :)

I have logged on to internet for a brief time, and yes, it is sparing, as is everything in this location.
Limited electricity, internet, etc., etc., etc, yet in this abundance of love and warmth that Roe and I were received by earlier this afternoon, I feel blessed in a way that cannot be explained.

A city. Calming size. Already feel more respected.
A home. Comfortable. Grand.
Drips of paint and beauty on the outside and inside.
Colors. Blue. Gray. White.

I am calm. I am here. Two ladies have accompanied us all day and the connection has been therapeutic. Again, I am grateful in all of it's entirety.

Mbale.

Rachel and I a few weeks ago at the world's longest wedding
And Kati's head poppin' in behind :)


Tomorrow I drive to Mbale with Roe... Sarah and Kyle will continue on to Kapchurwa (sorry for the butchered spelling).
and at 730 we will drive. 4 hours later Mbale will be reached.
we will first consume donuts.
as i walked through the city yesterday, in my solitude, how deeply i will miss Kampala.
the sounds, the streets, the noises, the laughter, the smells.
all irritating and beautiful and now a home that I will leave.

Mbale. mostly a mystery.
yes of course Sex-Ed courses.
"Choose Life" handbook.
i will read.
absorb my thoughts in journaling and photos and yet another village and books.
today i bought a large one. I decided to turn away from African literature as to have a sort of change of pace. Found a different novel. Autobiography of a man who was imprisoned in Australia, and escaped to India.
Sweet Rachel and I set out to explore this city one final time.
together we discussed religion. life. jesus. buddha. all things on our hearts.
and we sipped coffee and milk.
she is a beautiful soul, as are my fellow peers here.
i am grateful for these friendships. for the connections with all the spirits of the ladies, the two guys, the Food for the Hungry staff.
we are an idealistic bunch. one seeking change and seeking to find answers, yet also to raise more questions.

and my hopes for Mbale?
to be fearless.
hopeful.
and in my own hopelessness, seek joy.
to find smiles and tears and authenticity.
to artistically set about my days.
to work hands on with a clinic of the sick. and do the deeds the clinic workers request.
to allow children a chance at a sketchbook.
and then to hear stories. and the voices of the families
and yes, in all of my anxiety, i am eager.
sleep awaits me. a final night in this soft bed of comfort and a warm blue blanket.
I will miss Grace. Our cook. Recently we have spent time and time again.
She said I could knock on her door in the morning and wake her to hug goodbye.
And in only a month these connections are made.
And in another month, new ones will also.
It would be a lie to say i do not miss home. I do.
strange how being a continent away, life at home continues.
internet will be sparing. sometimes strong. others weak.

Bed time for meggy.
thanks dad for answering the phone. it was brilliant to hear the voices of cindy and mikey. court. jenn. kates. my love for you is endless. I love you mom. and family. Please feel my hug even this far. and feel my hope for your joy and my cry for this land and that one.
and a secret? i am deeply attached to ireland. random i know, but worth noting.
and tonight we had THE OFFICE party. felt for a moment as if I was back home.
tomorrow? I will be in a new place.
and travelling feeds my soul. because of this community called humanity.

"I am because we are, and since we are, therefore I am." (African saying)

Reflections On Poverty. and the global cry.

just some paper writings i turned in to Dr. Mpagi today. ponderings and thoughts:


