This House-A Lesson in Advent

In August, we left Uganda wanting to buy a house. It is perfect for the kids. The process of buying it has been a lesson in Advent-a lesson in waiting, and waiting, and waiting...


Me, in an email to Patrick and William on November 10th: We had our fundraiser tonight. It was such a privilege to tell people your story tonight. Please tell all the kids how much we love them and how proud we are of them. We are hopeful that we will have all the money needed for the house soon!

Patrick, November 13: Hello Caleb and Sonja, Today we had a meeting with a lawyer and Henry. Henry was kindly asking if we could do the purchase this week. thank you very much and we are so excited! God Bless you

Me, November 17: We would like to connect one final time before the purchase of the new house. Can we please skype sometime tomorrow?

Sunday, November 18 Skype with Patrick:
Patrick: Hello Hello!! How are you? How are you? How is mama RUHU?
Me: Hi Patrick, We’re doing well!
Me: How are things with the house? Have you met with the Local Council and the lawyer?
Patrick: We have met with them. They have been so supportive, you know. They had been wanting, you know, the children to have some more space as it was too little. So, yea, everything is going on so well here. We are just waiting for the funds now.
Me: Ok, well, if you have prepared everything with the Lawyer and the LC and the bank, then we are ready. The funds are here!
Patrick: Eeeee! Ya Ya, Praise God, Praise God! Ha ha. That is the best news!

November 19: We sent the money and waited to hear about the new house.

On Thursday, November 22nd-Thanksgiving:
In the basement of my grandfather in law’s house in Minnesota my phone lights up and the +256 prefix tells me that it is a call from Uganda. I slide to answer and Patrick tells me that he went to the bank and that the money was not there. The bank needs confirmation of the wire or something. I can’t understand Patrick. I say that Thanksgiving may have delayed the wire-they would probably have to wait an extra day. He tells me Happy Thanksgiving.

Patrick calls again later and asks me to send an email confirming the money. I typed up the most official looking unofficial confirmation letter I could.

Me, in an email on November 22: I have attached a confirmation letter for a wire transfer made from Beautiful Response to Raising Up Hope in Uganda, the authorized persons being Patrick and William.

Friday, November 23 In the Hallmark of the Mall of America: Patrick calls to tell me that the money has still not arrived. He is in Kampala at the main branch trying to receive the money. Can you please ask your bank to confirm the transfer?

I try because Patrick went into Kampala and is waiting, hoping, waiting. The least I can do is make a phone call. So I am on the phone with Wells Fargo in Christmas-Hyped-Hallmark on Black Friday in the largest Mall in the United States of America trying to get money to Uganda to buy a second house for a group of orphaned kids. I pick up bright birthday cards and chuckle at them-trying to blend in with the mom and strollers. All I can get is machines and transfers and odd stares from Hallmark employees.

Me, November 26 in an email: Hi Patrick, I’m sorry for all of the trouble this has been. I went into our bank today and talked to them. If you have not received the money yet, our bank will connect with the your bank to investigate the matter.

Patrick, on November 28: We last communicated when the money wasn’t here yet and since then we haven’t been there as I have been sick with Malaria. Please pray for us.

Patrick on November 29: Subject: funds are here!!! First I would like to thank you for all the effort you have put in raising this money and the love you have for these children, we actually don’t know how we will give you back to show you how much we are appreciated but we just give all glory and honor for God to who you are both in our lives here in Uganda. surely so many lives has been saved and given hope just because you came and showed sign of love in action!.

But...for some reason, the exchange rate was not what we had anticipated. We had sent a few bucks under what the agreed price was for the house.

Negotiating in Uganda

Patrick to us on November 30: just want to drop some few lines to tell you where we are about the purchase of the the land! today the committee and lawyer sat at around 12:30 due to people coming late and the heavy rain that was here. When we sat we told the meeting how much money we have got and henry said that he doesn’t get money installment he wants it full. we had no more money to pay.

so we were not able to purchase the house today i am sad very sad!
Our hearts are broken and we are very upset.


The seller wasn’t willing to wait on the rest of the money, and so the deal didn’t happen.

Then Patrick went to Gulu, up north, for a week on a service trip.

December 6: Sonja is sitting on a white carpet in front of a red fireplace and I am on a white couch. We are sitting around a coffee table with others in our young married’s small group. I am sipping a cup of coffee. My phone is sitting on the glass coffee table when it starts vibrating. It is Uganda, and we still don’t know what is going on with the house. I look at Sonja. She gives me the nod to take it. I miss the call-I slid too late. I sit back down and wait for it to ring again. Patrick and William always call more than once. Soon it lights up again.

