Simple Girl - Lilian Mbabazi (HD Version)

Today

Today I am tired of being a “mzungu”. I am tired of being the one person that people point out in a crowd or the person that “should pay more” at places. I am tired of people assuming that I am independently wealthy. I am tired of being hit on by guys just because I am an exotic. I am tired of struggling every day to make ends meet in a country that is gracious on the surface, but makes it difficult to stay here.

Today I almost lost it when one of the ladies at work started to tell me that I should buy a house up the hill from the hospital. Apparently its quite a nice large house. And apparently I should start a family in this house. I didn’t even wait for her entire explanation of how I should start my family in Uganda and blah, blah, blah... I switched into that tone of voice which says, “You have crossed a line. The following information will be delivered to you in a completely cold and objectively expressionless manner, with relatively small amounts of sarcasm thrown in. It is in NO WAY open for discussion. You will listen and accept this information. You will not under any circumstances bring up this subject again.” I told her that I did not have money to buy a house, moreover a very large house. We both work at the same hospital and she knows very well that no one here gets over-paid. Leave alone the fact that I don’t have anyone to start a family with currently, and my staying in Uganda is beginning to even be shaky with the decline of the shilling vs. the dollar and visa things not going very smoothly.

Today I kinda just wanted to be back in Manhattan. I wanted to walk into Bluestem and geek out online for a few hours with a nice Caesar salad and a bottomless Frangelica in my hand. I wanted to drive my own little green car out to the tubes and watch the water splashing as God paints the sunlight into the horizon. I wanted to go home and curl up in my comfy bed with a million throw pillows like I always used to have, or prop myself up in the corner of my big red couch and watch a movie. I can’t do any of those things.

Today was one of those days when I really wonder why I chose to move to Uganda at all. Don’t get me wrong. There are so many things that God has taught me and walked with me through and I am sure that He didn’t tell me wrong when He told me to come. But on days like today I can sometimes get overwhelmed with all the hardships and start to think that I am not really doing that much good here, maybe I should go back to Manhattan now.

Today I realized how insanely shallow I am. I get met with a few obstacles and I want to throw in the towel. People think that I have really roughed it in some of my living situations over here, but I have a cushy life. I have had to sacrifice so little. And I am already ready to complain about it? What’s wrong with me anyway?

Today I had to purpose again to look for the things God it teaching me in all this. To look beyond the small things that are going on around me and see the big picture of what He is trying to do. Stop being frustrated with not being able to find that one piece of the puzzle and start to look at what the design is becoming. 

Tomorrow is a new day. And His mercies are new every morning. I should take advantage of that fact. 

Intro...

This is a section of an intro I wrote for my book...

"Kansas is where I was born and raised. Contrary to the picture you probably have in your head right now, I was not raised on a dry age-old farm with a tornado looming in the background. (oh, don’t even bother trying to deny it! As soon as I said Kansas you were picturing Dorothy and Toto!)

I was, however, raised in a little piece of God’s country that is called the Flinthills. It’s the part of Kansas that isn’t flat, but where the hills trip and roll over on top of one another in these endless waves of green and umber grass. All this under a sun filled sky and a raging prairie wind that will leave you breathless. Paint in a stratosphere so blue and expansive you would swear it’s been transferred from a canvas and you pretty much have it. Open and untamed it stretches its arms to the horizon like a lazy kid on a Saturday morning. It’s beautiful and earthy, that kind of earthy that seeps into your soul without you really knowing it, and makes you a girl born for wide open spaces.

My town (and I call it my town because I’ve lived there since I was born) is nestled between these rolling hills in a large tree filled valley at the convergence of the Big Blue River and Tuttle Creek. My town is that perfect combination of booming small town and laid-back city. The entire town is actually a combination of a few smaller towns that originally sprung up after a riverboat crashed on a sandbar coming down the river. The founders figured that here was as good a place as any to start their new pioneer communities.

In time the three smaller towns joined up and bloomed around a state land grant agriculture college that was started there. To this day the entire town still revolves to some extent around the goings-on of the now multi-faceted university. We are a college town, which no one seems to mind much, as you can clearly see when you drive down the street. You’ll be audience to team spirit in the form of flags, car license plates, t-shirts, and even a lawn sculpture or two which proudly display the university team emblem.

There are a few other attractions to the town like the large dammed lake which hosts fishing, boating, and a country music festival every summer when temperatures reach record highs. There are college football games at the giant stadium, where the cheers reach deafening levels that can be heard for miles, and traffic backs up for ages for tailgating. There is the shopping/eating/bar district that tends to attract all kinds of different colorful characters from miles around for the coffee shops, food, and boutiques during the day, and the beer and hard liquor at night. Of course we have our county fair and rodeos too.

The main bulk of the town is sandwiched between a hill proudly bearing our town name and another displaying the letters “KS” in letters 20 feet high.

It’s not uncommon to see camouflage around town both from the rural/hunting contingency and from the army base a few miles away. Bicycles furiously pedaling down the streets are a normal sighting thanks to all the low income students flooding town with their energy conscious hipster trends. When new businesses come to town everyone gets excited to try them out, even though they are the same as the chain the next town over. The town lets out its belt and gets a little bigger, they expand such-and-such street to double lanes, but for the most part things go on about the same every year in my town.

In the midst of this is where I grew up. When I was little we lived quite close to campus. So close in fact that we were regularly woken up at night by rambunctious yelling and a drunken personage or two. In grade school, my sister and I actually swore that we would never go to college because we seriously thought that all college students were crazy like that!"

Possibly Offensive

This post might be offensive to some people. If you are one of those people then please stop reading now. I am going to tell you a story I heard from a friend this last week. I will attempt to tell it to you as nearly exactly as it was relayed to me.

