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:


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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. 

Vitality

       There are four vital signs, four measured signs of our vitality, of our life
spark, the bzzzt of our body: temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure.
       T P R BP
       Tuck tongue for temp and two fingers no thumb on the radial wrist for
pulse and chest rise and chest fall for respiration and rip zip cuff for pressure.
       The four signs of our vitality: temperature, pulse, respiration, blood
pressure.
       T P R BP.
       T P R BP.
       Plus one. Pain.
       Vital signs: temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure. And pain.
       Pain is the unofficial fifth vital sign, like,
       AEIOU

       and sometimes Y.

       I can measure your vital signs. Celsius or Fahrenheit. Beats per minute.
Respirations per minute. Millimeters of mercury--systolic over diastolic.
       But your pain?
       Grimaces per minute? Tears per cubic centimeter? Aches over pains?
       No no no no. The only way to measure pain is to ask. Where does it hurt?


Is it a throb? Like needles? A burning? A knifing? Stabbing? Radiating? Pricking,
poking, in waves, a sharp pop crick crack tell me is it sore when I press here?

       Pain is subjective. On a scale of 1-10, one person’s 5 is another’s 8 is
another’ s 2 is someone’s like I’m in childbirth! is another’s just an ache, really.
       We can’t measure pain.
       We observe pain. We listen. We piece it together, the story of the pain.
The pieces of pain do matter.
       But we cannot measure pain.
       And yet pain in its immense immeasurability, in its inexactness, is a sign
of our vitality, our vital ability to live and draw a breath and beat blood; for our
heart to squeeze and sigh, the blue blood that spiders along our arms to our
hands, and we cuff and measure the thump thump, the blood beating, the beat of
our body.
       Pain is a sign of our vital ability, our vitality, to be hurt and to live and grow.
       When Sonja and Caleb tell me of Beautiful Response, I hear it in their
voice. The vitality. It’s a pulse on the radial wrist, a stethoscope on the brachial
arm; the thump-thumping. The lub-dub. The squeeze and sigh thumpa thumpa
thumpa, chest rise and chest fall, the deep breath. The oxygen.
       I hear it in their voice. Come to Uganda with us! Come and see.

       The vitality of it all, you two.
       Come to Uganda! you say.
       I say, Yeah. I’ll go with you. Of course I’ll go with you.
       To see what it is you are always telling about, you two. The vitality. The
vital ability of the Body to be sustained--through pain, through pulse, through
pressure.
Of course I will go.
You’re paying, right?

Dance, Cling, Fight

The floors are creaky.  The old wooden kind of floors that you can feel as you walk across them.  You cannot buy that type of wood flooring.  It comes with decades of use, decades of stomp, crawl, pace, plod, clomp, stride. 

Cindy leads us through the old house towards where the soup will be served.  The thick scent of steamy chicken broth floats through the kitchen door.  Beth and Ruby are seated outside of the dining room waiting for the soup to be served.  Beth extends her left hand towards me and pinches out a smile. I grab her cold hand and introduce myself.  Ruby introduces Cliff and thanks Sonja and I for coming to talk to them about our ministry.  We listen to their chatter about the past week and wait for the soup to be served.  We are here to tell them about Beautiful Response, Patrick, Liz, Carlos, the mice and the needs, and the worship every night. 

Cindy comes out of the kitchen and Father Jerry thanks God that He sustains the earth and we get in line to fill our bowls with the thick steamy chicken broth.

The New Testament,

Who wrote it and why and how and when?  I recently heard a lecture about the New Testament.  It explained two different models of perhaps how the New Testament was authored. 

The ‘Preservation’ model suggests that there was this understood Gospel, and the authors were communicating it to people who hadn’t heard yet.  Paul and Mark and the other writers got the Gospel and were passing along the message.

This model assumes a certain clarity-it assumes that the authors all held this same idea and they all communicated and were intending on communicating the same thing. 

The Gospel was understood uniformly as the truth delivered once for all, and the authors got it and so they wanted to explain everything they knew to others.  That is how the New Testament was written-according to the 'Preservation' model.

It’s an interesting idea-even compelling-maybe even true.

The room is dim, lit by soft yellow light bulbs and cracks of light coming in through the window.  There is a huge fireplace tucked behind two red armchairs.  I set my bowl of chicken noodle down next to Sonja and Father Jerry, across from Bob.  We listen to the stories being told around the table-about a parishioner, about Bob’s business, about Cindy’s family. 

The group gets going on old confessional stories.  When Beth was a little girl, she would make up sins to confess.  She wanted to confess appropriately, so she decided she needed more serious sins to confess.  She would lie and make up these huge sins. When she was seven she decided that the sin for the week would be gluttony.  We all chuckle at cute little Beth being a glutton. 