William: Hello, Hello! How are you?! How are you?!
I slip away to the kitchen and talk quietly.
Me: I’m good, good. How are you doing? What is the news?
William: Yes, I’m doing very fine. How is mama RUHU?
Me: She is good. We are out at a meeting currently, but I really wanted to hear from you! Thank you for calling!
William: O! Yes, of course. I thought it would be good to give you an update on things here.
Me: Yes, that would be great.
William: Yes, because I think maybe we have not spoken in some time now, so you would want to know the latest,
Me: Right. Yes, thanks for calling. What is the latest?
William: So, we are just waiting, because, you know Patrick is up in Gulu. So we are still waiting.

We talk for a little longer. William is one of the best men I know, and I wish I could talk to him for hours, but nothing is new. Still waiting.

I sit back down on the couch and Sonja moves towards me and looks at me for a sign of news.

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. She moves back in front of the fireplace and gets comfortable.

_____________________________________________________________________


(Post-script: William called yesterday. It looks like it may not happen until January now. He said he was calling because Patrick was too upset to talk on the phone.)

The Timeline

           We are planning for a fundraiser. It's pretty fun.  

I have some ideas about how to present some of the blogs. One could be on paper, one could be on an ipad, maybe one of them could even be hand-written.  Nice, right?

 I thought maybe we could do a timeline-to show how things have changed and where Beautiful Response has gone in the past few years. We’ve got some great pictures-pictures of the beginning, pictures of where we are now.  The tables will look really great.  Sonja is good at that. There are going to be colorful pieces of cloth and jewelry made by the kids. 

Bright screens with great resolution showing pictures of smiling kids.

Brilliant displays for brilliant kids.

We will tell some great stories and share some laughs. There will be food and drink. Sonja and I will walk around and talk to people about the great things that are happening in Uganda-about where we’ve come in the past few years. We want to raise $50,000 dollars because there is so much hope, so much further that the timeline needs to go.

We are planning for a fun evening, and you are invited-truly invited November 10^th, 4:00-6:00 Quail Lodge Carmel Valley, CA. There is so much hope and what God is doing at the orphanage is full of joy.

 

The other day I was working on fundraiser stuff and I accidently opened a word doc called Child Profile. I had meant to open a letter I am drafting to send to businesses.  I meant to open Business Letter for BR. I opened Child Profile.

Child Profile is a 46 page doc. Each page has the name of a child, the age they were in 2010, their picture, and their story.

I began to scroll down. I began to read their stories again.  Without food, badly beaten, parents died, unwanted, they had no one, AIDS, abused, alone on the streets. I saw their pictures and remembered the story behind each face. Couldn’t earn enough, mother was mentally ill, locked them in the house, left without hope.

It was their stories that got us in the first place.

`           It is their stories that get me today.
 

I read the stories again and remembered the tragedies that started our timeline. I couldn’t stop staring at my computer screen.  I couldn’t move on.

In the fun and the hope and the joy of the new things happening at the orphanage in Uganda I had forgotten the disaster-the wretched reality that some things will not be as they should have been.  I had forgotten that for these kids, the timeline has things on it that cannot be changed.

There are some hurts that no fundraiser will ever heal.  We cannot forget that.

 

But these kids, they sing about a God who rights all wrongs-a God who controls how the timeline ends.  We are following their lead.

So

The tables will look nice.

There will be food and drink.

We will laugh and tell good stories

And we will be full of hope in a God who ends the timeline so much better than it started.

Scenes From A Hat

by charlie walter

              

 

              Caleb loves Whose Line Is It Anyway. He is Colin Mocrie. In college, he played the part.

              Now he looks the part, too.

              Myself, I am a Ryan Stiles man.

              There is a game from the show called Scenes From a Hat.

              Just short scenes.

               

                I find it best when we don’t try to say too much.

                So, from Uganda,

August 2, 2012

                The last morning, we walk with our bags in tow. I am tugging a piece of wheeled luggage. It rollicks in the grooves carved deep by boda-boda motorcycles. All of the roads in Bulenga are red-clay that turns to mud-slop in the rain.

                When we reach the center of town, we walk single file--five muzungus, white folks, toting our packaged bags. The children stand and wave. “Bye Muzungus.” They will not see us again.

                Yesterday, the children were ready with a chant. “Bye Muzungus bye Muzungus bye muzungus!” They jumped and chanted.

                We walk single file through town. I stop at my favorite shop, which is my favorite because they understand when I say “Water. Big.” They give me water, big. Other shops hear me say “Warid. Big.” Warid is cell phone airtime.

                I want big water, not big airtime.

                We make our last walk by the chapati stands. I will miss the smell. At night, the chapati are lit in glass cases by a hot light bulb. Bulenga at night is alive and buzzing, with single light bulbs lighting bananas and chapattis and airtime cards and phones and shoes and sodas. The music thumps and you listen to one song as you walk, until that song blends with the song coming from the next stand. You hop from song to song.