“It started quite innocently. A few words in a coffee shop. He was nice and smiled, asked me how my day was and where I came from. I was polite, a little distracted, and probably slightly cold as I easily tire of such questions. He did however manage to secure my phone number by inviting me for an event later in the week. Then he called me. I was uninterested. But he still called me. So we talked a little, hung out, I let him take me out to coffee. He admitted that he liked me. I told him I had 3 objections to that. A.) that I was pretty sure I was older than him. B.) that we didn’t know each other very well yet. And C.) that God was really important in my life and I would need to make sure that I would never think of pursuing a relationship with someone who didn’t believe the same way.

He took it all in, agreed with me, and resolved it. Yes, I was older but we had yet to see if that would be an issue. Yes, we did not know each other very well yet, but what he did know about me he liked and he wanted me to allow him to get to know me more. And finally yes, he agreed that God should be important in any person’s life.

So we went on. Enjoyed getting to know each other better. We talked, we laughed, shared jokes and meals. I honestly had no idea.

I can clearly remember the day that it hit me at work. I should have seen it earlier, but when that last piece of the puzzle fell into place I could see it very clearly. The blatant fact that I had been overlooking. I rushed from work to confront him.

I had been pursuing a relationship with a Muslim.

Yes, he admitted it. He said that he thought I knew. We had talked about God a number of times without running up against any roadblocks and I know he had never used the word Allah or shied away. He didn’t act or dress like any Muslims that I knew and he had never once rejected my western ways of dressing or Christian mannerisms. Hadn’t I prayed over dinner? He had a biblical name anyway, so how was I supposed to know?

But it was true. Of course I needed to know right away… what was I to do with such information? Should I break off with him for this one fatal flaw? I was raised in the west and have read my Bible. I know that I don’t bear the Judge’s gavel. I don’t decide what is right and wrong. God will have mercy on whom He will have mercy. In that instant I didn’t need to know whether this young man that I was starting to like was right or wrong in his conviction of the religion which he was raised in, but rather was I right or wrong in continuing to see him?? A very different question entirely.

As nearly as I can understand it, Allah is another name for basically the same God. I believe that Muslims worship the same God that I do in the same way that I believe that Jews worship the same God that I do. But its like a huge piece is missing from the puzzle. When you take Jesus out of the picture then I descend back into hopeless, helpless sin. Still trying to earn and garnish favor, out of my pitiful utterly sinful state, with a God who is the very definition of justice. It’s like trying to climb a dune in a sandstorm with your arms and legs tied. The complete hopelessness of it would kill me if I believed that, because I know myself way to well. I know that I will fail tomorrow. I know I will fail the next day. And the day after that. In fact, I know I have already failed in over 15 ways today, and that’s without over-analyzing my daily activities and attitudes. Jesus is the only thing that keeps me from that well of eternal depression. He covers everything. For every time that I fail, His perfection already sacrificed for me keeps me buoyed up on hope and able to still come before a God who is the very essence of justice and be able to argue my case with any hope of walking free. Someone has already taken my sentence of death, swallowed it up in life, and given me that freedom that I crave. Freedom to be able to come to God without fear of retribution or punishment for every time that I fail, but with boldness to approach Him as a Father who loves me.

That much being said, what could I say to this young man in front of me? Could I walk away just like that and for such a difference? It’s somehow the same, but also somehow sooooo different. We compared notes. Our understanding of God is the same. Our understanding of how to get near to Him or to worship Him is different. He respected my beliefs. So I tried to also respect his.

The catch came a month or so later. In telling a friend about him, I mentioned that he was Muslim. I was immediately blasted for even considering dating such a guy. I was a “bad Christian”, I shouldn’t be “unequally yoked”, and I was suddenly “really lost”. I can’t even begin to tell you how upsetting this was to hear from another Christian. I know sometimes people hate things that they don’t understand and Jesus turned the other cheek, so I tried to move on, to be okay with it. But it haunted the back of my mind. If I could have that conversation back and change it… other than never having it in the first place… I would have a few things to say to my friend.

This guy, regardless of his religion, treats me better than any of the other professed Christian guys I have dated in my life. He cares about my purity. Treats me respectfully. Honors my family. Provides for me. Cares about my feelings. Listens to me. Misses me when I’m not around. Shares the pieces of his soul with me. Even came and reported himself when some chic gave him her number. He used to smoke, but he quit when I told him of a dear family member who died of lung cancer. I didn’t ask him to, he just went and flushed his cigarettes down the toilet and hasn’t smoked again. He knew how much that person meant to me, he could hear it in my voice, and he refused to cause me that pain.

I have never had a guy that I’ve seen in a romantic manner who didn’t end up cheating on me. Emotionally or physically. They all were professed Christians. So my question to my friend is this… Where are the young Christian men who will give this guy a run for his money? Yes, I would much rather be with a Christian guy who shared everything with me in the way I thought and believed, but where are they? If anything, you should use this as a call to arms for your brothers. Rise up, men of faith, and challenge yourselves to be great. To actually embrace those good and noble and right things which you are supposed to be pursuing as a young man seeking the heart of God. To respect the women you are pursuing and not make them objects of lust. Or just a therapist to sit on the couch of and spill your woes. Or a bank account to help you out in a jam. Or an option instead of a priority. Or let us otherwise waste our time when you still have no freakin’ idea what you want in life or in a woman.

And sadly, what happened to praying. I have prayed for this guy every day since I started to like him. Prayed that God would reveal Himself to him in new ways. That he would use me and few other friends of his which I know are also actively seeking God to speak truth into his life. That his mind would be willing to receive the gospel and that Jesus would stand there knocking on the door of his heart relentlessly until he opens it.”

