hello everyone,

i found a new blog thing that lets me post pictures for free, so i'm switching to that.  the new address for my updates will be: www.emilyadaircool.blogspot.com

there are already new posts there so you're totally missing out. ha.

peace,

emily!

I live in a village called “Murder,” the English meaning of Kitemu. It seems an inappropriate name for the sleepy and lush cluster of farms and general stores that make up my surroundings.  No one seems to know the source of the name, but it is intriguing to reflect on what may have taken place here many years ago.  The land on which our home sits has belonged to Jjajja’s family for maybe a hundred and fifty years; there is a graveyard holding the remains of Jjajja’s ancestors, wrapped in bark cloth deep beneath the fertile earth.  Everything here is fertile—all plants are green and flowering and grow at an astounding rate; many women give birth to upwards of five children.  Uganda, after all, is the fastest growing country in the world, with a total fertility rate of seven. (This, for the non-social-scientists, means Ugandan women on average give birth to seven children!)

The house in which Jjajja was born, though crumbling, was host to yet another new birth last week.  The baby is not a member of the family per-se, though it seems not to matter in this home.  She belongs to Mama Frank—the mother of two young and unhealthy children named Chrissy and Frank. Jjajja allows this young, single mother to stay here for free, though she borrows money without paying it back, and though she came to Kitemu after being chased away from a different village where they scarred her cheeks with burning embers.  There are several incredible things about this tiny baby’s birth; for the first 7 months of her pregnancy, no one knew the mother was pregnant (her stomach was very small).  Additionally, no one knew Mama Frank was even in labor until a few hours after she delivered.  I could praise this woman’s strength or repudiate her foolishness, but she gave birth alone in a dark room inside the oldest house and told no one of her contractions.  Later that day, when she went to the well to carry water (which, let me tell you, is not easy work), she mentioned in passing that she had given birth.  We were all incredulous, and rushed into the house to see the miracle baby who, though only a few hours old, had been left all alone wrapped (face and all) inside about 6 blankets.  I unwrapped the baby, both to confirm the story and to make sure the child was breathing and was amazed to find a tiny but healthy-looking infant girl.  In the days since the birth, I have observed that this child looks half white, but that seems impossible since I am the only white person in the surrounding area.  Mama Frank often goes out very late at night, leaving her two young children to fend for themselves.  Though I doubt she has the money for transport to the city, perhaps that is her late-night destination and the site of her income-generating ventures.  If you can’t read between the lines, I am speculating that perhaps she engages herself in prostitution from time to time.  How else would a poor, rural woman with no work and no husband feed her family and become pregnant with a half-white baby?  I have no way of knowing and no one who could tell me.

Last week, my friend Stina from Wheaton, who had spent all summer in a refugee camp in Kenya, came to visit my home.  It was wonderful to have her here, and we had a lot of fun playing with my family.  There is so much singing and playing among the children in my home; it is full of growing bodies and growing vocabularies and, I know, growing fears.  I wish so often I could communicate better with my curious little friends, but largely we depend on laughter and gestures and dance, supplemented by my superficial Luganda skills and some of the older kids’ intermittent (though irrelevant) English phrases.  As Udyiah, 5, and I were sitting on a bench yesterday, she said all of a sudden, “This is my bed,” in English.  Her bed was nowhere around, and I’m not sure she even knew the meaning of the phrase, but I was surprised and excited, so I encouraged her by heartily laughing and exclaiming, “Jebale ko!” (well done).  Things like this are very small, but are infinitely important in the life of a child, not to mention in my life. 

Not all is easy here, though kids are creative and strong and cope amazingly well in spite of difficulties.  There are some kids in my home who are sullen and shy, particularly Bita—a new addition to the household.  Her mother, one of Jjajja’s many grandchildren, is well and lives in a village close to Kitemu, but because she couldn’t care for Bita adequately, left her to stay with her cousins.  I have often wondered since Bita’s arrival whether she misses her mother.  Even if this is true, each day she becomes more talkative and willing to play with the other kids.  She used to cry all the time and run away from everyone (even while she lived with her mom).  The most significant adversity faced by most of the children is illness.  For several of them, severe asthma is a daily struggle; their chests heave on normal days, and when attacks come, they lay, alone and wheezing, until they recover or someone finally obtains money to take them to a clinic.  Four of my family members were sick last week with malaria or other serious illnesses.  Almost all the kids have deep chest-coughs year round.  Only two of the kids have known both of their parents.  There are no positive adult male role models.  Women hold up the sky in this village—and, it seems, all over the world.