                When we are just a few minutes from the orphanage, I push the handle down on my luggage and pick it up by the strap. For the last little bit, I want to be a bit less muzungu, with my rolling luggage. I want to be a bit more Bulengan, with my thin, lean arms that strain with long muscles.

                That is how the Bulengans are. That is how the children are--boys and girls. Long arms. Lean muscles. Veins running down their forearms. Their upper arms are no thicker than my wrist, but they are full of power, like,

                carry two jerry cans of water from the well down the road to the orphanage,

                like,

                drum for two hours, furiously beating palms into the skin of the drums,

                like,

 

                pick you up off your feet from behind and you turn, and who is it,

                it’s thin and brilliant Becca who has lifted you,

                like,

                we get to the orphanage with our luggage, and the kids shoulder our duffel bags and burden our backpacking packs and tug our rolling luggage away from us to stack inside.

                They are brilliantly lean and strong. Kind.

                And they can lift you off your feet.

 

July 25, 2012

                I am re-stringing a guitar for them, the only guitar, which was up in the attic above one of the girls rooms. It is black and has four strings.

                I poke myself with the tip of a string. A red dot of blood on my finger. I suck it. I continue with my work. Two of the littlest kids come to me. They pluck the one string I have on. They pluck hard. Thumpa-thumpa. I let them.

                I continue with my re-stringing. It is one of my least favorite tasks back home.

                A few strings later, there are seven kids. They all pluck while I work. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. The uncut strings at the neck of the guitar spider out wildly. The tips are so sharp, but the kids linger close. A mom would pull the kids away, Your eyes! Watch your eyes. A dad might tell them to go, Give me some space, geez.

                I’m like an Uncle. Hey, watch this.

                I work. They pluck.

                One boy pinches my knee and asks, “Where is Obama?”

                “He’s at home,” I say.

                “Obama,” the boy says again. It is his magical word.

 

August 5, 2012,

                D. has a kind smile and big eyes. He will flex if you take a picture of him with his buddies. They will all flex. Their muscles are long and lean and sinewy. They are so strong. So lean. They carry water in jerry cans two-at-a-time.

                It is what they have: long, lean arms. They are so proud of them. They all flex. They are so strong.

                And D. He is kind, endlessly, and he loves to play football, shoeless-ly, and he speaks soft, and he will flex,

                but only if all of his friends flex, too.

 

August 1, 2012

                Today, I start taking pictures. I am going to take one.

                Then it is two.

                Then it’s the children dancing. Them singing. Sitting reading, scrubbing bubble-soap shirts and then tossed on the clothesline running through the middle of the courtyard, fetching water, arms flexed and smiles big, littlest ones with their bellies pulsing under their t-shirts, barefoot brownfoot, shirtless and pretty flower dress and jean overalls no-shirt. Miracle.

                One picture turns into 54..

                I understand, now,

                how the orphanage is growing.

When Sonja is happy she sings.

When Sonja is happy she sings.  She sings really softly to herself.  It is high and short. Quick notes. Cute notes. She moves her head side to side when she sings.  When I notice, I look at her and she smiles.  She sings a couple bars cute and loud for me.  Then she laughs at herself.  It is always an unpredictable song. Last time it was Ancient of Days.

The very first time we met Patrick he was wearing a dirty red double XL T-shirt. We took a taxi to Bulenga and got off. We had no idea where we were.  Sonja and I looked back and forth at each other. We waited for the other to have an idea-a confidence. 

Patrick was supposed to meet us. 

We stood together looking for Patrick, for the director of an orphanage.

Finally, this short young man bounced up to us in an oversized red t-shirt.  He took our hands and shook them.  We followed him up the hill towards an orphanage.

 

I had consented to visit Patrick and the orphanage, but I told Sonja that we shouldn’t commit to the orphanage.  We had two free weeks in Uganda and there were lots of options.

Patrick led us through the orphanage gate.  He began to tell us about the house but was cut off by the kids that had gathered around us.

The kids were dirty.  They had snot on their cheeks.  Their clothes were torn and brown from too much dirt.  Their smiles were huge, almost as big as their brown eyes.

They held our hands as Patrick showed us around the orphanage.  We saw the ‘classrooms’ and the ‘bedrooms’. We saw the bunks where the kids slept three or four to a mattress.  Kids held our hands and rubbed their hands across my arm hair. 

 

We were there for 20 minutes tops.  As we left the orphanage Patrick asked us what we thought. Would we come and stay with them for some time?

I wasn’t sure. It was overwhelming. So I decided to be silent. I kept my mouth shut.