Social activists and economists have defined poverty in various ways. Absolute poverty, including an apparent eight million deaths per year, entails struggling to find the most basic survival needs and living on equal to or less than one dollar a day. Moderate poverty describes those who survive off of one to two dollars a day, and are most often unable to attend school or receive healthcare. Relative poverty refers to those people who are living below the established poverty line. Poverty must not always be defined by the latter, monetary means, but rather, should speak “about scores of men, women, and children enduring unimaginable obstacles that keep them from fulfilling their most basic human rights and achieving their individual potentials” (NetAid.org 1). Universally, human beings are impoverished, failing to reach potential because of both physical and spiritual poverty.
I walk through the maze of the city. Crowds of people move at rapid paces, this person and that heading here and there and everywhere, mentally astray from what is going on around, and rather, lost in individual thought. Beautiful, hurting, broken, sick: these words encompass a global unity that comes through an impoverished world. There is a child on the street with her hands reaching out desperately as I walk past. I cannot decide whether or not to give. With paper money, she may buy drugs or be forced to hand the earnings to the adult standing in the shadows. There is a baby sitting and pleading, no older than one year, mindlessly staring into the crowds of people rushing off in various directions. The worker in a business suit hurries to a necessary meeting, while a female vendor carries material goods to be sold that sit above leaves of bananas on her head. A mother pulls a child in a blue and white uniform across the quickly moving street of Matatus and Boda Bodas in order to make it to school. I observe, and realize that in these various manners of going about one’s personal business, there is oneness. Poverty is universal, and each individual is carrying this burden on his or her heart. I stop and listen. Shouts, cries, laughter, conversation, yet I hear mere emptiness, loneliness, and neglect. The leper on the street feels hopeless. The begging child understands no other way of life. The business people are working for survival, for betterment of the city and the students are seeking answers. The wealthy individual is often numb to these sightings because of years of not knowing how to handle this brokenness. No matter the differences in physical and emotional wealth, in spiritual or physical hunger, there is a cry for human beings to be understood, and in this common misunderstanding of individuals at the core, there is poverty.
I am now away from the sounds of the urban setting of Kampala and heading in a car from the city of Masaka toward the village of Kigasa. Scattered houses, as opposed to the crammed living spaces within the city, sit nestled in abundant greenery. The surroundings take my breath. It is raining and tropical. Banana leaves, coffee beans, Jackfruit, each blossoming on its branches, trying to outshine the others. There are children picking from these trees, mothers and daughters walking with various foods balanced above braided hair and headscarves, and women and men are working hard on their land, digging intensely, being aided by their large extended families. There is an essence of togetherness and community. We arrive at the home of our rural visit to be received by welcoming displays of affection. The brick house sits in the middle of a village, with inside couches draped by handmade lace pieces. A room next to it is separated by ornately decorated cloth and holding the cherry red wooden kitchen table. We explore the vicinity with several separated rooms yet a small space overall and brick walls painted blue and white. The middle room contains a red mud floor leading outside to an area where cooking and cleaning take place. This is sufficient, impressive, rural, and intriguing. Baskets are scattered about holding Jack fruit and green bananas to make Amatooke. Clothing is hanging with all of its colors, above the assortment of dirt-drenched sandals. The bath area contains only a small pit latrine. To the right, the children and the father are milking the cows. There are goats and wandering stray dogs. During our plentiful meals, the children help translate. They attend boarding school during the school year where they learn English and typical primary school subjects. Joan loves poetry. She is thirteen. She wants to be a writer. Justine wants to be a Nurse. She draws in my journal along with Caroline, helping me learn Lugandan. We leave on Sunday after church. This goodbye is heart wrenching because this family has altered my thought in regards to what is poor.
Having experienced both settings, that of the rural and the urban, I contemplate poverty. There is a beauty to village life, a community that sustains the members. If the world defines this as physical poverty, I must ask why there is such wealth to these spirits. Faces of young girls and boys, of sweet mothers, and of tenacious farmers display intense expression, deep pain, and laborious hard work, yet am I only seeing a cover masking a deep unsettling heartbeat. Still, only a few days spent in Kigasa, and this life is now slightly understood. If poverty is as I have seen in these hearts and on these faces, then the word must be reconsidered. Where is the difference in poverty between this rural setting and that of the urban as described earlier? And then I ask how the term varies from region to region, country to country, and person to person. In experiencing the village life for the mere three days, I saw a family of love that was able to send their children to receive education, and the eldest daughter, Annette, had even journeyed to Kampala to attend university in the city. There is a peace found in the way those in the villages aid one another, yet there is also an overall, beyond the single situation I saw, in the lack of health-care and education across the board.
In discussing with various Ugandans, mixed responses generate. Two individuals may witness the same situation while bringing to the table entirely different perspectives on the good and evil at hand. Some say that the village life is more pleasant, while others explain the life of the city to be brighter and more accommodating. It is mostly agreed upon, however, that both manners of living hold benefits and weaknesses. Grace, a dear woman who grew up in a village, explains that those in the rural regions only appear happy. “It is a choice one makes because this is the way life is going to be: day to day work, yes, enough food, but nothing changes.” She explains it as a consistent yet challenging life. Her parents divorced while she was a mere infant, following with her mother’s death from an illness when Grace was eleven, disabling her to conclude education. Money was anything but abundant and the farm was not flourishing. She was handed to a new family, yet the uncle was unable to provide education for Grace because he already paid for his own children. From a different perspective, another woman explained that the village life holds typically promising meals, and if there is no productive farmer in the family, the surrounding community members will often provide help. She, as opposed to grace who was bored by it, enjoyed the level of comfort and consistency. Despite the perspective, the truth remains that 85% of Ugandans occupy remote rural areas, away from healthcare and necessary supplies, away from steady roads where food can be sold. (Rural Poverty Portal 1) Farmers are not always educated on the right pesticides, and in a country where HIV/ AIDS is spread thickly throughout, there must be a change in the minimal, sparing health care. (Rural Poverty Portal 1)
There has been a more successful decrease of poverty in the city, according to the statistics found by the Rural Poverty Portal, yet there are commonalities shared by the physically impoverished in the city. Their fellow friends who also lack homes feed the children, forming a community even in the crowds of fast paced people. In both surroundings there is a sense that people aid one another in need, yet the amount of food eaten may vary from day to day. A friend, Betty, mentioned that there are days where food is low, and therefore sleep is what occurs, yet on days when food is available, it is shared and portioned out. The city is more promising because jobs are more available, yet, Betty explains, the work is hard and for long hours, sometimes beginning at seven in the morning and not ending until at least nine or ten at night. There are children begging and cripples around. And I ask where poverty ends. Those in the urban setting are forced to keep up with the calls of the city: the tolls, the fees, the jobs, but education can be more easily accessible. Those in the rural have a more consistent food bank and workload that has been passed down through generations, yet normal necessities of life are minimal.
I wonder who are my brothers and sisters, what is needed for life to exist, and what sustains people in the way that those of the city and the villages sustain one another. I think upon one shared smile with a woman wearing a Gomesi that shattered brokenness within the both of us and rather provided a genuine warmth of spirit, because if life is merely a time for connections of soul and mind, then there is beauty in this global poverty. There is a calm in this brokenness. Yes, there are hungry people throughout the countryside. There are starving families and abandoned babies in the rush of the city. Still, there are starving souls and spirits universally. Families that make endless money in the west still fail to find happiness, and the little girl, Joan, who I came across in the village, displayed a contentment that soothed me. The answer is not simple and most definitely not black and white. Somewhere in the middle there is found a human cry of pain and hunger, a human need for love and understanding. In this impoverished world there can be found a sense of global community, and within this global community there may be steps to overall betterment. Poverty must still be pondered within and without, in regards to a person’s heart and his or her relation to the world, because somewhere out there is a family sitting in a red brick home, cooking together within the back hills of Uganda, displaying the unity the comes from care for the other.