If you are male and reading this, I’m sorry.  I have just become increasingly disturbed by the extent to which men are absent as responsible husbands or fathers in families all over the world.  Everywhere I have ever heard about, absent fathers cause pain to their families, most especially among the poorest classes.  This leaves women to work twice as hard, straining to provide for the emotional and physical needs of their children, often without thought for their own well-being.  Perhaps it is simply that broken marriages are more easily disguised among the wealthy, perhaps women there seem less noble because the burden they bear seems somehow less significant. No doubt my perspective is short-sighted, biased, and incomplete.  I am trying not to romanticize the plight of the young single mother, for it is certainly as strenuous a role as I can imagine.  That being said, I cannot help but admire the courage and fortitude that exude from the women around me.  They have had to learn to love their children in different ways than my mother loved me; they cannot provide school fees, or toys, or sweets.  They do not have time or energy to sing to their children, or play with them, or teach them to count and share and forgive.  The children teach each other and largely fend for themselves.  Nor can they provide a father; life is hard and men cannot be trusted.  There is not room in many of their lives for much gentleness.  But where gentleness is found, it is an absolute treasure. 

One such mother is Mama Sherifa, whose jubilant daughters, Sherifa and Udyiah, exhibit the benefits of having such a resilient and incredible mother.  Sherifa is seven years old; she is bright, and hardworking, and sings constantly, and carries babies around on her back all day while their mothers work.  If you catch her singing, she grins and, eyes shining, hides her mouth with both hands in graceful shyness.  Udyiah is five years old; she is creative and very clever, courageous, intelligent and slightly mischevious, and always leads the other children in amusing and educational games (like counting bottle caps in English and Luganda). Both girls are obedient and polite and full of bursting laughter.  Their mother is dear to me, always laughing when I do silly things and calling me over to her small room and wanting to share her life with me.  It is unusual that a person of my age (and color) would play with all the children in such vulnerable and time-consuming (though insignificant) ways.  I love them, though, and I want to drag them around in a halved jerry can, and swing them like monkeys, and walk through the garden with them, and dance foolishly while they laugh and clap.  I think they love me too, and I am always greeted home from work by about 10 kids yelling my name: “Emili, Emili! Kulikayo!” (you’re back!).  They disturb me every time I’m alone trying to read or pray or sleep, but they give me immense joy, and I think it’s a fair trade.

Thus ends this update, without any mention of my trip to Nairobi last week, or my sickness (I think I have a parasite—but don’t worry!), or my current work at Uganda Crafts, or my upcoming research project, or my academic pursuits, or Kuki, for that matter.  I have so much more to write, so I will write it soon and post it soon.  I just don’t want you to be too overwhelmed at once, because I know I could easily write 3 more pages.

I love you all.

Please pray for my health, and thank God for the wonderful encouragement I have been receiving.  Pray that I would miraculously learn Luganda cause I’m almost halfway through and I feel sad about my lack of ability to communicate on any deep level in Luganda.  And thank God for my Jjajja, who is the wisest and bravest woman on earth.

The peace of Christ,

Emily

Ps, if you want to see a picture of me, go to my friend sam’s site: www.samolson.blogspot.com  I don’t know how to post pictures.

don't be annoyed with me, i am going to put two updates in one, so it's really long.  you really really don't have to read everything.  one i wrote at the beginning of august. i'll put them chronologically.  happy reading.

August 6, 2005

I have sat down to write this update about 4 times, and each time I feel like I don’t have much to say.  Perhaps that’s because I’m not very aware of my thoughts, or I’m not reflecting… or perhaps it’s because life here—like life anywhere—has down time.  I think I am coming to realize that not every moment of life needs to be filled with profound realizations or deep insights.  Life can just be normal, and that is okay.  I am enjoying the everyday realities of singing and laughing with my host brothers and sisters, and am learning to let myself be okay with everything being okay.  There is no major crisis that I must deal with, no enormous trials to endure, just the common, everyday joys of eating jack fruit, playing Ugandan games at sunset, eating another plate of matooke and gnuts, riding one more time through the papryrus swamps on my way to work.