This was basically the story. I was saddened and sobered by it, and even moved as I was attempting to capture it in story form for you, my dear reader. There are so many half-truths which lurk in the world today and they are so easy to believe because the stench of foul lies is covered over with some slightly appealing glaze of truth. It’s easy to judge a person without understanding their entire story.

I wish I could tell you that this story has a happy ending. However that is not the case. The girl is still conflicted about what to do and trying to hold all her hopes and dreams with an open palm for God to do with as He will. She still prays for him, but she knows that she would never be able to be his wife with his current belief system because of what she believes about submission. The friend, she sadly has never confronted with the rest of her story and why she chose to stay with her Muslim guy for now. And I, remain regretful and saddened by the whole thing. My heart aches because this is not the first story I’ve known like this. I have friends who have married atheists and agnostics after their original church-leader fiancé was caught in an affair. I have seen some girls leave the church entirely, completely deluded by the men there to the point that they think even God must not care. My heart aches for a woman who has been so injured by the men who should have treated her the best (because of how Jesus taught them) that she feels safer in the arms of someone who doesn’t even share her Jesus.

Something to think about my dear reader. Until we chat again: may God bless you, make you thoughtful, and give you His wisdom.


**Update... as many of you have no doubt guessed by now, though I posted this with a thin veil of anonymity, I was in fact my "friend".
My dear, dear husband and I wrestled long and hard about how to approach this issue. In the end, Jesus and His love won out!
Moses committed to following wholeheartedly after Christ as part of his vows to me as a potential husband, and it is with a ridiculous amount of internal joy that I have secured this front row seat to watch wide-eyed as Christ grows in his heart.
Oh my dear reader! How I wish you could share the joy that I felt as he came to me and asked who he needed to talk to at church about being baptized! He told me he felt he had been "dating Christ" for some time, and he needed move his relationship into "marriage". And then the flurry of "why wait?" when he jumped into that commitment with no hesitation or regrets the moment he asked our pastor about it.
What a blessing and warmth is brings to my heart every time he stops and reminds us as a family that we need to pray and seek God on an issue. How beautiful it is to see him praying with our son or studying the scriptures on his own time. There is nothing quite as utterly beautiful to my soul as observing the work of God on a heart that I prayed over so many, many times!

I've Seen (You Sustain)

(I've been reading Ecclesiates. Obviously.)

Under the sun I've seen

More than once...

A lovely young lady be taken too soon

Perhaps preventable

Leaving helpless lives behind,

A precious young life snuffed out

Before it was given a chance

No first breath ever came,

Beloved Godly grandparents die

Vanishing into thin veils of the people they were

Their bodies ravished by disease,

Relationships hit rough waters

Though both parties knew You

Still hearts were hurt,

I've seen faithful servants suffer

With no way to put food on the table

Their prayers never faltering.

Yet I know what the great king never knew...

And somehow the assurance

"God would not inflict pain thus on all His children,

He knows whom He may trust,"

Is both enough to know and too little

Balm for the ache in my heart

For those whose lives touch mine

No matter in how little ways.

Yet I know You are faithful, You are still good.

Your strength is more than enough for me.

Your grace is sufficient.

No matter what I've seen

I know You've seen worse

And You'll sustain me like You have them.

There is nothing and no one else.

Basically You are the be all and end all.

I need not know how or why

I need only know that You love me

And that Love makes all the difference.

Because of it I might swim rivers

Though I fear their depths

And my very core panics at the thought

As my toes slip from their shaky hold

In a mighty rush into the stream's current

I know You hold me afloat

Nothing may hold me under

The pressure thrusting air

From already weakened lungs

I find You become my breath in those times.

I've seen, under the sun

More than once...

A beautiful weathered face walk

Gracefully to the shores of death

Pause not for a looking back

At this Sodom and Gomorrah that earth becomes

And that look of peace as they see their Savior;

And I've seen God heal and restore

Relationships that, reasonably,

No one would have given hope

Love lives once more

Where only desolation had set up home;

I've seen You come through

Needs met in the nick of time

And daily bread never lacking

As Your saints hit their knees

Growing stronger with their testimonies;

And the joy of that cry

As for the first time

The contented infant sits in her arms

Cradled in a mother's love

And she knows more of Your love for her's.

And I've seen You

More than once...

Over and over

In fact

Prove Yourself faithful

Show Yourself powerful

Love perfectly

Strengthen completely

Be sufficient

Just enough.

I've seen You sustain.

Desiring

DESIRING – June 7, 2015

It’s eating a hole of desperation into her soul

The lies of a million sweet summertime’s first kisses

And the taste of anxious anticipation they leave on the breathless tongue

Now realism wakes to find she has slept with transiency

A heartless lover which leaves here longing for more and less

More of that feeling of being completely awake

Dangerously conscious of anything and everything

And less of that same feeling, because its absence stabs deep

A ruthless wound which time fails to heal

Small pieces of naivety left raped and jaded

By the overwhelming sense of now feeling endlessly dead inside

The gut-wrenching product of realism’s one night stand

The culmination of a summer’s season on a dreamer’s soul

Awake, she barely feels

Asleep, she restlessly turns

There is no rest now for the martyred soul

There is no peace now for the wounded spirit

Another dawn greets her like a bad dream which she fails to wake from

Sunset finds her anxious for return to the sheets which give her no rest

She’s not tired of body, she’s tired of spirit

The mattress holds no cure for the yawning ache of her need for inner calm.

All too knowing that she has brought this on herself

A bad decision here, a false move there

Those times she should have walked away

Instead choosing to flirt with the edge of danger, to skate the rim

She finds that her tranquility has toppled over the precipice

While she remains teetering on the lip

Too top-heavy not to bobble, too weak to hold herself back

She looks over into the gaping blackness of her own demise

Contemplating the drop, the sudden crashing stop, and the end of feeling

Yet something holds her steady

Something begs her not to hurl herself into the abyss.