.....We leave the rural visit, waving goodbye to all that we have seen, waving goodbye to the plentiful greenery and the warmth of heart. We head back toward the city on a bus filled with individuals. This lady to the right is pondering her mother’s passing away due to an unnamed illness. The man to the left thinks about his first wife and the sweet love the two shared as young adults. The baby in the back can only cry for food because this is what she craves. We sit, Americans encountering a new culture, observing and taking in all that is surrounding us. Within this bus there are people from a plentitude of backgrounds, each seeking something separate from the female or the male seated around, yet there is togetherness in that we are all searching for something. Whether one notices the rituals, the poverty, the traditions, the intense life of the city, or the altered pace of the village, there are a plentitude of differences and similarities shared across cultures. There is a universal cry that must be answered. There must be recognized the unity that you and she and he and we share. When we arrive back to America, we will see a woman, a man, and a child, all lost in personal thoughts. This is no different from here. This is the physical and spiritual hunger that is spoken of. Human beings are interconnected, and through the desire to understand differences, to seek out cultural elements, and to contemplate why each heart beats to a different tune, there is beauty. This beauty cannot be ignored, and rather, must be pursued: in this beauty there is a hope that the cravings shared by humanity across the globe can indeed be responded to.

And so the paper is concluded.
Tomorrow morning I wake up and learn how to basket weave. Today I wandered around Kampala. I loved it. I spent time with Grace, our cook. We laughed. We chatted. My heart again warmed by this new relationship.
I am about to head to Mbale for my October practicum. Sunday we leave. This will be a time that will bring contemplation . I am eager beyond words, yet I would be lying if I didn't also mention a bit of fear and anxiety. Blessings sent your way. And love, of course.

George Fox University- Obama Scandal.

If you have not already heard, as this has now reached local, national, AND international levels of news, there has been a deeply disappointing occurrence on my campus back at home.
First, some background. Last year, our school implemented on-campus the Act Six program (modeled after Whitworth University in Spokane, Washington). Act Six offers a full-ride scholarship to 10 intercity kids each year who otherwise would not be able to afford to attend university. These prospective students go through an extensive competition and the 10 awardees are quite deserving. I am greatly pleased with this program and admire those students who work so hard to acquire this.
But, now. Some ignorant individual has posted up a life-size cut-out of Obama that says, "Act Six Reject." Absolutely appalling. Immediately this cut-out was taken down, but not before it already reached the media. And of course the media has blown this entirely out of proportion, saying that the cut-out was HUNG BY A NOOSE. I have talked to my friends back on campus, and as much as this is not an excuseable action, it was not hung by a noose. Oh, the media.

Below is a snippet from my good pal John Archibald, president of our student republican club, whose words were published in The Oregonian:

It is with my deepest regret that I feel the need to address the incident that has recently plagued this campus. It has been in the Republican tradition to support those persecuted against. We are the party of abolition; the party of the Civil Rights movement. What happened on campus this week is disheartening to American politics. Regardless of your politics, this act of hate cannot be tolerated. We at George Fox are a moderate and close-knit culture. It is important that we not let this uncharacteristic event taint our reputation. The GFU College Republicans have been encouraging the creation of a College Democrats group and find that now, more than ever, this should be pursued. We believe in a civil political dialogue between both parties in which students can objectively decide their platforms. Our heart goes out to the Act Six scholarship recipients and the GFU faculty who have had to address this unfortunate issue.

John Archibald
Chairman, GFU College Republicans

I am grateful for John's efforts to speak up. His words are kind and truthful.

Racism is an awful, awful thing. And it exists, still, in this day and age that is supposed to be all about human rights and equality. Being across the globe in Africa, I feel quite helpless regarding this situation. George Fox is loving and accepting, and it is quite unfortunate the actions of a certain individual had to taint our reputation. But even more so, it is sad that the Act Six students now have to feel like the odd-man out. I am sure that there is an element of total rejection, and total sadness in these hearts.

Krista Ray, my lovely freshman roommate, just informed me that President Robin Baker addressed the campus today in chapel. She says that this was a deeply saddening event, yet one that provided unity, peace, and compassion. I am grateful for the campus efforts to bring clarity. My friend Mat Hollen also reminded me just a moment ago, "Just don't forget how good this community is."
And this is what we must rely on. The campus is one of love. It is a campus that holds each student in high regards, and joins together in these times.

I am writing this simply to raise awareness about the actual events. Please pray for those involved. Pray for the campus... that there is an aura of acceptance. Please pray for the well-being of the Act Six students. This is a time where grace, mercy, and love are deeply needed across the globe. No one deserves to be put on this negative pedestal. No one deserves such rejection. Keep the hearts of the individuals involved in your best regards. Racism is uncalled for. And please, please, keep this in mind:

"Above all, love."

sweet thunder

sweet thunder.
i miss you.
you called out. and again.

walk with them. like a maze. a race.
sea of minds, empty hearts in rapid motion past.
beckoning
the sights. the touch. the aura.
walking by the cripple, the leper, on broken red brick. with a broken red frame.
hands
open hands.
nothing in these open bruised hands.
a child begging. i take that back. ten children following me.
I cannot give. or provide. or even look away.
No.