I am not feeling the depth of the suffering that comes with poverty, I am not mourning with anyone.  I am rejoicing—laughing as I carry the heavy jerry can of water, singing as I wash the clothes, dancing as I sweep the floor.  I am grateful that I have people to laugh with, and am coming to be grateful that I am being released from the nagging desire to be or think something profound.  I resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that I would never do anything profound, and even came to realize that God didn’t intend that.  This step is far more significant for me, though.  I am learning to allow myself to enjoy life and not worry too much about anything.  I don’t want to become carefree and lazy… but I feel the strong sense this is a long-needed break for my consciousness.  Rather than being a time of heightened awareness and analysis, it seems right now is a time of being at peace with myself and my world.

As I write that I wonder if I am justifying a meaningless existence.  I decided at a very young age that the unreflective life is a life half-lived.  Today, I feel a certain amount of respect for people who can feel peace and joy without thinking they must accomplish anything internally or externally.  I see nothing wrong with Alvin staying in the village and digging forever, never learning English, never getting a job but living as a subsistence farmer his whole life.  If he doesn’t want to go to school, why should he?  If his lifestyle is sustainable, what’s the point of education for him?  I am brainstorming, wondering if people will take advantage of him, if his life would be more full were he literate, but I think neither of these are concerns. In an oral culture, and in a village where books are as scarce as matooke is plentiful, what need has my brother Alvin for more education?  Why should Kookie go to university if chances are she will never get a job and will end up back in the village anyway?

She desires to go, which is a big difference between her and Alvin, but I wonder why she wants to go.  I think it is because she wants money.  Possessions and image seem to be her biggest concern.  On another note, last week Kookie stopped eating.  After a conversation we had about a long period last year where she couldn’t eat anything but bread and water, though she wasn’t sick, this mysterious condition suddenly reappeared.  I know she is concerned with staying thin because “all the girls in music are thin.”  I know she thinks being fat is ugly, but I can’t imagine there would be such a thing as anorexia in Uganda, where I was under the impression that fat was a complement.

This morning, I asked Betty if she had ever heard of eating disorders—anorexia or bulimia.  She hadn’t, but she knew there were girls in secondary school who skip meals in order to “keep their figure.”  I have been confused and concerned about this recent development with Kookie, and plan on keeping an eye on her, just as I would on friends at school who I know have problems with food.  It’s just strange to find this in Africa.

I should write about my birthday party.  Last Sunday (July 31) was my 21^st birthday, and Betty decided we should have a really big party.   She arranged some things, and all in all we thought there would be around 40 people—the 30ish from my house, and about 10 from work or church.  There ended up being more like 45 I think.  Anyway, without going into too much detail, we bought tons of food and cooked it all, danced and sang and played hilarious games, drank soda (a real treat for the family), cut a cake, ate cookies I baked in a firewood “oven,” and had a really good time. I received quite a few presents which humbled me a lot, but that day was a really fun and uplifting day.  I felt very honored and had a really good time.  Everyone had a lot of fun and I was really glad to be there and be a part of their lives.  I put on a Gomez/gomas (the traditional outfit for Baganda women) and everyone loved it.  I’ll try to put on a picture somehow.  Enough about that I think.

On the Uganda Crafts side, some days I get frustrated thinking about how much of a business Uganda Crafts is.  I don’t know how they could avoid the business aspects of any income generating venture, it’s just that I don’t like feeling like a business person—no matter what country I’m in.  I am functioning as a marketing advisor of sorts, though all I am using is my common sense and aesthetic sensibility. 