“Patrick, we’d love to come back and spend a couple weeks at the orphanage,” Sonja said. She was smiling.  It was the sort of smile that is full of care and certainty. She was sold on coming back.

“Fantabulous,” Patrick shouted.  He clapped his hands.

 

After Patrick sent us on our way, I looked at Sonja, “I thought we were just checking it out!”

She looked at me, “I know, but don’t you think it will be so great? Sorry, we can tell Patrick no if you think we should do something else.”

I looked at her and laughed. Then I sighed, “I’m sure it will be good.”

We started walking back to the taxi park and Sonja began to hum something to herself.

 

Since then, a lot of good has happened. I kept my mouth shut and all sorts of awesome things happened. Today, we are trying to raise $50,000 to buy the orphanage a second house. The orphanage needs, absolutely needs, more space. We want to give Patrick and the orphanage the chance to expand.  If you’re interested in sponsoring a child or giving towards the expansion of the orphanage check out www.beautifulresponse.org.  Check it out anyways.

Testimony

     The red carpet is so soft that I take my shoes off every time I go into the sanctuary.  I want to feel the sponge of the carpet on my feet.  There is a cross made from beautiful drift wood hanging at the front of the altar.  I am here to pray. I am here because when I came home from Uganda I decided that I wanted to pray more.

     If the driftwood cross and the soft carpet don't work I will go into my room with the green walls and the couches.  My guitar is in that room. I'll play my guitar.  I'll play the songs that always get me.

_____________________________
     We are sitting inside a cramped room with blue walls.  My legs are crossed and Angela Kirabo is on my right, lying against my legs. Medi is clinging to my left arm.

     We have finished singing and praying.  William stands in the middle of the room waiting for everyone to be seated.  50 kids find places to sit.  There is not much floor left.  William tells us that tonight will be a night for testimonies. 

     Who has a testimony to give?  Come stand and speak.

     Angela sits up.  She stands and walks to the center of the room where a few others have started to line up. 

     Becca is the first person in line. She is 11, maybe 12.  She is wearing a bright red shirt.  It is too big for her and it hangs off of her shoulder. 

     She is clasping her hands together and hiding her face. When everyone has quieted down Becca steps forward.  She puts her hands in front of her and testifies,

     Praise God.
     Praise Him.

     I Thank God for his protection and that he has brought us visitors.

     She moves her hands quickly over her face again and makes a squeaking noise.  She jumps back to her seat on the floor.

     Everyone claps for Becca and her testimony.


     I put my legs out in front of me and lean back onto my hands. Angela is next. She is 6.  She stands with her hands behind her and her head held high.

     She steps forward and begins her testimony in Luganda.
     She is cut off and instructed to speak English.

     Praise God.
     Praise Him.

     I praise God because Aunt Sonja and Uncle Caleb have visited us.

     She comes back and sits against my outstretched legs.

     Janet steps forward.  She is 13, maybe 14.  She stands confident and speaks clear English.

     Praise God Members.
     Praise Him.

     I Thanks God because, for me, I am alive.  There are some who are not alive today.  Some have died from diseases and accidents, but for me, I am alive. 


     Everyone claps for Janet and her testimony.  William shouts Hallelujah, Hallelujah and claps his hands together.

     Janet sits back down in her spot.  William takes off with the rest of the evening's service.

__________________
     I am sitting with my guitar in the room with the couches.  I am staring into the floor.  My guitar sits on my lap soundless.

     Who has a testimony to give? Come stand and speak.

     I want to stand and testify. I want to come forward. I want to stand like Becca with her shirt too big for her body.

Daily Bread

So, this one is hard.

            I’m at Panera Bread, writing next to the window, and outside it’s 87 and sunny, but I’m sitting right where the A/C pumps out, and so my nose is drippy. I’m cold. I have bumps all up my arms.

            It’s 87 and sunny but inside, I am needing a sweater.

            At the RUHU orphanage, the boys sometimes flip their clothes inside-out, so that they can wear an outfit for another day.

            I fit right in.

            One morning, little Pauline sits down next to me in the courtyard. She pinches at the cuffs of my pants, which are stained red from walking the roads.

            “You are very dirty,” she says.

            The next morning, I put on completely clean pants.

            The children put me to shame with their clothes-washing. They are diligent, rubbing and scrubbing with soap and pouring water from the jerry cans to rinse. Then the clothes are hung on a line that stretches taut through the middle of the courtyard. It is a beautiful sight. I snap a photo of the line. Something in the colors captures me.

            In the afternoon, we are playing Four Square in the courtyard. I do not know who taught the kids my childhood-favorite game, but I am glad to play with them. The best is that I don’t have to hold back. They’re good, so I play hard..

