This semester I’ve had a continual conversation with a student about her God-shaped blank and the things she is trying to stuff in it.

Her “stuffing” is not working, and I told her that if she tries to fill her blank with anything other than Christ, it, too, will fail. I shared that my own methods of filling my “blank”—though they are more respectable than hers—are no more successful.

Christ is the only one, the ONLY one, who fills all in all.

All in all—not a partial filling, a complete one. I used to envision the God-shaped blank as a gaping hole, a wound made by a pike axe or lance. It was either filled or not. I see it differently now. There may still be a huge blank, but that’s not all. I am pierced all over, full of holes, small and large. The psalmist says, “Show me my lapses and errors, reveal my hidden faults, search me thoroughly.” I find that as God fills one hole, He makes me conscious of many others.

I am like a sponge, as much hole as connective fiber, and I’ve filled many of my pores with garbage. But Christ says HE is the ultimate filler—of all my needs, my lacks, my shortcomings. He can—and wants to—supply such fullness that He flushes out the garbage and saturates me with Himself.

And this over-filling (like the “cup running over” in the Psalms) has a beautiful effect not only on me but on those around me. So often I serve others out of my holes, out of my lack or for negative reasons—so that others think better of me, so my children don’t whine, so…–but Christ wants to fill me so full that He spills over and blesses others with His overflow.

I see my sin as a failure–and definitely, in one sense, it is–but that is a wrong view in another sense. If I strive for perfection as the thing that will make me pleasing to God, I am in essence saying that Christ’s death was not enough, that I want something different than to be–continually–in need of His salvation.

And when I say, “God, I want to approach You as the Prodigal, in humility and acknowledgment of my own sinfulness,” I don’t really mean that. What I want is to be past it, and, looking back, to say, “What a sinful creature I was. Thank You for accepting such a hideous creature as that” (as if the hideous creature is separate from the new enlightened person I have become).

Yet to come as the Prodigal means I come (present tense) in my sinfulness, with sin and by myself, needy and broken at my Saviour’s feet, and in this state, to receive His grace-filled embrace.

 

Yesterday was a terrible mothering day. I locked myself in the bedroom at one point and told the kids I wasn’t coming out. I was too tired of struggling with frustration, of feeling annoyed by their being 7, 7, and 5, even 10!, and of being borderline mean about every silly comment and a nag about every misplaced toy. I knew if I faced them again, I would just be more of the same.

So I locked my grumpy self in the bedroom and lay on the bed and thought, “I just can’t do it, God. I can’t. Give me three minutes out there with them, and I will bite their heads off again, and I cannot face that. It’s only three in the afternoon. There are six hours till I can put them to bed. There is no way I can make it.” The younger three kept knocking on the door. “Can we come in? We need…”

“No. Go away.” and then, to take away any sting, “love you.” Love is easier from behind a closed door. Up close it has to be full of patience with raw egg smashed on the floor (we dyed eggs for Easter), snotty sleeves (PJ will NOT use a Kleenex), dramatic tears (Jake’s response whenever he and PJ fight, which is often this day), and the “So what’s next?” (for dinner, for entertainment, whatever expectation I am supposed to provide). I was out of that patience.
I eventually emerged from the bedroom, though without any special revelation from God. All I’d done was lay bare my inability.

And I guess that was enough. Somehow, by the time we’d finished soccer and gotten cheap pizza and decided to eat it at an outdoor table in front of a bookstore, I was having fun. Like, really, their inane comments made me laugh and led to real conversation. Here’s one.

“Mom, why do all black people look the same?” Seriously—in this family! I think it was Jake who said it.

“They don’t. You only think that when you meet a black person you don’t know. When you get to know them, they become individual. Like, you wouldn’t ever confuse Cecil and Godfrey, would you?”

“Who’s Cecil?” That was Maddie. She sees Cecil every single week at church but Maddie is TERRIBLE with names. I sometimes wonder how long it would take her to forget mine. A month? “Mom, who’s that?”

I tried a different tack. “Okay, if you put PJ in a crowd of African children, you’d be able to pick him out.”

Pause. “Not really,” Jake said. “He would look like everyone else.”

“He’s your brother!”

“Well, if another little kid had round eyes and a big mouth, they’d look just like him.”

“Yeah, but they’re PJ’s round eyes. Don’t you think you’d know him? Seriously, I’ve met Africans who say that white people all look alike to them. It’s just when you don’t know them.”

By this time Em was shaking her head at me in that “Give it up” way, and the lady at the next table was cracking up. And I was having fun—when I’d considered running away earlier in the day.

I don’t know how You did it, God, but that’s some real transformation.

By the way, today’s another long day—just me and the kids. I’m going to need some more of that.

Preferably before I lock myself in the bedroom.