Of more fundamental concern to me is the focus of the business.  I am not sure it’s my place to sit the people down and say, “Look, I thought you cared about people.  I thought that’s what we were all about at Uganda Crafts.”  After all, I have been here less than two months.  I can’t assume anything about their individual concerns for the women who work with us.  I feel strange about asking them directly, “Do you even care about these women?”  Regardless of their motivation for working, they work and get things done.  What difference does it make?  To me, it makes a big difference.  It’s the thing that makes me not despise the work I’m doing in accounting, inventory, etc.  I wish I had people I could talk with about poverty, about the conditions of the women producers, about how we could better serve them.  Is it okay for Uganda Crafts to continue with a self-serving structure because it still succeeds in supporting many people?  That’s not a rhetorical question.

Spiritually, not a lot is happening, but I feel fine.  I am praying, I am still having a hard time with church, I have the same issues with discipline as I have in the States, and overall I am happy.  I would appreciate prayers for faithfulness in prayer. 

Luganda is coming, but slowly.  I learn new words probably every day.  I can communicate well enough to make people think I know more than I do.

August 24, 2005

Today is rainy, like all the days this month.  This morning I saw a dead man.  He was lying by the side of the road in a pool of blood.  I was in a taxi (matatu) on my way to work and I saw a crowd of people where there’s not usually a crowd so I looked, and I saw him.  I gasped loudly, and felt like vomiting.  I covered my face and breathed slowly the rest of the ride.  I felt solemn and confused, like I should mourn this stranger.

Betty and Kuki told me it’s a normal part of life here—seeing dead people by the roadside.  Its not something I could handle day after day, without developing some sort of coping mechanism.  One such mechanism I have observed here is laughing at things absurd and tragic.  Kuki makes jokes about things that make me cry, Mama Adriene laughs to soften the pain of being driven out of our home by Edson’s other wife.  It is the only way to acknowledge and somehow absorb the pain of this life without despairing. 

But how can one—in good faith—laugh at another’s misfortune or take joy in someone’s suffering?  How can Kuki so flippantly wish pain on others when they do something foolish?  Is it a result of the harshness of life?  There seems to be a strong drive for simple retribution here; if you make a mistake, you deserve to suffer.  My privilege gives me a fat cushion on which to sit and wish others well.  If I felt I was competing for a very limited number of good things in life (jobs, husbands, luck), my benevolence might give way to self-interest. And with good reason, I might add, for here there is no guarantee of basic rights; one has to fight for everything gained.

So, it seems, there is not much room for humility of the American Evangelical variety; boasting about one’s gifts and laughing at another’s weakness is both acceptable and routine.  Could humility mean something else here?  It’s difficult to think of the fruits of the Spirit as culturally defined.

In my last assessment letter, I wrote about being okay with poverty; for weeks I had been disillusioned, forgetting what exactly it was I had been theorizing about and protesting against for the last five years.  I couldn’t see any direct injustice and anyway, my family is happy.  The problems my family has didn’t seem any worse or more dire than problems families have in the US.  Those reflections weren’t the naïve “Wow-they-have-nothing-and-they’re-so-joyful, first-short-term-mission-trip” reflections; I was genuinely realizing something about my assumptions regarding what third-world poverty means and doesn’t mean.  I think I was wading through the runoff from years of detached analysis that I thought was grounded in sufficient experience.

I received a wake-up-call of sorts in reading Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Until Justice and Peace Embrace, reminding me what’s wrong with poverty.  I’ll write more on that soon, but suffice it to say that I wrote in my journal, “There it is—can you believe I had forgotten?  God is against poverty.  It is contrary to the Kingdom.”  It’s an embarrassingly fundamental thing to forget.

Now let me tell you about a little visit I had by our very own Dr. McMinn (my favorite professor at wheaton—she teaches sociology and is advising me for my internship and independent study research project).  It seems like she came a long time ago, not least because I got quite sick at the end of the visit and my high fever didn’t help me retain clear memories.  Anyway, she arrived safely and we had a sleep-over at Betty’s farm in Entebbe the first night she was in Uganda.  The next morning I sent her off to Kumi (about 5 hrs. north of here).  When she returned, we talked about everything in the world, and I was very encouraged.  It was good to have someone who knows me and believes in me telling me that I was doing a good job in my internship, that my Luganda is good, and that I have a graceful way of being bold.  She is such a kind and gentle and honest person.  When she came to my home on Monday (Aug 8), I gathered all the kids together so she could give them cookies.  Altogether there are probably 15 kids, maybe more.  Spontaneously, they decided to sing for her and it quickly turned into us singing and dancing as she laughed on the couch.  It made my heart happy.  I felt like she really got a glimpse of what my home is like.  We also took her through the garden and to the well, where we had an interesting encounter with a Muslim boy who I believe might have a demon, or else a severe hatred for me. 