Something… or is it Someone?

Horses vs. BodaBodas

This blog post is to explore the undeniable correlation between horseback riding and bodaboda riding.

Now, I was born and raised in Kansas, and while I did not grow up on a farm, we did grow up with an appreciation for the rural Kansas ways of life. When we were kids the best vacation was going to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm. There was something very mystically enticing to me about the farm and way it ran. I had a fascination for animals from the farm cats which ran around the barn to the cows we would help haul grain buckets for.

So whenever I got the chance to mount up and ride horses you can bet that I took the opportunity. Most of them were just retired mares following the horse in from them type trail rides, but I still took the opportunity. When I was a young girl I went through an “obsession with horses” phase where I read up on so many horse things, even subscribed to a horse supply catalog for a while. While my practical experience lagged behind, my head knowledge of horses was fairly thorough at the time.

When my best friend in college had a horse and offered to let me come riding with her (like actual riding) you can imagine my excitement to do just that, and I thoroughly enjoyed every ride we got to enjoy together. 

Now, when you are riding horses at anything more than a walk you need to know a few things. There are gaited horses, which are generally easier to sit (ie, less pain on the bum), and non-gaited horses (pain). When a horse moves at a trot, canter, or gallop the rider has to adjust the way they sit to allow for the impact of the hooves hitting the ground and the muscles alternating. The best way to combat this is called posting, which is when you move in time with the rhythm and move your bum up and away from the saddle in time with when you would have been bounced otherwise.  It is a certain rhythm and once you catch the rhythm, it’s almost something akin to dancing with your legs and hips. If you don’t post then you bounce around like a sack of potatoes and the quickly compounding pain to the seating area makes you wonder why you ever agreed to get on this confounded animal in the first place. *pardon my extremely lay-person explanation of this.*

Flip to boda-bodas… The same is true here. A person must anticipate the bumps, potholes, and other such obstacles which are no doubt to be had on the streets of Kampala. And stand up slightly from your seat to combat the impact of the wheels hitting uneven ground. I find myself feeling like I am posting (minus the rhythm).

For safety, they recommend that you wear a helmet with both horseback riding and mounting a boda-boda. But let’s be honest… we are just too cool for that. I mean, it messes up your hair… which should be able to flow dramatically in the wind…

Speaking of wind… the wind in your hair from a galloping horse, and the wind from a speeding boda… both quite exhilarating, though the former feels quite a bit more natural.

Side-saddle is just not practical… in either case.

You may get thrown off. I have. From both a horse (the stirrup broke). And from a boda-boda (hit a pothole in the dark).

There is a strong chance that having experienced either one, you will fall in love and strongly desire to own one of your own.

Answered Prayers

Well today is an interesting day. It seems that everything that I pray about recently comes to pass. I am mostly scared rather than thrilled with this development. Sometimes it feels like I have been beseeching the heavenlies for the longest time without a single response in the least. Now suddenly everything that I ask of God is being answered? Maybe it just scares me because it means that I am not as far away from God as I had feared. That He is actually near enough to touch and that I can’t run from Him.

I had prayed that God would take a certain person out of my friend’s life because it wasn’t a healthy relationship… boom. It happened. I had prayed that God would work out my new apartment… boom. I am in love with it. I had prayed long and hard that my sister-in-law would be able to get pregnant… boom. The pregnancy test was positive. I had prayed that my brother and his girlfriend would grow in their relationship with God and with one another… boom. I get the call this morning that they are engaged.

What is it with me that I can pray and believe God for everyone but myself? My best friend actually asked me this the other day, and I was blown away by the reply which left my lips. I do trust that God has the best in mind for my friends, my family, and the other people around me, but sometimes I find it hard to believe that He wants to give good things to me. I don’t know if this stems from an intense lack of self-worth or a false humility. A friend of mine tried to call me on this a while back, but I wasn’t in a good place to hear it at the time, and it sounded too much like a health and wealth gospel which I’ve come to hate so much during my time in Africa especially, since it seems to be so prevalent here.

So what is it exactly?

I think, at the end of the day, I need to believe God for bigger things. I know (intellectually) that my God is big enough to provide for me, to love me enough, to bring good things to my life… but I need to know in my heart to where it spills over into uncompromising belief. That is the kind of trust that He requires of me and the kind that will not let me stop assailing the heavens with my petitions, prayers, and praises. 

Anecdotes from a Prairie Princess in Africa

Updates from this month.
 1. The first weekend in May I went with my girls to a concert on the lawn at the National Museum. They set up a stage at the bottom of the hill and people spread out blankets and picnic baskets all over and make an afternoon of it. Of course there are plenty of local vendors on hand too in case you didn't pack enough food in your picnic basket.
*Rant* All the Ugandans that want to dress "western" come out of the woodwork and you start seeing all kinds of scandalous short shorts and things. This one chic had a dress that looked like it was made out of packing foam. I think she was trying to give Lady Gaga a run for her money. I sat back in my completely conservative maxi dress and laughed.
*Rant2* Selfie sticks?? Like really people?? First of all, this totally looks like something that should be in SkyMall magazine. You know the one that you find in the back of the airline seat and you flip through cause you are super bored. They always have crazy things, like a end table that looks like Chewbacca or a giant inflatable pool complete with inflatable diving board... You know, that sort of thing. I thought we already made enough fun of people who take selfies... now we are giving them tools to be able to do it better?? What kind of world am I living in?? Secondly... you are in public. Have you no dignity at all?

