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!

Life in the 256

When you work night shift... And your selfies start to have a dark element to them... And you kinda look like a serial killer... 

When you and your best friend ironically go to a multicultural wedding: you in a black and white dress, her in a white and black dress... 

When you get to have long chat convos with your sister and realize that God had her marry into your family as much to bless your life as your brother's...

When you discover the beauty of banana sushi... 

When you build a pintrest project for your kitchen and it doesn't fail...

Which brings us to today folks! Hope youve enjoyed your pictorial journey through the last few weeks in my life! 

It's a Dull Ache

Its a dull ache
Like a pit of emptiness that is never filled
And we cover it over
We smile bravely when you mention it
We act indifferent or unaffected by your comments
We joke about it even as if it were nothing
But the pain doesn't leave
We wear it like a constant cloak
Always on the tip of our sleeve
Always in the back of our mind
At the end of the day
Alone and vulnerable
We peel back the dressing and see the hole
Deep as the day it was made
We know well enough the treatment
We were made to be whole
So when does the cure get to come and be ours?
But we have no access to it
It's in other hands
And so we trudge forward another day
With the ache still in our hearts
And the brave smile still on our faces.

For all the ladies who have ever longed for something more but have no control over getting there: your silent tears were not unheard by Divine Ears. 

Travelling Back to Africa

Flight One: Drove up to the airport with my Dad, Mom, and a whole gaggle of siblings in that big terrible green 15 passenger van that I hate so much. We joked and laughed and even sang a few choruses from musicals. (And by we, I mostly mean that Jenny led the sing along choir, and I pretended to be annoyed the entire time while knowing full well that those are the moments I’ll cherish the most when I miss them all over here.) Mom had packed some snacks for the road so we pulled out the trail mix and had a grand old time.

My little brother Joe pulled me aside while we were stopped at the rest stop and told me how much he had enjoyed getting to spend time with me and that he was really glad I got to come back and visit. Joe is not a man of many words normally. When he speaks on a subject like this, I know it is from the heart. That touched me a lot that he would seek out a time when not everyone was around to tell me.

My dear sister-in-law had organized the family to write me letters. One for each week of the next year and so the huge manila envelopes full of cards and letters were tucked safely away in my backpack next to Mom’s fresh peanut butter cookies and copies of the family pictures that we took over Thanksgiving.

The suitcases were packed, repacked, weighed, and packed again before I left the house, but upon arrival at the airport they were weighed in the balance and found wanting so I had to repack them again… to get them down to 50lbs each. That sounds like a lot, but I am a tremendously efficient packer, and I could easily get another 20lbs in each one. This being done, they were checked and it was time to say “so long”. In times like these I realize that words fail me. “I love you” and “I’ll miss you” don’t seem enough. Hugs all around as I tried desperately to blink back the tears from my eyes. I blew a final kiss and mouthed “I love you” before turning away to hide the quiver in my lip.
These guys are my rocks. They have loved me so completely. If I woke up tomorrow with not a thing in the world, I know they would be there for me. If I fail at everything in life, somehow they still keep believing in me. When I feel like God is far away, they pray for me and point me back to the truth. They are my family and they are the hardest things to leave on the other side of the world. So yeah, a simple, “I love you” sometimes just doesn’t seem like enough.

My first flight from KCI to Chicago was un-eventful except for listening to the tremendously outspoken woman in the seat in front of me discuss everything from emergency landings she had been involved in, to politics, to religion, to the slim pickings in the 50+ dating pool. It was… interesting.