The next day we went to Bombo, a nearby village, to dye materials for weaving.  The Nubian women taught us how to weave, and gave us heaps of food.  That day was really gratifying for everyone involved, as DM got to know some of my coworkers more closely and see some of what “field work” looks like for me; I felt my relationships with that group of women strengthen a lot; and the women got to laugh at me all day and received a generous gift from DM.

Moving on, we picked my friend and fellow student, Megan up on Wednesday night and drove to Jinja, the source of the Nile, where we spent the next several days with another wheaton student, Rebecca.  The place we stayed was beautiful and private, and we had many uplifting and challenging conversations.  I finally drank some good Ugandan coffee (for some reason, though coffee is their biggest export, everyone drinks instant NesCafe which tastes like dirty water).  Megan tried to convince me to apply to Princeton Div School, and she was persuasive.  Then I got sick, thought I had malaria, got tested (for 1000 shillings—about 60 cents!), found out it was just the flu, spent the next few days in a daze, sometime during which I sent Megan and DM away to Malawi and crashed at Sam’s house.  It was really wonderful to get to spend time with Rebecca, Megan and Dr. McMinn. It was a refreshing and renewing time.

Dr. McMinn and I got a lot of time to talk about my independent study research project that I will begin soon.  I have decided to research the effects of unfaithfulness (in marriage or committed relationships) on poverty levels of single mothers and their children.  I will write a full explanation soon and post it.  I am now in the process of trying to find relevant resources, which is very difficult.  I am going to try to visit Makerere University this week to see their Social Work department and library.  Books are really scarce around here.

In other news, last weekend I went to the farm of one of Jaja’s relatives, deeper in the village.  It was beautiful, situated on the top of a high hill with many cows and flowers.  I milked my first cow, and also met a rabid cow that they killed a few hours later.  As it turns out, the couple who owns the farm are wonderful and Anglican. I hope to develop my relationship with them and attend church with them sometime soon.

At Uganda Crafts, I have been engaging myself in some exciting new projects.  After realizing that which work we do depends largely my initiative, I have begun a massive reorganization of the shop display.  This is a much-needed improvement, from the perspective of a tourist, since no one wants to buy things that look old and disorganized.  I have suggested holding a sale to get rid of old/damaged stock and make room for new stock.  Additionally, we are constructing shelves and other things to organize the shop more neatly and display items more effectively.  I think you have seen the promotional materials I made for Uganda Crafts, and we are currently working on displaying them throughout the city.  I am also working on other local marketing strategies, like advertising in tourist magazines and travel guides.  It has been quite a task to convince Betty that advertising is worthwhile.  She complains that no customers come to the shop, without realizing that we must advertise for them to hear about us.  This is the kind of lack of critical thinking skills that has disturbed me since arriving.  Additionally, I have been doing some designing of new products, which is exciting for me and is a little more artistic/hands-on than working on promotional materials.

In a staff meeting we had yesterday, I discussed the issue of fair trade principles with Betty and the others.  I may have been a little overzealous and preachy, since rather than asking what they thought, I asked rhetorical questions and assumed they wanted to continue caring for the artisans by paying high prices for their products.  The subject came up because one of the staff recently went to an exhibition in Denmark where all the importers complained that the quality of our items was low and the prices were too high.  I think our conversation allowed Betty to see how unique Ten Thousand Villages is, in that they are willing to pay a higher price and be lenient since they know they are supporting fair trade.  During the conversation, Betty happened to mention that last year she applied for a fair trade certificate and was denied.  Though I had raised the idea of applying to the Fair Trade Federation with Betty, she had failed to mention her past attempt.  I am not completely surprised that she was denied, and I hope to explore this more completely with her.