2. My family (#SO) gave me a bunch of letters and cards to come back to Uganda with. Every Sunday I have a new one to open. This month, being my birthday month, most of them were in that theme. My favorite so far? One from my very dear friend which was first of all pink, (to annoy me, she said) then has a picture of a unicorn and says something about how you are just like a unicorn: unique, beautiful, and poop rainbows! I feel like this card is indicative of our entire friendship. Slightly sweet, slightly trying to friendly irritate each other, with plenty of random references to poop. Oh, the people in my life! Love them!

3. My birthday fell the second weekend in May. The things I had originally wanted to do required a bit more cash than my budget allowed for this month, so I had to scale down my celebrations. However, this is the last year that I will still be in my 20's, so I had to do something special. Every year for my birthday my mom asks me what I want to have for dinner. Sometimes I cook it myself (cause its fun for me), but it almost always... in fact I can't remember the last time it wasn't... is Mexican food. Tacos, burritos, enchiladas, SantaFe burgers, rice caliente,... you name it. Interestingly enough, Ugandan food is very similar to Mexican food. Some things are almost the same. They have great avocados for guac, perfectly ripe tomatoes and peppers (or mangoes... or pineapples) for pico de galo, chapatti are a more oily version of a tortilla... rice, beans, cilantro (dania)... its all too perfect. So for my birthday I decided to make Chipotle style (or as close as I could get) burritos. Now of course no one likes to cook for just themselves, so I got together a group of the guys that I usually hang out with and I cooked up my food and brought it to their place. They supplied the movies, music, and drinks. We spread out newspapers as our picnic blanket on the floor and sat around Japaneese style and dug in. You know you cooked well when the room goes super quiet. :) Very satisfying indeed for a cook like me! I spent that night hanging out with movies and music including an impromptu dance circle that they insisted I had to be the middle of since I was the "birthday girl".
The next day it was hanging out with my best friend for burgers and conversation... and naps. Because I didn't get any younger apparently! hehehe

4. Minor setbacks 1: My small computer stopped charging... again... This bums me out a lot cause usually if I have paperwork or scheduling to do for work, I use it. Not to mention, my movies and music libraries are stored/accessed through it. Currently its being worked on and I am hoping and praying that its back up and running again soon.
Minor setback 2: I was supposed to move to a new apartment at the beginning of the month. Of course I was thrilled with this prospect seeing as I don't feel wonderful in my current neighborhood following the unfortunate events the other time... However, the new apartment was being re-finished and it wasn't complete, (still isn't) so I've had to remain in my old place for this month. Which is fine... its just that I had packed all of my stuff up in bags boxes and suitcases and taken everything off the walls because I didn't find out that I WASN'T moving until the day of. Yeah, that could have worked out a bit better... But all things considered its okay. Hopefully it'll be done by the end of this month and I can move!
Minor setback 3: Interpersonal communication between me and people at work hasn't been great lately. I was sick last month and missed a few days of work. Running short staffed is no fun for anyone and some of the nurses are feeling rather peeved with me. Its hard enough being the only non-Ugandan on staff... the only one who was trained in another country... and one of the few who wasn't hired by the administration but brought in by the country director instead. There has already been a weird power struggle around my position for some time as people felt jealous of me being hired, clashed with my nursing style and training, and had enough language, cultural, and personality differences to go around. For this one I have nothing much to say except I have been praying about it. Interestingly enough I know exactly who has said what about me. (They still think that I don't understand any Luganda) But God is giving me grace to handle the situation without feeling emotionally hurt. I'm still not sure how this is happening, but I am glad it is and am going to keep praying for it to continue! I've confronted nearly every single person regarding if they have personal problems with me and the result is very interesting. I guess my straightforward American style of conflict resolution is not normal for them. *snickers quietly to self and feels like she got the last laugh*

5. At the end of the day, God is still good! I have randomly got the opportunity to be blessed by and be a blessing to so many people over this month already, from the patients who bring their kid back just to me, to the nervous pregnant mother that I got to sit and counsel the other day, to just doing little things unexpected things for the people at work, or telling a funny story to brighten someone's day. Encouraged by a conversation with a friend where we went deep into some questions about spiritual gifts and I was able to point out the scriptures clearly to him. Blessed by the meeting and befriending of a missionary through facebook who was in Uganda for a while and is travelling about with no clear plan, but following where God leads; her love and fire for God is contagious. Strangely encouraged by a conversation from almost a year ago which came to mind this week as I was watching a movie and I saw so many parallels to what God is doing in my life.  Its not all orderly or planned out in my head, so I guess I'm just glad I'm not the one in charge. Its still a crazy adventure here at times, but life is. I'm just glad that I have my faithful Jesus to walk with me through it all.

African Violence

Well, in what may go down as one of the worst nights in Uganda, I got mugged on Saturday night. Ironically while trying to go home in the early hours of the morning so that I could make it to church on time the next day.
The thieves made off with my camera, tablet, phone, and a good deal of my inner peace. Not to mention, a brand new deo *words cannot express my disappointment*, my pocket knife *which was supposed to provide for self defense, we see how that worked out*, my nice lip gloss *that I've had for years cause I hardly ever wear lip gloss*, they keys to my house *this made things awkward later*, and worst of all my green army shoulder bag with the buttons on it *I have had this bag for ages and collected those button for so long, some of them were gifts*.
At the end of the day...
Its all material things.
The main thing is that I was not harmed. (Well, mostly, I have a few scrapes and bruises) I lost a great deal of pictures on the tablet and all of my phone contacts, both of which will be difficult to replace, but not necessarily impossible.
I was strangely not carrying my wallet, there was no money in the bag, and no IDs.
God is pretty gracious.