Bob tells us about how he would go to confessional and be really honest about all of the sins he had committed.  Then Bob pauses, looks around at us, and drops the punch line, “Yea, I was honest about what sins I had committed, I just wasn’t honest about who it was that was confessing!” He bends over the table laughing.  We are all laughing.  Bob’s pretty funny.

After a while, Father Jerry stands up and introduces Sonja and I, and we begin to talk about the road that led us to Uganda, to the orphanage, to the sponsors, the non-profit, and to this group of people in the old creaky house. 

The other New Testament model talked about in the lecture is called the ‘Development’ model.  The basic idea behind the development model is that the writers: Luke, Paul, whoever else, were scrambling to find words, ideas, phrases to somehow explain the unexplainable.  They found themselves living in the reality of a resurrection that left them without categories or rhetoric.  So they wrote and they lived, they preached and they served.  And as they did these things, some language began to be used, and some ideas took shape, and some new realities grabbed them, like Jesus’ divinity, and the purity of God’s grace. 

They were trying, with their words, to do justice to an experience that words couldn’t do justice to. 

Beth’s eyes are thin slits of concentration.  She is looking directly at me as I finish talking about how we are trying to come up with the funds to regularly pay for food at the orphanage.  Her intent focus makes me aware of how clumsily I am explaining the sponsorships.  Trimesters, school fees, food, now, 115, send check, blah, blah, blah.  I shut up and turn to Sonja.  Sonja looks towards Beth, says one line and Beth nods in understanding.  She leans back in her chair and repeats what Sonja just said to the woman sitting next to her, who also leans back in the new clarity. 

I look at Sonja and laugh at myself. 

I grab a stack of photos that we have brought and hand them to one of the ladies at the table.  I see the one with the kids worshipping at night, and so I try to explain how every night, the kids worship and dance and pray out loud.  I try to use words to explain the beauty and the simplicity, the trust.

But my words, they don’t dance-not like Rita. 

I see a picture of Daniel, and I start to tell them about how Daniel clings to anyone who will love him. 

But my words, they don’t cling-not like Daniel. 

I see Herman, and I say that Herman is fighting AIDS. 

But my words, they don’t fight.   

Beth smiles at me.  She picks up a picture and looks at it over the top of her glasses. 

I sit back down in my chair and my mind wanders as Sonja explains how education in Uganda works.  It wanders to the New Testament, to the lecture, to the development model.  My mind sits for a moment on the idea that our language and words do not do some things justice. I think about Paul writing to the Philippians being certain that his words wouldn’t rejoice like he wanted them to.  Like my words won’t dance, won’t cling, won’t fight.

Won't dance, won't cling, won't fight

Sonja finishes explaining education, and Father Jerry thanks us for sharing with the group.  Chairs begin to get put away and the remaining soup bowls are swept off to the kitchen.  I stand up and collect the pictures from the end of one of the tables.  Beth comes over to me.  She is little and she is holding a picture and one of our business cards in her left hand.  She grabs my arm tightly with her right and draws in close. 

She looks up into my eyes. Right into my eyes.

Not confused thin slits anymore-wide open now. 

So open-and I can see the blue and the black and the whites of her eyes.

And in her eyes, I can see it

The dance

The cling

The fight

It is there,
Somehow, it is there.

‘You’ll be hearing from us,’ Beth says.  She smiles up at me, then turns, walks across the creaky wood and out the door.

James and Herman

James Colten was born in Winfield, Illinois.  He was raised in Wheaton, Illinois.  He likes to play Frisbee, pole-vault, and he enjoys playing the piano and saxophone.  James isn’t sure what he wants to be when he grows up, but he enjoys history and sociology.  He is currently employed by Sojourners where he thinks and writes and lives for important issues. 

Herman Goza was born in Kampala, Uganda, to parents who both had AIDS.  His parents died when Herman was young, and he went to live with his uncle.  His uncle worked hard.  He was torn between caring for his nephew and the family’s immediate needs.  Herman’s aunt was torn too.  But she didn’t want to raise Herman.  She was torn, but she couldn’t raise Herman.   

So Herman left. Herman was asked to leave.  At seven, Herman was asked to leave. 

Herman lived on the streets, and he was seven.  So he stole.  He would steal from food vendors and restaurants.  But somehow, Herman knew that it was wrong to steal and that he could get caught.  He was afraid. 

Herman was seven and he was afraid. 

Herman was living on the streets, stealing, fearing.  Patrick found Herman and invited him to come and live at the orphanage with the rest of the kids.

After growing up in Wheaton, Illinois, James went to Hope College.  He and I lived at 248 W. 20^th  street.  He spent long hours in Lubbers Hall preparing for Model United Nations, and he spent his summer working the grounds for the college. After college, he got an internship at Sojourners in Washington D.C. which is great.  He gets paid $100 per month.  James also sponsors Herman.  James sends $345 each year to Herman-29% of his annual salary. 

I remember this-I am sitting on the blue area rug leaning back against the jean-covered couch, playing video games.  James steps into the kitchen doorway. He says that he has a question about the sponsorship.  I press start and Mario freezes mid-kick.  I look up at James, “yea sure, what’s up?”