And thus broken.
a sadness.
a darkness.
studying art. contouring your soul. sketching the motion.
the hills and valleys of this child's face.
the yesterday. the hope. the tomorrow
sweet dimples. dark eyes of deep chocolate.
and the gray thunder. again rumbling.
and the violent lightning. but responsive.
i miss you
we spoke tonight.
i heard your dark roar.
i cried. i cried. i cried. and you rained.
because broken am i. broken are you. broken is he and she and they and them.
and i am only studying the elements of art.
maybe a purpose. or a habit.
i only draw figural essence in my mind, seeing the movement.
i pencil the anxious legs, the bending elbows, the misunderstood heart.
and sweet thunder sings.
crashes. roaring with lyrical tenderness.

oh thunder, but your rain and my tears.
one global cry. internal. external. the child. the leper. the woman. men. together. and me.
and i miss you.

the dark cloud of procrastination exists no matter where one resides.

so i am only writing this to make an entirely general statement:
even when in Africa, one is entirely capable of procrastinating.
now excuse me as I waste my African life away buried under books and questions.
but at least I DID spend my whole free day out in the city. shopping. and then eating dessert tonight. and then sitting aimlessly. and then skyping. and then listening to music. and then chatting with our guests who came for dinner. and then facebook. and then emailing. and then writing a blog about procrastination to procrastinate even more. and then... etc. etc. etc.
and besides, sleep is overrated. :)

owning poverty

yesterday evening our session covered more of the Owning Poverty booklet.
here is a quote (the wise words of Michael Pucci, a world traveler of wisdom connected with Food for the Hungry):
"When any of our rights appear to receive the slightest infringement we go ballistic. We are so far removed from the willing abdication of our rights our Master taught and modeled. When we suffer the loss of our property, we are told to give the exploiter more, the very shirt off our back. When we suffer the loss of safety in physical violence, we are to offer that person another opportunity to punch us around again. When we are made to serve against our will, we are to over-deliver on the demands of our unjust oppressor... by a mile (Matthew 5:39)."

idealistic and beautiful. challenging. holding much truth. yet the problem arises in how these must be interpreted. of course I will say, "Oh yes, I'd give anything in front of one who oppresses me." Yet when it actually happens, when I am faced with a loss of rights, I "go balistic," as Pucci says.
Last week as I walked down the street a man came up to me in an attempt to trip me. I was okay. Nothing happened really. It was in broad daylight. There were plenty of people around. My immediate feeling was that of fear because I felt this very negative energy around the situation. I walked on with a quicker step and a fearful sentiment.
As a woman, it is not always safe here. I say "here," but in reality, this could be said of any location across the globe. As foreign women (myself included) walk through the streets, men call out, "Mzungu! My wife!" "Can I have her?" We say, "No." "But I want her! I love her! I will marry her!" "Mzungu, Mzungu!" I do not hear any of this. Instead I hear, "WOMAN! WOMAN! LET ME HAVE THIS PIECE OF PROPERTY! TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS OBJECT AND USE THIS BODY BECAUSE I HAVE POWER OVER IT."

There is much anger within me. A great frustration with this that is building and building. I am not a typically angry person... and for this I am embarrassed to admit to the great amount of fire inside. I cannot STAND the way that women are treated. I am appalled by the lack of rights women hold. I cannot STAND the patriarchal societies in which we live. What gives a man the right to have power over females? Why is it okay?
I will not answer these questions myself, as they have been tossed around violently for years on end. Rather, I will look at the relation of this concept and that of the Owning Poverty booklet, the idea of giving the shirt off of your back to he or she who oppresses.
What does anger like my own solve? If a man calls out to me in a disturbing manner and all I do is glare back, or simply walk on, or try to push him away, little goodness results. I am simply upset because my rights, as the quoted passage suggests, have been taken away. Anger is treated with anger. Frustration treated with frustration. All that I am doing by responding in such a way is either encouraging the behavior or feeding into it. This is the easy response. The challenge lies in loving this person who oppresses. In showing compassion to he who diminishes my rights.

I step away and think where these men have come from. To think of oppressor from a different angle is necessary. Who has oppressed THESE individuals? I do not know their childhoods. I do not know if they were beaten or abused or even prostituted in some way. I do not know what drugs they may be on and then what it was that pushed these souls to such a place where drugs seemed comforting. I do not know how horrible certain situations must be for a man to sacrifice genuine love and rather crave the escape that a foreigner offers, whether this relationship involves love or not. These men want a wife to take them away from this country. Not all. But there is hope in escape. There is humor in taking out ones pain on an innocent bystander.
If I simply act with anger in response to these situations, all that I am doing is continuing a cycle. This man was oppressed. He then oppresses others. The other (me) oppresses him.
No. I cannot allow this. I want horribly to find a solution. Yesterday evening my group authentically discussed our anger with these issues, yet decided to seek creative ways to act in response. Loving those who oppress requires innovation and an open mind. Maybe instead we can respond to the men with a question as to why they are doing this. We can think before we quickly move away. Before we act out in a quick temper.
Granted, if I am being attacked, there must be a different measure taken. Yet in every situation there are extremes. There must be a preparation. A knowing beforehand that such events may take place, and when approached by it, a different choice of action.