In other, more amusing news... I have been having a small rodent problem in my house, so the other night I picked up some mouse traps at the grocery store. Normally I don't go in for glue traps. They seem ineffective cause they don't really kill the mouse, they just stick to it... and sometimes those things get desperate and walk off with the trap and all. However, the mice I had seen were fairly small so I wasn't too worried about it.
Attempt number one: I think the rat got so desperate that it chewed off its own tail. At least that is what it appeared like. I found the trap... moved from the kitchen to the living room... with only a tail as evidence of the rats entrapment.
Attempt number two: I woke at around 11 to sounds of furious struggle. I go to the kitchen and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a rat (not a mouse, mind you, a RAT) the size of a small kitten stuck in my trap. This thing was probably the biggest wild rat I have ever seen. (and don't get me started on people who keep rats as pets... what's wrong with you???) So I stand back and do some quick math. Gauging the size of this thing, the depth of the glue in that trap, estimated strength of body muscles, adrenaline being released in his rat body, etc... and conclude that this rat may not die as intended by the makers of sticky traps with its final struggles coming to a un-gory end as it submits to the quicksand of the glue trap. There is a real and very eminent threat that this thing may in fact fight its way out of the trap and once again be lose in my apartment. This is not an idea that I openly embrace. I had no idea that things had gotten to this level and certainly have no intention of welcoming such a housemate.So I do the only logical thing. I go for my machette.
But this thing is huge, and I don't have much of an angle for a good fell swoop with a machette (which if you didn't know, is how a machete works best). So I am here hacking at this thing and its not dying. Pretty soon I realize that its me who is making noise every time the machete drops again. By this point, my heart rate and breathing pattern are verging on hysteria. I try to call a friend to come and help me, but no one is available or answering their phones. I must face this thing alone.
The struggling continues in the kitchen but I just hide in my room and pray that it is over soon. Once the movement finally stops I creep back to look. Finding the victim presumably dead I kick the entire thing outside and bar the door. Lets just say I didn't sleep very well that night.
However, the compound cats were well fed and slept just fine!

Joy

Its in the beams of the morning sunlight
Its in the swish of my dress around my hips
Its in the soft clip of my boots against the concrete

Its the rhythmic beat of an African drum
Sounding deep in my chest
Where my heart should be

Portraits, Episode 1

In a tribute to my working on my portrait and editing skills and in true "HoNY" style... May I present Portraits, Episode 1:

My brother Jeff: the most hardworking guy I know, who also knows how to play hard. A man of few words but big actions who can always be counted on. Thanks for sharing my love of BBQ, action movies, shooting, and being creative.

Kia: my soul sister, because best friend is too shallow a title. When I first met her she said I looked like I didn't belong in the group of Americans. We've been our own unique group ever since. Passionate, determined, fiery, and a sweetheart, this girl gets me through the rough days, laughs with me, and can exchange entire convos with only facial expressions.

Massa: aka Superman. I met this guy for the first time when he came to pick me up at the airport. Many long conversations, car trips, bouts of laughter, frustrations, and bad backs later... I am so glad he showed up to pick me up.

Nadunga: a little ray of sunshine. This woman inspires me beyond words. She has almost single handedly been running a charity for street women in Kampala while finishing school and being super involved with family, friends, and the band. Her hard work is often frustrating but she shows up with a huge smile on her face. 

MoAnne: my brave little toaster. This woman pestered me until I joined in as an active member of church, dragged me to countless bible studies, and has consistently spoken truth into my life. When the call came to go, she boldly packed her bags and moved to a new city to help start a church plant. 

Her spunky personality has no match and she is one of the few people I can be truly goofy and seriously hardcore with.

Zam: who swears she is going to deliver my babies if I ever get busy and have them! I met her when she came to work as a midwife at Ruth Gaylord Hospital with me. She is a truly beautiful woman, inside and out. I've seen her go through personal hardships and still show up with a smile on her face, treat her laboring mothers with a calmness, and speak kindly even when firm.

Molly: the little pixie. I gave her that name because it seems to describe her. She sometimes jumps from flower to flower, but she loves spreading joy. While her affection is sometimes overwhelming to me, its also endearing.

Ronnie: Lil bro. Actually, he's not my Lil bro, but i've kinda adopted him. He can be quiet at times, but once you get him talking, the tap doesn't shut off! I love his willingness to do whatever hairbrained idea we come up with.

Ejuku: its a love/hate friendship really... As in, we love to hate on each other! Haha, no this guy is a good friend and one of the few people in my life I can be blatantly honest, wickedly sarcastic, and dangerously open with. That doesn't sound like much, but in a friendship, that amount of freedom is heavenly!

And finally, a self portrait.

How To, Episode 3: Recycled Home Decor

Making picture frames from common household trash! 

Reduce, reuse, recycle 

(otherwise entitled I'm poor but still crafty)

Start with scrap cardboard... A discarded pizza box sans grease works!

Measure your pic on the back and cut accordingly.

Cut out the inside of your frame too! 

Cut clippings from old newspaper. 

Secure them to the card board with modpodge. 

Affix your pic and display as desired! 

My Camera

Sometimes the moment passes too fast
And sometimes the camera hand isn't quick enough
Or the lighting is poorer than my retinas
Or the angle is wrong to grasp the whole scene
So I wish I had cameras where my eyes are
To capture anything that I can see.

I would have captured the three year olds
Using an old Jeri can for a pinata
Laughing and shrieking through their blindfolds
As their sticks struck earth and plastic by turns
To remind myself to appreciate the little things
And when I can see less, I sometimes enjoy more.

And I would capture all the strange things I see
As I sit astride a boda whizzing through traffic
I would have captured the Popsicle truck bumping up my dusty road
A pied piper with a string of kids in tow
And the horrifying cat mask the operator wore
To remind me that there are more terrifying nightmares
Than the ones I seem to face.

I would capture every look I get from girls
Who think I look good and hate me for it
Then I would paste them all together
And stick them to the wall where my mirror should be
To remind myself that I am beautiful enough to have haters
So I should stop being my own.