James is torn.  “So the sponsorship is $115? Is that due soon?”

I see the squint in James’ eyes, hear the unsure hesitance in his voice.  “Yea, I mean, we’re hoping to send the money in a week or two. But ummm…if you don’t have the money this term, that’s probably fine.  We would probably be able to make the money up somewhere.”

James mumbles something I can’t hear, and steps back into the kitchen. 

A week later, a check is tacked to our house bulletin board- To: Beautiful Response Amount: $115  Memo: Herman’s Sponsorship.  James was torn.  But he wrote that check for Herman.

Herman has AIDS.  It is his death sentence.  He will die from AIDS.  Most orphans with AIDS don’t make it long.  Most orphans with AIDS die quickly.  A while ago, Herman took a turn for the worse.  He was not able to go to school.  I told James that Herman wasn’t doing well and he was torn and helpless.  Because in some strange way, James loves Herman.  And Herman suffering from and dying from AIDS is not so far from us.  It is close to us. 

And we don’t like using possessive language.  It is not our orphanage, and Herman is not his child. 

But we are Herman’s family, his people, and he is our brother, our son.  In a very odd yet real way, Herman is ours, and we are his.  So when Herman is dying from AIDS it hurts, it really hurts.

This morning, Patrick called Sonja and me on Skype.  He gave us updates on the children.  He told us that Herman, Herman that we love, was doing much better.  They were able to bring Herman to a good medical center where he received more treatment.  Herman is doing really well. Patrick also told us that Herman got his school exam grades back.  Herman is ranked second in his class of 60 despite missing class often due to his illness. 

Recently, I looked back at Herman’s profile, to remember his story better.  He wants to be a doctor.  Herman wants to be a doctor.

Herman has AIDS, he is an orphan.  What are the odds that Herman will get to be a doctor?

I texted James and told him that Herman was doing better, that he was 2^nd in his class.

Awesome.  That is great news.  When can I write him a letter?

Delightful Visitors

 We have facebook, email, and skype, still we feel really really far away sometimes. Being in Uganda once a year never feels often enough. The kids grow up so fast, sometimes they get really sick, and there is always-always lots of excitement happening. Which is why we were so delighted that June and Sarah Patty wanted to go to the orphanage for two weeks in December. We couldn't be there but, they would be and that was exciting!


They had a wonderful time, and boy did the kids love them! Amongst Christmas celebrations, Bible story telling, English lessons, and bath time they were so wonderful to help each child write a letter to their sponsor. AND Sarah (a talented photographer) brought these photos to share with us. Enjoy!

See more of Sarah's work here

Every Evening

Sonja and I are planning our trip back to Uganda this summer.  We are talking about when and how and why.  And it is getting warm in California now.  And so our talk about going back to Uganda mixes with the warm evenings and it makes me think about the evenings at the orphanage-and I need to have a few of those evenings at the orphanage.

Fifteen minutes after dinner.  After the rice and beans have been devoured, the kids gather outside under the darkening sky to worship.  Every night.  Always after dinner.  Simon carries out the drums, and he and Brian or Arnold start playing a beat.  Then Janet or Justine decide which song to sing and the whole group eventually makes their way out to the front of the house.  And soon they are all singing, moving.  Rachel or Rita or Sylvia begin dancing.  One of them sets the tempo for the other girls that join in the dancing.  Honey is dancing on the side of the group while he holds Miracle.  Justine always closes her eyes and holds her head to the sky as she sings.  Little Meddy tries to dance but he is always, without fail, off beat.  Zula watches her sister Aisha dance and tries to copy her steps.  Apu is holding Sonja’s hand as she sways with the rhythm of the drums.  I am holding Sapu in my arms and am following the dance that Rachel is leading. 

Meddy comes over to me and holds my free hand until his eyes are closed.  Because Meddy only lasts 10 minutes dancing.  He falls asleep every night at the same time, and one of the older kids picks him up and brings him to his bed inside the house. None of these children have parents anymore.  Their parents have either loved them but then died, or hated them and then left them, or have beaten them and abandoned them, or have tried to kill them and then lost them.  Each of them are orphans with pasts they hope to forget one day. 

But every night

Caleb and Daniel on our last visit July 2011

After dinner

They sing.

Darling Jesus, Darling Jesus

O My darling Jesus you are Wonderful Lord

I love you so much, Darling Jesus

O my Darling Jesus you are Wonderful Lord

And they sing,

With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living

Sanctuary, for You.

And then one of the older kids starts praying out loud and soon they are all praying out loud. Justine has her eyes pinched shut and she is shouting into the air.  Zula, little Zula is waving her right hand up to the sky.  William is gesturing and his voice crescendos and drops. And the sound of the children grows and grows and fills the area, and I am holding Sapu in my arms and I am a witness of all of this. 

And I need to go back.