Today a few girls and I headed into Aweno market. The busiest location in Kampala. Shoes. Pants. Shirts. Bags. Pens. Pencils. Underwear. Hats. Red Converse. Business Slacks. Belts. And all of these items repeated in insane quantities. Being as it is, it is made the prime spot for Mzungu calling, shouting, and grabbing. I made the decision to as best as I could act in love toward these happenings. I thought of the compassion of Jesus. Jesus would not run from those who mocked him, rather, love them intensely. As men called out, I responded. If they asked, "How are you Mzungu?" I did my best to simply, yet genuinely answer.

I do not say this for praise because there is still much anger within and still many mistakes that will be made. I am still sinful and will still respond negatively from time to time, yet there is a challenge that I must take up. I have little concept of how loving one person will impact the entire patriarchal issue, yet there must be a light somewhere.
Today as I thought of these mens past, I could not help but hurt for them. I know nothing of where they come from. I have little idea of the pain that may have defined their youth. Again, I do not want to give a wrong idea. Africa is a beautiful place. The people are beautiful. Even these men are human beings created in love. Not all are always surrounded by pain, yet who is to say that the name-calling is without cause. The background must always be understood before judgment is quickly placed.
In NO way does turning the other cheek in oppression mean simply taking a beating, of letting someone walk all over you. I see the story of turning the other cheek and giving the shirt off our backs as a challenge to find ways to love and in a way that stands up for something. Everyone is hurting no matter what there internal prison consists of. And I pray for these men. I pray for the women that are oppressed. I pray for those whose backgrounds are inconceivably miserable. I pray that love does conquer, and even if this is only incriment by incriment, I pray that it is striven for.
Even with the simple alteration in thought process today, there was minimal anger as I walked around the market, and rather, a great peace and love for those around me: the man who wanted me to purchase his blue striped button up shirt, the woman who insisted that I look at her plethera of lace blouses, the children who sat on the ground requesting coins.

And God uses humor. Because after the incredible amount of irritation and even fear that I dwelled in during the darkness of last night, something sweet and encouraging took place on our way home, as if to say, "Dear Meg, do not think that I have not made each child with care. Do not be ignorant and think that this child of mine is not also precious just because he is from Africa."

The Muyenga/ Tank Hill sign that we usually stand by to pick up a Matatu home was moved elsewhere. My friend Sarah and I felt a bit lost. Very quickly, we were asked by a group of men where our destination was. Without hesitation, a kind young chap said that he would walk us and guide us to the new place we needed to stand. Somewhat embarrissingly on my behalf, here was a man allowing us to walk safely behind him, through the market, through the black shoes and the purple socks and the multiple school supplies. We even shared a laugh as I attempted to speak Lugandan. We thanked him for his kindness as we calmly entered out Matatu. I was touched. His gentle nature was anything but harmful. The graciousness of this man again reminded me of the grace that God offers when I sacrifice and let go. By the love that is shown despite internal struggle. Yellow rays are present, as if a dark gray cloud like those that hold African thunder storms has been carried away by some higher force. I cannot know the answers to each difficult query, but I can let go of the need to know and instead, even though I am imperfect and will still allow anger to linger, I will LOVE as I was called to.

lantern.

Words cannot explain the joy of this past weekend’s rural visit. There is so much to say. So much learned and observed. By far the most authentic experience yet. I am grateful.

It is Friday morning. Kati, Sarah, and I hear a knock on our door of our FH compound in Kampala. Helen, a spunky, adorable, unpredictable Cornerstone friend, an hour and ½ early of course. Oh Helen. Never can one predict the timing of locals. African time, we call it. A beautiful thing that may quite possibly torment me when I return home. I can see it now. “Class starts at 9, Meghan,” says my professor. “Oh shoot, it is 10:30, isn’t it?” Pray for me and my future class schedule.
We walk down the street- backpacks stuffed to the rim of simple toiletries, journals, i-pods, cameras, long skirts, and mosquito nets. This is even more noticeable than our already established difference of being foreigners. Our Matatu (taxi) takes us to the Old Taxi Park. Then we hop on a bus that will leave for a 3 hour journey to Masaka upon filling up. I grab a window seat to prevent motion sickness. Success. Window shopping here in Kampala. Rather than having to walk around, I can actually just sit on a taxi or a bus as multiple vendors head to my window insisting that I need a red beaded necklace, a blue and gray pair of socks, MTN phone minutes, pink razors, children’s toys, soda, and water. Then there is the man who manages to squeeze his head through the window only to smile at me and say, “Hello beautiful Americana, where are you going? You must need biscuits.”
After several laughs at this entertaining seen, our bus thankfully fills up to the rim with people and heads out of town. We manage to squeeze through the hectic park. I have yet to understand how such a large bus fits through such small space. And how such a bus SPEEDS around cars on the highway without flipping. And I wonder why Shania Twain and other country music is blasting the entire way. The excitements of Africa.
I sit with Kati as we discuss life and goodness. Helen and her friend Annette sit to the other side and Sarah is squished between two men in the row ahead of me. Shops. Hair salons. Restaurants. People walking, talking. Beautiful scenery comes. Greenery in Africa. Breathtaking and lush. And I listen to my music and absorb, eager for arrival to the village.
We arrive in Masaka and take a small white car deep into the hills. I am reminded of Ireland. A road only the size of one vehicle and bumpy. the surroundings take my breath. It is raining and tropical. After an hour drive, our home. It is afternoon/ evening. The family rushes outside to greet their daughter Annette and their visitors. A mood of joy. The brick house sits in the middle of a village. Couches draped by handmade lace pieces. A room next to it separated by ornately decorated cloth and holding the cherry red wooden kitchen table. Helen explains that the father (who does not speak English) is grateful for our coming. We explore the vicinity. Several separated rooms yet a small space overall. Rooms with painted blue and white and brick and wood tables. The middle room with a red mud floor leading outside to an area to cook and clean. Sufficient and impressive. Rural. Intriguing. Baskets scattered about holding Jack fruit and green bananas to make Amatooke (mushed bananas). Sandals sitting outside the door. Clothing hanging with all of its colors and skirts and shirts. The bath area is to the left. Only a small square hole in the ground for the restroom. It takes practice, but can indeed be done. To the right, the cows are being milked by the children and the father. I name a cow Molly and the children giggle with me. There are goats. And stray dogs. The farm I always wished for as a child.