Maybe that's why I like words so much
Because an image can fade in the mind
But if I write it down in candid detail
It can never be lost
The poignancy of it still as ripe as it's first sting
So I write, to remind myself of all the things my camera can't capture
And all the lessons they teach my heart.

My words are the camera of my soul.

How To, Episode 2: Be a Good Example

Don't encourage your friends to become addicted to TV shows

Always behave with the up most decorum

Don't give yourself bangs

Always maintain proper hygiene

Don't engage in substance abuse

Always work hard while at work

Don't play with guns

Don't get tattoos

Don't encourage your friends to get tattoos

Keep your facial expressions respectful

Maintain a well balanced diet

Don't slip up and become a hipster

How To, Episode 1: Improvise Alfredo

Welcome to a new segment of my blog which I am going to call the "How To" segment. Our first feature today will be How to Improvise Alfredo sauce (when cooking in a foreign country that doesn't believe in cheese...) What kind of country doesn't believe in cheese you ask? Well, Ugandans don't really cook with cheese... Like ever. Yeah, I know! This ruins my American ideology that any food item + cheese = more amazing food item! 

In light of this however, I have had to learn how to make things a little differently. Some things just aren't the same (Mac and cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches) but some... Such as Pasta Alfredo can still be successfully ventured! 

Of course you start with the same basic ingredients. Pasta.

A healthy assortment of fresh onions, green peppers, hot peppers, tomatoes, dani (cilantro), Italian seasoning, and garlic.

(Also, fresh spinach and grilled chicken, not pictured, but quite delicious!)

First pan sear your spices and veggies in a generous dose of olive oil, then add the secret ingredient... Plain yogurt! You wouldn't think this would be good, but once everything is together, you can hardly tell it's not real Alfredo sauce from cheese! 

Pour over pasta of choice, lightly toss and enjoy! 

This has been "How To" with Jo! 

Stay creative my good people! 

Being There

Being there

I have tried so many times in the last month to sit down and write this blog post. Every time I would start, I wouldn't be able to finish it. Either from the sting of the tears sliding down my cheeks or from the poignancy I wanted to convey and fell short of. At the end of the day, I still don't know how to fully impart everything that I want to say, but I nothing unventured is every attained, so I will try. Who knows, this may be awful also, and I will still have to scrap this one too... but I'll try.


When I found out that my Grandma was in the ICU, the first thought through my head was "why am I not there?"

My Grandma and I have always had a unique relationship. I'm not even sure how it started. Maybe there is something internal in us that recognizes kindred spirits. They don't have to be our age mates, or our neighbors. My Grandma lived 2.5 hours away from my hometown but distance didn't stop our friendship. Neither did our supposed cross-generational status. We were born 50 years apart, but the heart doesn't know age.

I was one of those kids who liked to show off when I was growing up and engage in "grown-up" conversations and Grandma was perfect because she wouldn't shelter me from anything. I remember a very grown-up conversation we had in the car once about Princess Diana after she had just died. A few months back I realized how young I was to be having that conversation and was mildly appalled, but Grandma trusted me to handle it. Sometimes kids live up to the expectations that you set for them, and if that is so, then my Grandma was a champion at setting the bar high.

My earliest memories of Grandma are in the old farmhouse. Most memories go with a particular context and that is hers when I think of my first ones of her. I remember trying to map out all the places on the old farmhouse stairs where they creaked so that I could sneak up and down them without waking Grandma in the morning. I remember waking up to the divine smell of French toast in the cold mornings and hearing the old crackly radio playing down in the kitchen as Grandma would holler "Yooo-hoo!" up the stairs to summon us for breakfast. We used to love it cause Mom never made it at home, and Grandma had WHITE syrup instead of just brown maple syrup. Very clearly I see the Christmas tree with bubble lights and tinsel on it, remembering Grandma's trademarks. I can hear the banging of the washer on the back porch as I went out to fetch something for her from the mysterious 'sideways' deep freeze, coupled with a deep sense of accomplishment when I was actually able to find the desired item withing the cold depths.

Then there was the familiar smell of her solitary cup of decaf Folgers which she would make in the morning and then reheat in the microwave throughout the day, sipping at it off and on. I don't think she ever really finished a cup, or really understand what exactly the point was of drinking coffee with no caffeine, but that was Grandma.

Grandma always stocked certain things when she knew we were coming. There was always Pepsi in the house, though I rarely saw Grandma drink it. Ice cream was always stocked too, mostly Neapolitan when we were young. Then Grandma had her famous recipes. She could make a mean pan of from-scratch brownies. She always did this thing where she cut all the crusts off; I just made sure she didn't toss them so I could eat them. Then there was her famous hash brown casserole, smothered steak, and her chili. When we would go down to their house for Thanksgiving, none of us really fancied turkey too much so we would have alternate dishes. Famously one of them would end up being Grandma's chili. I have never had, and probably never will have chili that is similar to what she made. Its not how I like or make my chili, but I loved it regardless. It's probably just as well that I can't replicate it.
Grandma would tell stories about how she never learned to cook growing up because her parents couldn't afford to make more if she messed up any of the food. So when she married my Grandpa, she had to basically learn everything! She never considered herself a good cook, but in all honesty... some of my fondest memories are of talking and cooking with her in the kitchen.

When I got old enough, I would join her in the kitchen all the time and this became one of our favorite things to do together. In later years when I would tell her I was coming for the weekend she would tell me not to be disappointed if we didn't eat fancy, but she knew as well as I that I would insist on cooking while I was there, even kicking her out of the kitchen if necessary. She loved trying new things and finding recipes that were easy to prepare.