            During a rowdy point, Julio swings his arm to hit the ball and whacks the clothesline. Underwear and shirts drop on his head and on the ground. Everyone laughs. They pick up the clothes and hang them back on the line. They continue on with the game.

           

            This one is hard. It’s 87 degrees out and sunny, and I am too cold, inside a protected, insulated, nearly dust dirt mud-free Panera Bread.

            And this has become an almost indispensable daily experience for me. It is a controlled environment. It is a portion of my daily bread.

            I am afraid for that, for myself, for others. My daily bread is twisting. My daily bread is changing.

            I am afraid, because deep down, I am a dirt-around-my-pant-cuffs kind of man.

            I’m a flip-it-inside-out-for-Wednesday kind of man.

            I’m a pick-my-underwear-out-of-the-dirt-and-hang-it-back-on-the-line kind of man.

            The power is out for the night at the orphanage, and so the children are gathered in one room, eating spaghetti in the dark, except for a headlamp hanging from the wall.

            In the next room over, the staff sit under a dim solar light that doesn’t even illuminate faces. I’m on a laptop with an Internet stick, trying to check my email. The Internet is crawling. Across from me, Patrick’s face is extra dark. He asks if I am okay.

            “I am,” I say.

            There is singing from the next room. It is the children. They have begun singing in the darkness. The drums are thumping. Darling Jesus, they are singing.

            I close the laptop. I walk to the room with all the singing. It is what I need. We all pile in. It is hot and dark. We sing and dance in the small room.

            Later, Caleb stands in the middle of the room, holding the headlamp. Caleb tells the story of Jonah. We are all in the belly of a whale.

            So, this one is hard: my daily bread, my portion. I am twisting it. I am twisting it, and I am knowing this, and so I look to the children of RUHU. Their daily bread.

            They have daily chores. They wash their clothes. They wash the little ones. They do schoolwork. They eat in the light. Sometimes, they eat in the dark. They flip their clothes inside-out. They wear two sandals. They wear one sandal. They run barefoot. They dance. They drum. They sing that they have Jesus. They have Jesus.

            The children are the haves and the have-nots. They own and they are also missing; full and also lacking. But I tell you: they know daily bread. They know their portion.

            When I am with them, I learn. I am humbled. I am a bit ashamed.

            When I am with them, I learn.

            “What is one thing you wish you could do every day?” I ask a few of them in the courtyard.

            “Collect firewood,” one says.

            “No no,” I say. “Like anything. A fun thing. A really fun thing. Something you love to do.”

            “Pray. And sing.”

            Every day. They cannot go without it.

            If you get the chance, to stand surrounded by the kids of RUHU, while they pray and sing and dance, you will see. You’ll get it.

            Pray. And sing.

A list of things to do

In my journal there is a list of things that I wanted to wrap my head around-things that we needed to talk to Patrick and William about.  Things to say and to do and to check off of a list.

In nine days we try to take on the task of having a year's worth of conversations.
We try to cover a year's worth of issues.
We try to sing a year's worth of songs and pray a year's worth of prayers. 
We hold the children tightly hoping that nine days will be enough. 

In nine days we do a lot.  We are so thankful for all of the things we were able to accomplish.  Here are a few highlights from this trip:

• We moved forward with hiring additional staff to help run the orphanage.  The staff there is becoming a beautiful team of compassionate and wise individuals.
• We purchased 7 brand new bunk beds and carted them from Kampala to the orphanage in Bulenga.  Almost all of the kids have their own beds now, which is a serious improvement! 
• Sonja and I got to attend a parent teacher conference for many of the kids.  It was such a joy to represent them-to get their grades back and see how they are doing.  It is an honor for us to get to be proud of them.
• We visted a house across the road that is for sale.  One of our goals was to identify a way for the orphanage to phyisically expand.  The fact that a large fenced in house across the street from the orphanage is being sold by someone who appreciates Patrick and William's work is miraculous. 
• We took all of the children into Kampala to get immunizations and dewormed.
• We sat with them and read with them, sang with them and danced with them.

We did a lot.  Most of the things on my list are checked off, and I am grateful for that.  That is good.

Check. Line Through. X.

But there are lots of people with lists. The orphanage always reminds me that my value to them is not in the lists that I bring.  There are lots of people who come to Uganda with lists.  It is easy to make a list of all the things that need to get done-all the things that should be fixed.

Lists are easy.


I enter the gate of the orphanage with my lists and the delusion that human effort can generate the sort of transformation we need-the sort of transformation that it takes to make nine days last an entire year.

But at the orphanage, we spend the first two hours of every day in prayer and worship. We spend the last hour of everyday in prayer and worship. We set our lists down, under our hard chairs and we ignore them while we worship. 

We ignore our lists and turn together towards the creator. 