I have been subtly encouraging her to think of the ways in which Uganda Crafts is helping people, and suggesting ways in which it could help more.  Sometimes this makes me feel like I am being paternalistic, and imposing my desires and values on Betty and Uganda Crafts.  Truth be told, I do feel this business is like a child that needs direction.  Though I know I am not the person to do it, I feel like I am the only one interested in doing it. If someone else came in who didn’t care about helping people but only about making a profit, Uganda Crafts would probably lose any semblance of the non-profit organization it used to be.  Betty simply does not have the skills to run this place.  I am embarrassed to write these things, but I am thinking them all the time, so it is good to name them.

I’m back to work now.

Thanks for reading.

Please pray that God would give me a strong desire to pray and read scripture. It’s easy to just be happy and live life without being consciously thankful.  Please pray for my Luganda skills, and for direction in my research.

Additionally, I am going to Nairobi, Kenya this weekend, for a crafts exhibition.  I’m not sure how long I’ll be there, but please pray for my safety as I’ve heard Nairobi is much more dangerous than Kampala.

May joy abound among you,

emily!

WRITE ME SOON EVERYONE :)

Dearest family and friends,

I’m back for round two.  Sorry I’m delinquent.  No surprise there, though, I guess.

On the internship side, here's a little of what I've been doing.  I have been able to brainstorm with the staff at Uganda Crafts about some marketing ideas and have begun to work on them.  Additionally, I have been working closely with Kenneth, one of the staff, on formulating a proposal for a weaving-training program.  It is a very solid idea and I think the proposal seems professional. (But then I guess I wouldn’t know…) We have sent it to Ten Thousand Villages (if you don’t know what this is, you should check it out at tenthousandvillages.com) and are sending it soon to a Danish organization.  If that project takes off, it could be much of my future work at Uganda Crafts.  Also, I have been trying to network with other organizations in Kampala as well as abroad to increase and diversify our export markets.  On Wednesday I attended a large meeting with Betty about the government’s desire to assist in developing exports within the handicrafts industry.  They recognize that handicrafts provides income for women, disabled people, and many other at-risk groups, as well as very low income people, so as part of their Poverty Eradication Program they have decided to invest in this sector.  On top of all these things, I have been able to go to villages multiple times to dye materials (raffia and banana fibers) with women who work with U.C.  This has been fun, encouraging and rewarding.

A couple weeks ago, I was really struggling with my relationship with Kookie. I was no longer feeling supported by her, but I felt plenty of pressure to act, dress, give and talk in certain ways.  She was very controlling of me and my things, and I found that perhaps my initial enthusiasm about sharing was misguided, because she takes all my things (including my only bra and my only pen) and doesn’t give anything back.  I find some of my clothes missing periodically and when I ask, she goes to retrieve them from her box of clothes.  I’m not sure what to make of this culturally, since when I talked with Kookie and Esther (another sister), they said that sharing is not really a cultural value here and that they personally get annoyed when people use their things.  Additionally, she wants to control my time as well—especially in wanting to bring me to church every night, and every Sunday for like 9 hours.  I was basically feeling like an image-enhancer for her.  I was her muzungu pet.  Additionally, she wasn’t telling me the truth about a lot of things and I didn’t know what to do with that.

But things with Kookie have balanced out such that my feelings about her and our relationship are a healthy mixture of what I wrote the first time and what I was feeling a few weeks ago.  I have returned to the hopefulness of my first letter, realizing that the Lord truly did place me in this home and with this girl for a reason.  I am continuing to learn much from and with Kookie, and have been convicted about my desperate need for humility in my thoughts towards her and her spirituality.  At the same time, I have gained what I believe to be a reasonable understanding of her attitude regarding truth-telling.  She tells lies to people for what seem to me to be no reason, but I am certain that within her cultural and personal narrative, they make perfect sense.  I am beginning to figure that out.  She is very concerned about her image and the way people in Kitemu think about her, and she does use me to a certain extent to enhance her image… but I have come to be okay with that because I do not feel that it would be appropriate yet for me to challenge her about it.