A father. Two mothers. Sixteen Children. Grandmothers. We then eat. and eat. and eat. Four meals PLUS added snacking daily. Breakfast. Tea. with milk fresh out of the cow. lunch. bread snack. second lunch. dinner. After dinner tea. Never in my life have I eaten so much in such a small amount of time. Wow. I am full. and grateful at that!
We are given a bedroom as about seven of the family girls help us set up the mosquito nets. We wake up early and help clean. All working together. Sharing. laughing. As we help peel bananas, they laugh kindly at our inadequacy. The men work in the other area. We eat more.
And now a funny story.
One of the mothers tells the daughter that I look smart, a compliment on my clothing choice. I have recently learned a few Luganda words, so I yell across the yard to her "W'Olumbe!". Oops. I was thinking that I had said "Thankyou!" Nope. Not at all. The word I said means death. Wuebale is what I had meant to say. So rather than yelling thank you, I indeed reference death in a loud voice. After an awkward moment of silence that seemed endless, we all laugh hilariously. Oh dear me.
Then we take a boda boda to a local funeral. The motorcycle ride was thrilling, comical, and joyful. Sarah and I yell to those we pass, “Jambo, Ssebo! Jambo Nnyabo!” (Goodbye! Goodbye!) Again, we are a spectacle both on the way and at the funeral. And I hear wailing. Piercing cries from the women related to the elder who died. My heart is weakened. Broken by the sounds. An eerie setting.
The rest of the weekend is filled with community time. Family. Children giggling and sharing with us. An evening spent at the other mother’s home. Candle lit evenings. Tea. Food. Laughter. Dancing to American Hip-Hop with the mother and two daughters because this is the only station coming in clearly. I try to demonstrate line-dancing. I am amazed at the quick connection with such a language barrier. And grateful for the children's ability to translate. They attend boarding school during the school year where they learn English and typical primary school subjects. Joan loves poetry. She is thirteen. She wants to be a writer. Justine wants to be a Nurse. She draws in my journal along with Caroline, helping me learn Lugandan. Erin is only 5 and entirely cute.
We leave on Sunday after church. This goodbye is heartwrenching because my life has been altered by this family.

And aside from these factual events, I contemplate poverty, polygamy, joy.

A beauty to this lifestyle. My heart is warmed. Struggling to find words. If poverty is this rural area, then why is there such a wealth to these spirits. And such a method of sustainability. And I cannot forget this time. These people. Only a few days. A few evenings. A few memories. Yet a connection of the heart. A time shared. Moments of peace. Looking at the stars on Saturday night. The clear sky. Reflection and appreciation for the beauty of this family. I spent time drawing the children. They loved it. Sweet faces. Faces of expression and pain and growth and challenges.
What a life that is now slightly understood.
I may see more light. I feel it. Because if poverty is as this life is, then poverty must be redefined. Then there is a different sense of poverty at home, in the States, in Kampala, in every separate setting. Even though there are two wives, a community still. A functioning day to day. An energy of love surrounding these brick walls and red dirt and rainfall. And while I sat observing, and when I think now, I am most overjoyed. Not even darkness. But joy. Of course only three days in this setting, but could I say I feel brighter color? a lighter mood? more than what I have felt. A shattering of the dark cloud and I will consider this still…
And I wonder what this life means for me. Who I am. Who I need. What sustains me the way these people sustain one another. And how a simple moment in time with a family in a rural setting can indeed alter thought. How one shared smile with a women in a Gomesi can adjust this brokenness. If life is merely a time for connections of soul and mind and heart, then maybe I see more beauty. If my art can be capturing expressions through figure and face, than no doubt I will pursue this endlessly. Joan. The steady, calm, serene, focused, mysterious thirteen year old. I am revitalized by their beauty and again inspired artistically... something that has been scattered since arrival.
Yes I still wish for companionship, but this can be spent apart from a man, from friends, from whatever. Companionship with the world around me however this must be defined in the present. But I felt this last weekend. I felt a hope that has been long lost. A connection to my own family and this one and the world.

And words are inadequate. Entirely. But these people have touched me. Thus far, the most rich experience.