And this turn makes all the difference.  It is our primary work as Christians.  It is a turn I don't make very often on my own.  But it makes all the difference.

It means that this list in my journal, this list that now has the checks and the lines and the x's was a list worth making.

We are back.

Simon told me that Uganda is land locked and has a lot of economic issues because of the import fees.  He says that Mombasa is a good port city that helps the Kenyan economy a lot. 

Herman (who is beating AIDS) wanted to make sure that we would be here when his exam scores were final, so that we could see them.  So that we could smile and be proud of him.  I told Herman that his sponsor lives in D.C.  O, the Capital City,  He said. I told Herman that his sponsor plays frisbee near the presidents house.  Later I heard him bragging to the other kids that his sponsor knew Obama. 


We are back.  We are back here in Uganda and things have changed.  Simon can talk to me about Politics, and Herman cannot wait for us to see his exam scores.  Things have changed. 

There is a fresh coat of paint on all of the walls, and other volunteers have organized the dishes and the schedule.  There are mosquito nets for most of the beds and the kids are eating more than corn flour. 

We have not seen the oldest kids yet because they are at boarding school finishing up their school term.  The 4th and 5th graders were gone yesterday because they had a field trip to attend.  Yes, things have changed and it is beautiful.  Things have changed and so have the kids.  Their English is better.  Their minds are sharper.  Their bodies are stronger.

And of course some things have not changed.  There is still need.  There is still not enough room to live and play in.  Too many of the kids get sick.  There are still far too many kids that we cannot hold, that we cannot send to school. 

But the music hasn't changed either.  The drums still come out at night.  The choruses repeat and the kids pray.  The kids still care for each other and they still fall asleep in our arms to the sound of the drums. 

I am already afraid to leave.  I am already nervous about saying goodbye.  Because something significant has changed.  We have come back to visit the orphanage before.  We have said goodbye to the orphanage before.  But this time we have come back to family, and we will have to say goodbye to family. 

Thanks to everyone for your thoughts and prayers.  Continue to pray for clear lines of communication and transparency.  Pray for vision for the organization and for doors to open up.  We are so encouraged by everyone here at the orphanage and we are excited to bring that encouragement back with us.  Hopefully we will update you again soon!

A Short Addendum Worth Hearing

          I sat down to write the last blog.  I wrote about the Davidson's birthday party.  I wrote about how great it was.  I told you that we needed two-thousand five-hundred dollars. At the Davidson's party there were no gifts given.  Instead, guests wrote cards and gave checks and cash to Beautiful Response. Twenty dollars here, a hundred there. 

          I sat down to write the last blog on the Saturday after the party and I asked you for two-thousand five-hundred dollars.

          Across the table, David, Sonja's brother, sat down with a stack of cards and checks and a calculator.  We both sat down. 

          I finished the blog, clicked publish, and the blog was sent out.  I stood up.  David took the checks in two hands and set them on the table to straighten them out. 

David-"You guys got twenty-five hundred dollars."
Me-"Wait, you mean two-thousand five-hundred dollars?"
David-"Yep"
Me-"Exactly that much?"
David-"I'm going to count it again."

David-"Two-thousand five-hundred dollars.  Exactly"

          I was sending out a prayer.  Three chairs away from me, that prayer was being answered.  Exactly.

Heaven is like a Party

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a banquet.  Matthew 22.

There was a party last night.  It was a good party.  

Wine glasses covered an entire table and people didn’t leave until all of the bottles were uncorked.

There was a grill of coals searing the finest meats and vegetables.  

And the art!  The bass player maneuvering up and down the frets, the saxophone, the guitar, the drums, and the singer-people staring mouths open.
Gifts of honed crafts and an artist in the corner putting colors onto a canvas-majesty.

A son tells his dad with words and pauses, that he does, he really does, want to be just like him.
A daughter is the crown on her mother’s head.

And a man dances who has never danced before.

These are the parties worth having.  These are the banquets that remind us that the Kingdom of Heaven is like a banquet.  That the Kingdom of Heaven is near.  

In two weeks we will take our party to Uganda.
And we will be invited to join their party.

And together.  Together we will all eat.  
And the dancing will begin.  The drums will roll out rhythms and beats and we will shuffle our feet and try to keep pace.

Letters will be exchanged.  They will tell us that we are their parents, and we will sit at their feet and glean as much about the kingdom as we can.  

Because the Kingdom of Heaven is near, and its like a banquet, and we are invited-and by God I won’t be the one to “pay no attention and leave”.



On our trip back we would really like to buy new mattresses and bunk beds for the kids at the orphanage.  They need them very badly.  

The orphanage needs 40 matresses, 5 bunk beds, and 30 shoes. Total Cost: $2,500.