If it was cooking in the kitchen or working on embroidery in the living room, you could be sure of one thing... There would be stories. Grandma loved a good story, both the telling and the listening. I remember how she would prompt my Grandpa to tell a story, then correct him if he changed anything (must be where I get it from!), "Now Paul, that's not how you told it to me..." Not that she was a gossip, the stories were true, not malicious, and mostly things that happened to her. Although there are quite a few friends of hers that I know names of but would not recognize if I met them on the street.

I remember so many nights playing cards around the table and how excited Grandma would be to teach us a new card game or the famous Mexican train dominoes. She also liked word games much to my delight, so I would bring our Boggle set or Scrabble to play.

My Grandma was one of those people who are not content to just get by in life. She constantly was checking out books from the local library on various subjects. She watched and listened to the news and was very informed about what was going on in the world. She was one of the most fascinating people to talk to about current events and policies. Grandma could TALK! If she had an opinion about anything, you would probably hear it. She wasn't rude, but she would let you know how it was. Grandma never went to school beyond high school but you wouldn't know it. She was extremely well read and she took great pleasure in knowing what was going on, not only in the community around her but in the world also. She would always recommend books on to me when she found one that was really worthwhile and we would share our love of reading. Once I was telling her about a book I had read recently on my beloved Uganda and how it touched my heart because I understood the author so well. She kinda smiled and nodded and looked down. I asked her if she had ever heard of it, and she said she had already read it. She smiled because she finally understood from the author's thoughts how I felt about Uganda. I was floored because she had actually checked out every single book from the library that she could find to try and understand what I was getting myself into and why I wanted to go. She didn't say much about it, but she understood. Mom told me later that the entire time I was gone she kept my Uganda scrapbook prominently displayed on her coffeetable in her living room. Even now this brings tears to my eyes.

At some point in our lives as I was growing up, I actually became closer with my Grandma than with my parents. I don't really know why, but it was comforting to me at the time, and we continued with our relationship. Writing letters to each other, sending emails for a while, phone calls, and then visits with just us when I had my license and own car.

When my Grandpa passed away in 2006, I did fine until I walked in the house and saw my Grandma. My heart broke clean in half realizing that she would be without her other half for the rest of her life. Even though I had a special bond with Grandma, she was never without Grandpa. They had one of those special stories that started when they were too young and only grew more tenderly loving with the years of commitment to each other.

When I started dating, she was the first family member that I told, and she immediately started with dating advice. Some of which I still use to this day cause it was gold. When she lived alone after Grandpa died, I seriously considered moving to her town to stay with her. She confided in me how lonely she was, then how happy she was to have the companionship of Jay when they started dating. I can't even count how many times she told me that she would never remarry though. She was so scared to tell me that she had, that she made my Mom call me instead of telling me herself. I was busy and couldn't come to visit her for a while after that, but I think she thought I was mad at her. When I finally did sit down and talk with her, I understood and we were back to our usual selves.

I remember one time when I was down, she was teasing me about guys and stuff. Then she thought better of it, and was all like, "No rush, you should be really certain before you settle down with one person." then always the joker, she added as an addendum, "But don't take too long! I won't be around forever!" I laughed at her contradiction, but I never considered that she really wouldn't be here to meet my husband.

The days I spent at her house before I left will always be lovely memories. I think we both knew at the time that it could be the last times we spent together but neither of us wanted to say it.

So when my mom told me she was in the ICU, my first thought was... Why am I not there? I have always kind of considered myself the self appointed medical consultant for our family. Anytime anyone is in the hospital or needs help with treating illnesses at home they used to call me. Sometimes I pretend to be annoyed by this, but let's be honest, I love being needed. So I really wanted to be there, but work and being fairly broke prevented me from rushing back. I would call my mom and check on Grandma and how she was doing. There was even a day that I got to talk to her on the phone. She couldn't talk back to me due to breathing machines, but Mom said her eyes lit up hearing my voice on the phone. Glad I got to tell her that I loved her one more time.
That day I knew. I don't know how, but I knew. It was a heaviness in my heart about the time that she passed away. I waited until a decent hour to call my mom, but I already knew what she was going to tell me when she answered the phone. Grandma had gone home to be with Jesus.

I tried in vain to write something for the funeral, but my emotions choked even my fingers from typing and I found any expression inadequate to explain how much she meant to me or to capture some of the fullness of her spirit. I posted a picture on Facebook of her and got the most interesting response.

A friend of mine whom I used to work with asked me if her name was Wilma. Yes, I replied, how did you know? This friend had been an aide working under me at the nursing home. People had told her she would not make a good nurse because she was shy. I told her those were the best kind, since I used to be shy too. Years later, she is an ICU nurse and she took care of my Grandma at night. She said she always tried to make the staff smile and laugh and always said "thank you" for the smallest things. Somehow knowing that I encouraged her to become a nurse felt like maybe I was sorta there for my Grandma.

Weeks later, as we pulled in the driveway of her house Grandpa had built for her it was the hardest thing to know she wouldn't be there looking out the kitchen window for us or waving at the backdoor. A place I had loved coming to suddenly became just a house. So many memories in that house from the time it was being built to so many visits and long chats, now reduced to just boards and beams.

Standing over her grave was even harder. Holding my mom's shoulders and both trying not to cry for the other one's sake. Her body is nestled there next to Grandpa, covered with a rosebush and adorned with silk flowers, but she is not there.

My Grandma is alive, more alive than she has ever been! Her spunky spirit is bouncing about heaven making sure everyone has a plate like she used to do with us, she is filling Grandpa in on all the new stories, and she is dancing with Jesus with a new body that can't be weak like the one she left behind.

I can't wait to see her again and have our long talks and exchange stories again. I love you Grandma! Give Grandpa a hug for me; I'll see you soon!