            We have many fruitful conversations about spirituality, and I have been insistent on being honest with her about my doubts and concerns and I think my honesty is beginning to pay off. She is beginning to understand the source of my fears, cynicism and hope regarding Pentecostalism.  She also has seen the depth of my desire to learn in this area and could not be more supportive—both in prayer, conversation and by bringing me before those who can teach.

            This leads me to the next (and perhaps biggest) element of my life right now.  I had been struggling very much with desiring discernment from God but not liking the vehicle in which it comes to people in the church here (i.e. very Pentecostal expression).  It’s quite uncomfortable to me, but I have known for quite some time that I need to come to terms with this phenomenon, not least because Pentecostals are the fastest growing religious group in the world.  Anyway, I have been praying a lot about that for a long time… much of my thought and prayer life centers around this.  God has already been very faithful and has begun to grant discernment to me through scripture, other people, etc… I’m not inclined to be too specific here, but if you want to know more about this, I’d be happy to tell you. Just email me.  But please pray that God would grow the gifts of the Spirit in me.

Another thing that has been going on in my thought life:  Since I have been here, I have been surrounded by what in the US I would define as destitute conditions.  No one has money, no one has opportunity, no one has economic hope for the future, though their material desires are great.  Many people around me—in my house—are sick all the time and can’t pay for doctor’s fees.  The children don’t have money for their school uniforms, and wear the same clothes day after day after day.  Most of the mothers I have met have been abandoned by their husbands who left them for another woman.  Three people in my close vicinity died this week because of various poverty-related illnesses. 

Yet I do not feel it is strange, it just seems like life.  I don’t feel the strong sense of injustice I usually have when encountering people living in poverty.  It’s like, I’m one of them, and I don’t mind, and things are okay, and we laugh and dance and sing and eat and so life is good.  Maybe it’s because I have an escape route planned that my heart is not heavy.  I don’t have to stay here, and maybe I would feel trapped if I did.  I know many of the people around me feel trapped—and they are.  But it is not so bad, or at least it doesn’t seem so bad.

What is wrong with my perspective? Or what is right about it? I am still aware of the strong Biblical injunctions to care for the poor, but my idea of what defines material poverty is changing.  My family doesn’t seem poor to me now.  Street kids seem poor, some single mothers seem poor, but not my family.  I’m not sure anything in my family’s life would be improved by plumbing or electricity.  I’m not sure it would make a difference if the kids had their school uniforms or not.  Maybe I have yet to see into a deeper realm of poverty, or I have yet to attain the relational intimacy necessary to understand the emotional poverty of the orphans around me (after all, Kookie is essentially an orphan and so are many of the kids in my house).  I don’t know.

            My biggest concern is—am I failing to enter into my circumstances in some way?  I don’t feel capable of answering this question because I don’t know quite where to begin. I feel like I am, but maybe I should be asking more probing questions, being more intentional about discovering the reality of the poverty around me.  It’s just that spiritual poverty seems much more pressing to me right now than emotional poverty.  No conclusions here, just some thoughts.

A few small things you might be interested in:

1. I just finished plaiting my hair.  Now I am a real African woman. J It hurts a lot and takes a really long time…. I think it was at least partially because the texture of my hair is so different and soft. I had to sit for more than 3 full days…. And I look like raggedy ann (the doll, if you know who that is). It’s fun.

2. I went white water rafting on the Nile with Dan zeccola and Sam olson (other hngr interns in Uganda).  I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t.  It was one of the more frightening experiences of my life but it was fun. I wish I could have gotten a picture of the rapids to show you… It was so scary. It was a class 5 river and most of the rapids were rated 5... way bigger than anything my family saw last summer in the Grand Canyon.  Yikes. We flipped twice and the first time we flipped I was underwater for really long and thought I was going to drown.  But I didn’t, so it's cool. Haha. I thought of Alex a lot cause I thought he would have been in heaven.  But me, I was glad when the day was over, I have to say.

I’m going to go now, but thank you for reading this and caring about me.  I care very much about you all.

Please pray that I would learn Luganda (I think I am slow…), that God would give me a spirit of thankfulness, and that the Spirit would move powerfully in my life, specifically enabling me to walk in the gifts I have been given.

Love, peace and joy,

emily.