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.

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     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.

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     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.
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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.