Flight Two: On arrival in Chicago I was starving, so grabbed a quick bite to eat before trying to track down my next flight. My original flight was with United Airlines, but the next 2 would be with Turkish Airlines which I was a little nervous about since I had never flown with them before. Come to find out, it was in another terminal on the complete other side of the airport. So I started out on my long trek across O’Hare. This is when I began to notice a serious problem. In the shuffle to get everything the correct weight for the checked baggage I had shifted a few things to my carry on. This, coupled with its already heavy burden of clothes and shoes made my bag probably heavier than the ones I checked! This would be fine… if it were a rolling bag, but this particular bag looks more like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. (I’m still looking for the secret compartment with the lamps) It was a salvage from my Grandma’s basement. If I remember correctly, they bought a set of these semi-hideous floral bags when her and my Grandpa went to England one vacation. I think it was an effort to have something that would stand out on the luggage conveyer (smart woman!). Somehow  though… the hideousness of the bag makes it that much more beautiful to me. (I am a woman of strange and varied tastes, and carpet bags have always intrigued me, not only for their potentially magical qualities, but because: who carries those these days? Totally boho, right?) However, this bag and I began to fight a very potentially damaging battle of the wills as I lugged it and my already overstuffed backpack across a huge international airport. I did manage to make it to my gate however, despite my correct posture points sinking a good 7 points as there is no correct way to carry 50lbs on one side of your body, and no way to walk correctly if the weight is balanced between my two arms… *sigh* I should just give up and start carrying things on my head like the village ladies!

Found my seat next to a 50ish sweet lranian lady with perfectly manicured nails and styled hair. At first she totally thought I was Hungarian. (yeah, I can’t explain that either…) She told me all about coming to visit her son who is in medical school in Chicago, but works too much at the hospital (he’s a resident) and so couldn’t spend much time with her. She also talked to me about the hijabs that they have to wear in Iran. (She wasn’t wearing one) According to her, it makes no sense why people would wear them if they don’t have to. She explained it like this, “Okay, in my country, my government makes me wear them, so fine, I have to wear them. But I don’t know why people would wear them if they don’t have to! My God is a God who loves beauty! I don’t know who these people are worshipping, but their god must love ugliness!”

Oh, let me tell you about Turkish Airlines though… cause you know how I was kinda nervous about flying with a different airline than what I had used in the past? Yeah… so first thing they do after leveling off after take-off is the stewardesses come around with a tray of Turkish Delight. I kid you not. I almost laughed, cause how funny is that… But then, actually its kinda really cool! Of course I didn’t eat any. (I’ve read The Chronicles of Narnia, and I know what might happen to me once I’ve eaten it! Thank you C.S. Lewis for ruining that for me! Can you write about cheese or soda next time; someone should ruin those for me too!)

Was a bit nervous about what they would serve for meals on their flights, but all in all, it was fairly normal. When we were boarding caught sight of the fact that they actually had “chefs” on their flight staff who were not stewardesses but were just in charge of cooking our meals! Along with our blanket, pillow, sleeping mask, and headphones, they also provided a little toiletry bag with toothpaste, toothbrush, moist towellettes, that sort of thing. All in all… impressed. I would fly with Turkish Airlines again, definitely.

So I don’t know what it is about me… but every time I would get to the toilets, that’s when we would hit turbulence. Now A: those bathrooms are incredibly small and I already have claustrophobia issues. I feel like I can barely turn around, let alone have ample space for adjusting clothing etcetera. Which brings me to B: this is a public bathroom. That much being said, no surfaces which don’t completely need touched should ever be touched. Have you ever tried to pee, touching nothing, in an incredibly small space whilst simultaneously being tossed by turbulent wind currents?? If so, you understand my pain. If not, I would never wish it upon you. That is all I will say on that subject.

Flight Three: Upon reaching Istanbul, I had a slight layover and an incredibly heavy bag, so instead of walking around the airport like I normally would, I instead found a food court to hang out in. This was prime “people-watching” real estate folks! Now I have always been one of those people who observes things, so this should be no real surprise that I enjoy people watching from time to time. This normally works well in coffee shops, where sips of coffee can double as a chance to glance around. Have you ever watched “Date Night”? Remember the scene where they make up what is going on with all the couples? I have always loved that part of the movie because actually doing that is so much fun! So while I sat there alone pretending to be very absorbed in listening to my music and being a rebellious hippie… I got to look around and guess where everyone was from and what brought them to Istanbul. A fascinating anthropological study actually.