Blessings to you at home. Ponder poverty still. Ponder your hearts and your relation to the world, your unity with all, because somewhere out there is a family sitting in a red brick home, cooking together within the back hills of Uganda, displaying the unity that comes from care for the other.

Running to Stand Still- Braddigan

what makes me fall into darkness. not sure. but down, down, down, I go.
Sweet lyrics both put words and heal this apparent brokenness that comes and goes intensely:

RUNNING TO STAND STILL by Braddigan

so she woke up
woke up from where she was
lying still
saying i gotta do something about where were going
stepped on a steam train
out of the driving rain baby
run from the darkness in my mind
singing
a a la la light n day

sweet the sin
bitter taste
in my mouth
i see 7 towers
but i only see 1 way out
you gotta cry with out weeping
talk without speaking
scream without raising your voice
you know i took the poison
from the poison stream
and i floated out of here

she runs through the streets
her eyes painted red
under black belly cloud in the rain
in through doorway
she brings me those white golden peals
stolen from the sea
she is raging, she is raging
and the storm blows up in her eye
she will suffer the needle chill
shes running to stand still

im still running, im still running
im still running all the way home
im still running, im still running
im still running all the way home

week two and now thoughts

talented women. wow.

a mother's love.

some rubbish above.

lonely child.

then laughter.

and unity

i wander. and everywhere i see the same thing. people hurting. people feeling alone. people not knowing where to go or what to be or who to go to. women being highly mistreated. and not even knowing that they COULD have more rights. to be honest, i just feel tears. deep down tears. they are not surfacing because if i'm going to be strong for these people then how can my pain show?

and strength. what is it. is it in itself vulnerability? being so comfortable with yourself that you can show everything? the people around Kampala. transparent. or those in the rural areas.

these children. less than age 4. sitting. mindlessly. begging. hoping for something. and yesterday i couldn't give women or kids money. because often they are using the money to go buy drugs. not all of them, but many. and i couldn't help. because if i want to invest i need to make the choice. even food would be better than 10,000 shillings. but I want to form relationships.

the other day though, all i could do was stare, shake my head "no," and cry inside. all day. I just felt a darkness, a laziness, a confusion. I was born in America. I was born in a successful country in terms of some. I can't be angry because I did not have a choice of birthplace, i simply have to accept that all things are as they should and all things will work out. and that people are born where they are for a reason. but then why are these children dying. why did they have to be born here? why are there so many millions of orphans in uganda, left in dumpsters and potholes and on doorsteps.

if enough people seek change, isn't this how revolutions begin? if people join together, all of us... the broken, the poor, the impoverished, the idealists, the realists, those who hope, those who can no longer, maybe then darkness will shift. maybe dancing will happen. just maybe.

africa. i spoke to a congo refugee today. there was a genocide, some say WORSE than that of Rwanda, and it is barely known. this man is hurt by africa. he is being chased by african police forces. no matter where he goes, he lacks freedom. he believes in God and in Christ and for him, this provides something brighter. Yet he says, "there is this burden, always."
he has lost his family. no sisters. no brothers. parents gone. and all he wants is prayer. hope. please don't forget these people. maybe we cannot do much, but maybe we can remember. and we can remember with love.

i do not know what to do. I do not know what help i can be. i am a mere college student with a tiny budget and a personality full of dreams, very few of which are ever actually pursued intensely. I know nothing. all i know is that love speaks in ways maybe we will never understand. the children move in around me and they wave and they smile and it never fails to touch my heart. it warms my heart. this little girl today. absolutely splendid. yet she is poor. her dress has holes. and her face a scar or two.

she can smile though. if she can smile, why can't i? there needs to be a lesson. what is poverty. and why is it always defined in terms of economics? what is westernization. where is beauty?
i think the answer is simple. beauty is everywhere, but cannot always be understood. physical and spiritual hungers need healing. if westernization moves in, it cannot wipe away african tradition. there needs to be something compensating such a loss.

yes i'm a broken, impoverished human being. and yes i don't know what the hell this life requires of me. yes, i want to cry.
and yes, i am being eaten alive by mosquitos. thank God for Malaria medication, for good music. for tasty food. and for the existence of human souls and hearts and connection. for the peers that are on this journey with me. for family. and friends back home. for mushed bananas known here as Matoke. and sweet potatoes. and giggles. and even though i just attended the longest wedding known to mankind, thank god for love.

africa. america. china. tibet. ireland. india. etc. etc. etc.

no matter where one is, a message:
"we can do no great things; only small things with great love."
mother teresa

keep seeking. i miss you.

into the wild

i deem it necessary to say that I just re-watched Into the Wild.

a brilliant movie no matter what continent you are watching it on.

go watch it. and listen to eddie vedder's music.

One Day I Rafted the Nile... and LIVED.

before rafting. no IDEA what we were getting into :)

Beautiful people at the market.


Rafting. For the first time. Absolutely wild. The Nile. Yes. Near death experience indeed. Unfortunately words are hard to find for such an experience. Only mental pictures that I will attempt to describe.