Please email beautifulresponse@gmail.com if you are interested in helping out.

Fiction For Now

I wrote this a while ago.  It is not a true story, not yet at least.  The child in the story, Timothy, is 16 now.  The facts about him are true; we just don’t know what his future holds.  I want to say this is prophetic, but I don’t know what that means, so I’ll just say that it is fiction.  Fiction for now.
--------------------------

Timothy beams.  His eyes and his mouth smile. He has huge white perfect teeth.  He walks up to me and I hug him and he says, “I am going to university.” 

I feel Timothy against me.  I can feel his strong arms on my back.  Timothy is strong and he is a big man in Uganda. Tall and Strong.  He never raises his voice and speaks always at the same volume.  Always slowly, always cautiously.  But now he hugs me, and shows his emotion. 

We are back here in Uganda once again.  Another year, and we are back again.  The kids are older and smarter, and we are too.  Many things have changed.  The kids have more space, and there are less holes in the green mosquito nets.  I don’t grab Zula’s hands to spin her around.  She doesn’t stand in front of me saying damu! damu! again! again! Now she walks and she is tall with her books and her studying.  She is in fourth grade now and can read and write and do math.  She wants to be a nurse. 

But there are new little ones who grab my hands, and the older kids still bathe them and help them wash their clothes.  Each night when it is just barely too dark to read and play they get the drums out to dance and sing.  Each night the little ones watch while the older ones close their eyes and pray, and Honey, he still rocks the baby to sleep.

Timothy steps back from our hug and he hugs Sonja.  He finished high school at the very top of his class.  He is very bright.  He did well enough to advance on to university where he will study for a degree in English.  Timothy wants to be a journalist.  He has wanted to be a journalist since he was 14.  He is 19 now, and being a journalist may be possible.  When he was 14, it was impossible.  It should have been impossible. 

Timothy's mom was a prostitute.  Prostitution devoured her, and she got pregnant.  A man, paying for her body, got her pregnant and Timothy was born.  Eventually, his mom couldn’t provide for Timothy, so he was put out on the street.  She loved him, but she couldn’t care for him.

He was 14 when he got malaria.  When you treat malaria, you live.  When you don’t treat malaria, you die.  Timothy was dying.
His body was failing. 
He was fourteen, and he was lying on the street, watching people walk by.
Dying. 
It began to rain, and weak Timothy sat in the water as it gathered around him.  And many people walked past Timothy, and they moved to the other side of the sidewalk. 

But Patrick was walking on that day, and he saw Timothy lying on the sidewalk.  He remembered himself being on the street, and so he picked up Timothy. He treated Timothy's malaria, and Timothy lived.

We met Timothy and knew that he had to go to school.  So we told people about him and they agreed that he must go to school.  So Timothy went to school, and he was smart and he did well.
And he wanted to ba journalist.

Timothy steps back from his hug with Sonja, and I am choking back tears. I am thankful for Timothy’s mom-that she was courageous and gave him life.  And I am thankful for Patrick-that when everyone else passed him by, Patrick didn’t.  I am thankful for the people in the U.S. who, oceans away, decided to love and invest in Timothy.  I am thankful for Timothy, who worked hard though his path that was not easy. 

Timothy should not have had a shot at university.

Timothy should not have a shot at university.

But Timothy, Patrick, his sponsors, us-we aren’t a people who listen too closely to the should not and the can not and the won’t.

My Stewardship Will Be Uganda

No one has insisted on being aware of happenings at the orphanage like Stan. No one has peppered us with more How are things going and Is there anything I can do.  We talk on the phone every week, and he often tells me a story about a professor or a girl or a someone whom he has told about Beautiful Response.  


I asked Stan to put his passion and concern into words.  This is what he said:


_______________________________________________

Cursed be the ground for our sake. Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us. For out of the ground we were taken, for dust we are... and to the dust we shall return 

- a paraphrase of Genesis 3:17-19

Pride.

I am a law student. As I’ve experienced, law school appeals to all known stereotypes - aggressive lectures, competitive classmates, and an endless amount of studying and research.  My schedule is cyclical: prepare for class, go to class, study, work, prepare for class, go to class etc. Various meetings and appointments fill any additional free time.  I often miss meals, family phone calls, and messages from friends.  I don’t regret it.  Actually, I enjoy it.  I do all the things I want to do. But, therein rests a problem.  The desire and temptation to appease self-fish habits and focus solely upon myself, my career, or my plans. 

For me, life has become all about the resume; a current record of my accomplishments and achievements; formatted clearly and precisely to show that I am worth hiring, that I stand out in a crowd, and that investing in me should be given due consideration.

But before I fall asleep each night my mind drifts to simple thoughts; It drifts to thoughts beyond the commitments of my day.  It hums silently on my pillowcase.  I think.