Boarded the plane as one of the last ones on, so no place to store my magic carpet bag (at this point, the pain in my shoulder and the raw patch on my hand from the strap have led me to delusional misgivings about the true origins and powers of this bag). The steward was super nice though, and found a place for it up in 1^st class (far, far away from where I was seated). Found my seat next to a sweet Ugandan couple who were going home for holidays from where they live in the UK. Lovely mix of Ugandan and British accents which was so comforting to hear! #almosthome

Slept fitfully and not at all the last 4 hours on the plane as I waited with baited breath to A: be able to lie down on a flat surface and/or to stand for more than 5 minutes. B: Get through all the mess of entry at the airport. C: Finally be back in my beloved UG.

So we had to stop in Kigali first and let off some passengers. What is it about people that when the staff come on the intercom and give you instructions you think it applies to everyone but yourself? I can’t even count how many times they had to tell people to “remain seated with your seatbelts fastened while people de-plane and board”. Like seriously guys! As if we all haven’t been on this plane as long as you have and we aren’t all itching to stretch our legs… Can’t you understand that by standing in the aisles, moving about and trying to get things from your overhead bins you are slowing down the progress of people going and coming who need to in order for us to take-off again? So your desire to stretch right now is delaying all of the rest of our abilities to stretch continuously at our final destination. Good job, guys. Good job.

Anyway…

Target Acquired: Touched down in Entebbe just like normal. Had to do an Ebola screening. Ironic that I was actually slightly safer from Ebola by staying in Uganda than I was by travelling to the so called “first world country” of the US. Good news though people: I don’t have it!

Lugged my luggage (is that why they call it that??) through customs and picked up my checked bags. My friend was there faithfully waiting for me with the car. The poor guy had to stay up all night essentially to come and pick me up at 4am. I sank into the slouched seats in the back of the car with my head on his shoulder and we talked all the way back to Kampala. The night lights, honking horns, and smells of diesel fuel wafting in through the open window welcomed me back to my beloved country.

So when I left the US I was wearing a total of 4 layers. A tank top, long sleeve tee, thin hoodie, thick insulated hoodie, plus a scarf. As I struggled hauling luggage in the airport is became abundantly clear that this was NOT proper attire for December in Uganda. As soon as I reached the car, the layers started being peeled off! For most of my life I’ve been a girl who would rather have it cold than hot. I don’t mind bundling up and would do that instead of sweating any day! But over the last year, I have developed a certain fondness for the idea of hardly ever experiencing coldness. I love that I don’t need to climate control anything about my house other than closing or opening a window and that my clothing can be lightweight and carefree. When I went back to the US I was constantly cold for like the first 2 weeks. I hate socks and I wore them TO BED! (which violates sooo much of my ethical code of conduct that it isn’t even funny!) So the warmth, the glorious warmth, even at 4am, was a special kind of beautiful to my soul!

So what’s happened since then?? Well, not much actually. My sleep schedule has been off. Went to bed around 6-7am on Tues and then again last night on Wed couldn’t sleep until about that time again. Slept at the regular time last night, but woke up around 330am and haven’t been back yet (its 8am as I’m writing this). Hopefully that gets sorted out soon. I go back to work at 1pm today, so that should be interesting if my sleep/lack thereof becomes a factor.

Other than that, I’ve been working on putting up some of the things that I brought for my house. The curtains are great on my bedroom window, my sheets feel amazing on the bed, and my hodge-podge of posters is proudly adorning the wall I wake up to every morning. Actually super excited to get Christmas decorations up. It’s hard to feel in the mood in tropical weather, but my brave little gingerbread men are surely helping!

I guess that’s most of the update for now folks. I will write more and post as often as I can. I really realized how delinquent I’ve been on posting here lately, and now with my little baby Dell back in working order and my fingers poised ready over the keys I feel that a new age of writing is to be born!

 I hope you all are ready!