White waves. Some reaching between 10 and 15 feet. Hovering over like a dark cloud, yet showing up out of nowhere as the water moves at an insanely fast pace. A hilarious South African Mzungu named Greg with an accent of British, Australian, and Afrikaans (or some spelling like that) decent, successfully led us through the 8 wild, extreme, intense rapids. And guide us, he did. Although it wouldn’t quite be an authentic foreign experience without the most often droppings of the “F” word and others of that sort. Wonderful. And in all honesty, I must admit my OWN language. A persistent, “Oh Sh*t” and “Holy Mother…****” and, well, all other natural instinct type words regarding hopelessness and life saving. I apologize. But you must try this first, and see then how your natural instincts kick in.

The only way I can describe the extent of these rapids is by use of number. The most intense rapids in the world are classifies by number/ level 6. Ready? We and our :high hopes: little selves most definitely spent an entire day rafting LEVEL 5 RAPIDS!!! I’ll admit my extreme pride that I came out alive… yet also a disbelief that I actually did this only a few days ago. The White Nile is one of the top 3 commercially rafted rivers in the world, implying that ONLY crazies go down it. My team and I being that type. Down we went. Flipping and Spinning and Rowing and Ducking and Hiding and Getting Down and Pumping Adrenaline and being intense.

Here is a story worth noting… and in the present tense. I call it, Death Falls.

We look toward the upcoming rapid in fear, being told by Greg that we could quite possibly die (or get seriously injured) if we do this wrong. We inch our way toward the beginning, adrenaline pumping and paddles moving, yet within the matter of seconds, the high tide has moved us straight to the edge too far left and we halt. We cannot do much of anything except await our failure. Looking down, I see a great drop. 90 Degree angle. No mercy granted. This is not a waterfall we are supposed to go down. I think, “If only we had gone about one yard right we could have saved our lives and traveled rather smoothly.” 3…2…1… FALLING DOWN A DEATH TRAP. FRONT GOING STRAIGHT DOWN AND BACK OF THE RAFT (where I sit) FOLLOWING. Our faces must have been entertaining. Greg appearing absolutely frightened… which is never a good thing. If I fall out of this raft, I will quite possibly get stuck under the 15-20 foot fall, churning as the water does, and getting buried beneath the raft. There is no escape. I am staring death in the face. This is made apparent as (pardon my French but I believe it necessary for accurate portrayal) Greg yells at the top of his lungs, “HOLD THE FUCK ON!*!*!!!!!!!!!***!!!”
Too late. I fall from my place at the back of the 16-foot raft toward to front, straight down and burying my peers. I am sure that life is over.
Yet in a blink of an eye, a miracle. We stabilize. No Flip. Every observer of this event cheering and thanking the rafting Gods that we have survived.
I assure you, I have never been nearer my end. And I am THRILLED to have done this. One of the most memorable, insane, wild, wonderful, thrilling experiences of my 20 years on earth.

Now this was only one of the eight rapids; between these hell-stricken creations we peacefully moved through stunning parts of the Nile, an occasional crocodile passing through. Families bathing. We swim from time to time, as well. I have never sweared more in my life. And yes, in this instant, I will excuse it.

Aside from this miracle and amazing experience, one never to be forgotten, I spent a few evenings working with Sanyu Babies home last week, an orphanage of ages 0-4. These babies are beautiful. They stare at you. Eric smiles at me and cares for his peers. The babies only want love, and once they are held, I forget everything. There is something about these precious beings.

Much more to come regarding this babies home. As well as my church visits, and town experiences. Most time is spent exploring and spending time with locals. Visiting. Observing. Adoring. Analyzing. Thinking. Pondering. Contemplating. Loving.

And I love Africa. Today I was exposed to some art after standing in the largest grass hut in the world. It has quite a different influence, and one I am eager to explore further.
Aside from the constant darkness that this world holds, whether it regard my own depression, the brokenness of human beings, the conflict of the western world and imperialism, I believe in a hope. And a light. And that the nights will always be a struggle, but one that only increases strength. The people here are beautiful. The mess is stunning. The beggars, the maze of a market, the isles and isles of material goods being sold, the flies around the food, the smells. This market is wild yet marvelous. Everything is as it should be and will change, as it should. It will change with revolution. With people holding common sense and compassion. With an emphasis on the other. The artwork is inspiring. And I do feel alive. Still and possibly more so. Each moment encouraging more contemplation, more recognition of poverty. Of children sitting on the side of the road, mindlessly begging. Of adorable children and people feeling helpless. Yet Africa is community oriented. Everyone helping another. And I, too, am impoverished.

Please consider poverty. And not only in a monetary sense. It is not to be feared, but rather embraced, held, and altered. And also? I love goats. They are in abundant supply here.

A snippet forgotten.

The following entry written last thursday.

“Two days of school and now a day off. Woke up at 8:15 and stumbled over to the next door house a.k.a the country Food for the Hungry offices. We sat around, Americans, Koreans, Kenyans, Ugandans... all reading from the bible, sharing comments, and singing. A nice way to wake up, although the exhaustion of the first few days is catching up and I am continuing heading back to my pleasant bed.

Tuesday, much like the universal first day of school, was packed with curriculum outlines and the meeting and greeting of professors. The 12 of us wake up, stumble to the breakfast table anytime between 7 and 8, and all together take a Matatu (wild taxi) to school about 30 minutes away because of traffic. Speaking of traffic, it is wild here. Matatu here, Boda Boda there, all trying to get to different places and cutting in front of one another and crazy wild madness.”

due to a power outage and a series of other events I was unable to finish this entry. But please, continue reading, because the rafting experience is a must read.