I have a friend who does good things; who has faith in something bigger; with whom I discuss the many works of our loving God each week and smile.  His wife is no less ambitious. Together they serve.

They are one of many.  Many who, in secret and without notoriety, see God’s will become reality.  These people, these sponsors, they choose to prioritize.  They choose to have faith. They choose to sacrifice because He has already sacrificed.  The race has been won.

Each sponsor has the same commitments as I, if not more.  They are tested by the same societal pressures as I. They teach me faith is powerful.  Faith is sustaining. 

The stewardship is in Uganda.  The stewardship is a group of children at an orphanage.  Their stewardship, by God’s grace, sees them fed and educated.  And God is faithful.

God is faithful. He is faithful to those who walk in the light, who hear the call, and who live to serve.

I know I am still being equipped.  I know I must stay persistent in my studies.  But I also know I will help.  I will see myself involved.  I will see myself vulnerable.   I will see this work through. 

Because some work is not meant for resumes.  Some deeds are not meant to be discussed.  Sometimes we must simply have faith and do.  God has seen me fed, can I not serve my neighbor? Am I too busy to help?  Am I blind to His call? Does His work not interest me? You?

I cannot silence His voice.  I cannot ignore His purpose.  I cannot standby.

I will see myself involved. I will see myself vulnerable. My stewardship will be Uganda.  My stewardship will be those children.  By God’s grace, I will see them fed and educated.

And God will be faithful.

Sugar Water

            She looks up at me and her eyes widen. She repeats what I have just told her to write down, 11,000 kids die each day from hunger? World Vision says so.  She writes it slowly in big crayola marker
            11,000...kids...
            Our youth group is doing the 30 Hour Famine.  We are making signs and writing down bible verses about hunger and poverty and the poor and about the 11,000 kids that die every day from hunger and its effects. 

15 middle school kids will go for 30 and 24 and 18 or 12 hours without food in the name of feeding the hungry. 

It’s good. 

It’s good right? 

We are raising money, thousands in fact, to give to World Vision.  They say 85% will go towards their projects to fight hunger. 

That’s not too bad.

We will play some games, and take breaks to fill up on fruity juices, and we’ll fall asleep to a Pixar movie, and we’ll wake up and feel hungry, and we’ll talk about hunger and about justice. 

And that is good.  

It is good-because of how wide her eyes gets when she says, 11,000?  That’s so many!!!

And another student that says, I have so much!

I take so much for granted.

I am going to eat slower.

And maybe what these kids do now will carve out grooves in their minds and their hearts and maybe the grooves will make music.

And this is all really good. 

The Skype jingle and the tab in the bottom right hand corner of my computer screen get my attention.  I close the Word document with the schedule for our 30-Hour Famine.  Patrick Ssenyonjo wants to Skype.  I click his picture and wait for the crackling in the background to fade out to his voice.  It’s 8:00 in the morning there, but there is no morning in his greeting.    We talk about the oldest kids getting to go to Kenya to study.  We talk about when we come to visit in July.  All things sound so well with Patrick.  Then Sonja whispers in my ear ask him about food.

So I wait for a pause in the conversation and then ask how are you doing with food at the orphanage?

Patrick doesn’t miss a beat ummm I don’t think we are doing so good right now.  Yes, the last food was yesterday.

I pause to look at Sonja. This is our fear, no food.  Rules, and documents, and no internet, and last months' measles and we cannot find out when they no longer have food until they are hungry already.
So there is no more food?

Patrick replies, Yes, there is no food.

So you don’t have any food to eat today?

Right.

Silence.

Ok, ummm so we sent some money this morning.  We wired it to you.

Oh! Thank you so much!  That will be wonderful!

You should get the money in a few days, maybe by Wednesday.

Fantabulous!

            I do not understand Patrick.  I cannot figure him out.

Ummm, Patrick?

Yes, Pastor?

What do you do, when there is no food? How do you make it?

Well, you know, we heat up some water and we put sugar in it.

Oh, you drink water with sugar in it?

Yes.

            We talk for a little longer, and then I tell Patrick that it is getting late and that we need to get going.  I click End Call and Patrick is gone.

            I stare blankly at my computer screen.  Then I turn to Sonja and I begin to laugh.  I repeat what Patrick said,

           We heat up water and put sugar in it.

            I think about how there is no exaggeration in Patrick.  That is just how things are.

            Heat water and put sugar

            Water and sugar

            11,000 children

            Global Food Crisis,

            Fundraiser, Event, Famine, Games, Juice, Movie.

           

            Sugar Water

            Things change when they enter your living room. 

            Things change when the people on the other side

            of your computer are living on sugar water.