I realize that I am trying to make myself someone I am not—or rather, I am fixated on the image of myself rather than my true being. It is not that I am NOT a business-type person, dressed up and meeting people for appointments, nor is it that I am NOT really a stay-home mom who is sloppy much of the time. I am neither—they are both outward things.
Why, still, do I confuse my “being” with my “doing”?
I am beginning to understand more and more that beautiful Michael Card song with its line “see with and not through the eyes.” It’s one of the paramount themes of John—the one I feel the Spirit pressing into my soul. Look past the seen and don’t get hung-up on the outer trappings—of yourself or others, “see” the truth of My presence, “know” beyond intellectual knowledge that I am GOD! And what I can see with my physical eyes (what too, too often holds my attention) is but a shadow of a very small portion of the true reality.
So as I walk to my office and think about the length of my pants, my inability to wear heels more than a few hours, my graying hair, I wish for a more Christ-centered gaze.
Who am I? I really don’t know and I’m not sure it matters.
But I know HIM—more and more each day—and that’s ALWAYS essential.

As the children slept, Angel brought out her photo albums and told me her story. Remember what I said about being a louse in comparison to this girl—so true. She lived with an auntie because her mother died when she was eleven, and her father had four wives total and I guess the other wives didn’t want another child, particularly one not their own. When Angel was fifteen, her father died, and her aunt could no longer afford to have her. So Angel went to work as a housemaid and then in a shop. Finally, at one point an employer wanted to know why she wasn’t in school. Angel had given up on that hope, but the employer kept pushing and someone stepped forward with school fees and she began secondary school. Through one experience and another, the family hosting her had to move, and Angel was back on the streets. One night, without a place to sleep that was safe, she told God, “There are two directions on this road. I’m exhausted. I don’t know what to do. Show me the way to go.”
God brought Wilson to her mind, whom she’d met some time earlier. She knew he had orphans living with him. Could she make her way to his house? She didn’t have transport money, so she walked the four miles and they took her in, even though they were turning kids away because they were so full.
And that’s Angel’s story. She moved in with Wilson in February of 2006, so she’s had a home where she knows she won’t be turned away for almost three years.
Amazing! THAT is YOU, LORD!!! Thank you for the level of trust You’ve built between Angel and me, so that when she DID tell me her story, I knew it was a privilege, an honor. Thank you for the faithfulness You’ve shown in her life. Thank You for taking care of her. You’re amazing!
All for now.
You know, it’s hit me that the REASON I want to see cultural differences as right or wrong rather than merely different is because it allows me to see myself as okay, as advanced in some way or other. All right, again I know that I’ve written that in some way or another, but I was thinking back to when Lynda and I were talking about the soap operas the family watches. I secretly WANT that to be a bad thing because then I can think, “Okay, so you have the ‘taking care of orphans and widows’ thing down really well, but in the ‘personal viewing’ column I’ve got it all over you.” Ha! That makes me laugh just writing that, but it’s sadly true.
Dave was finally able to call me at this afternoon, and I shared the news with him. So good, and he was so excited. I reminded him (or was I reminding myself?) that there are still several steps to complete, but I caught some of his excitement and began to think about seeing him and the kids, too.
I helped Angel with tea/dinner, separating out the small stones and corn kernels that are mixed in with the rice. There must be some sort of machine that does this in the States, I told her, and then I had to explain that I didn’t mean “I” had a machine like that, just that the companies that package rice must.
Julius and Moses showed up, and the two of them and I had a long talk about the differences in education between here and the U.S. Definitely harder to get a good education here—and a lot more bribing going on to get unqualified students into universities or government positions (I guess; there’s probably more than I would suspect in the U.S., but there’s no way it’s as prevalent as it is here. After all, I’ve never had to bribe someone in the States to get my passport.)
Then another lady and her daughter came by. Florence told me that these were the mother and sister of Raechel Tendo, the one I wrote about earlier who was killed when she jumped off a boda. There is always a story in Africa, and it seems most often to be one of tragedy. You’d think I’d learn to give more grace automatically. Not that this lesson doesn’t apply in the States as well. The stories aren’t as dramatic most of the time, but there are still untold stories, many of them filled with hurts. If we had eyes like Yours, God, eyes that see the heart, with all its hurts and struggles, something tells me we would definitely abuse the power. It is only as YOU begin to teach us to see that it can be a gift that is actually used to help others.
Dave called me again with tracking numbers for the money wires he sent more than a week ago. Lord, I know that money is in Your hands as well. There is some very good reason for it being delayed, and I suspect what it might be, but I’m not quite certain of even the small picture, much less all the intricacies of Your plan.
The BEST thing: I was able to talk with Emily some. So good to hear her voice, her enthusiasm. I was able to tell her I love her and miss her, and she told me about presenting her Amelia Eahrhardt (have no clue how to spell that) project at school today AND the wonderful news that I probably won’t miss the Kansas Day concert after all—I had really wanted to be home for that, and it was originally scheduled for this week. Her choir director had to have minor surgery, and they’ve postponed it until the middle of February. You are SO good, God. Such a small detail, but it means so much to both Em and me. Thank you.
Other answers to prayer: the twins are continuing to do well, missing me, but functioning fine. Church families are beginning to bring meals, another great thing, and people keep stepping up to take Jake and Maddie in the afternoons so Dave can get some work done.
Florence spoke with me this evening about her dream of going to the U.S. to school. I told her I can check into options, see what money is available to international students. It’s so hard to know how to respond to things like this. I CAN and WILL check into options, but I know the chances are slim. She would need someone to bankroll her, and who’s going to do that? I don’t know. She also needs money to go to Ghana and find Shama, her older daughter. That, by far, seems to me to be the more important and more feasible possibility, but I don’t know how to tell her that, to tell her that college in the States costs some serious money, and coming up with that kind of money isn’t easy. Oh, Lord, the bottom line, though, is that in this, as in all things, YOU have a plan for Florence, and just because I don’t see answers doesn’t mean there isn’t one.
Oh, my word it’s so late. We didn’t even eat dinner until nearly eleven tonight, and then I washed dishes and now I’m doing some writing. Precious is still up. The household makes comments like, “I don’t know when that child will go to bed,” but they haven’t even tried putting her in it yet. I think the idea is that she is just supposed to keel over with exhaustion and they will say, “Oh, now she’s ready.” Ha!
After midnight. In my head I can hear Dave singing that song. Oh, how good it will be to see him!
You know, at times I read back over this and I think, “My word, Jen, were you being dramatic or what? What was the big deal?” My sister’s visit helped me with that perspective. When you think about the hardest things the Lord could take you through, a month away from your husband and kids in a foreign country somehow pales in comparison. But it was how my heart felt at that time, and possibly will again, if the passport process drags on or the visa interview turns into an investigation. Part of it, too, in those early days before she came, was the tension I felt in the house. Florence was not doing well for a time in there, and I assumed, since I can’t understand so much of the language being spoken, that a lot of that strange feeling in the air was due to my presence. Knowing that it’s not so, that they really aren’t stressed about my being here at all, or at least not much, helps a lot. I can just go with the flow. I can say, when all the work is done, “Hey, I’m heading off to work on the computer,” and not worry too much about their thinking I’m being antisocial—I’ve been social all day, and that gives me some down time.
All right, other “stuff.” I’m wondering if my taste buds aren’t getting used to motoke. I seriously didn’t like it last year, the taste or the texture, and I remember how disappointed I was one night when I went through the buffet line and got a large helping of it, thinking it was mashed potatoes. Then, this trip, it felt so heavy in my stomach, and when my gut was upset, the feel of it in my mouth nearly made me gag. Usually I’m able to get a small helping of motoke and then something else (there’s always rice or potatoes as well) and smother the motoke with sauce. And then suddenly, the last two nights, I’ve taken a bite of motoke (I eat it first, to get it over with) and realized, with it halfway down my throat, that it’s not that bad. Maybe even tasty! Wow! If I told Wilfred all this, he would probably suggest we go out for fish and I try the fish head, complete with eyes.
Um, no.
We had that discussion two days ago at lunch. Phillip, Florence and Wilfred got animated talking about how the head is the best part, and the eyes, oh, the eyes! I said this was just going to have to be one of those cultural things where I was just going to have to believe them and let it go at that. There’s a part of me that wonders if that’s wrong, to steer clear from the meat here (just at restaurants; I eat whatever is offered me in homes), but it’s not like I eat a whole lot of meat at home. I’m certainly not missing it, feeling like, “Oh, can’t wait to get a big, fat, juicy piece of chicken Stateside.” No, and I think it’s okay. Part of it is that these are young people. If we went on a hike together, they would be daring each other to jump off of things. So they do the same with me. Oh, well.
You know something I won’t miss (and I can honestly say that I will miss this family)? It’s the “Angel, Angel,” that I hear every morning from Wilfred. Last night Angel was up till nearly one in the morning with Precious, who was just wired. Then she slept with the squirmy little girl. Then she got up at six to set out Wilfred’s breakfast and went back to bed. And at seven, there was Wilfred, standing outside the door, “Angel, Angel,” needing to ask her something or another.
And she stays SO cheerful! Amazing.
Difficult moments this morning. Patrick pooped in the bed, and Vena was angry—and I mean ANGRY! Patrick was crying, and I walked out to see what was the matter, and I could just tell that if I interfered, it would NOT be good. So, even though every maternal nerve in my body thrummed like someone had run a bow across them, I went back out to the living room, sat down and pretended to be unconcerned. When things settled, Patrick came into the living room and found me. I looked at his hand, which he’s still favoring (I started giving him the antibiotic I was hoping to avoid because I’m afraid just a little bit of infection has set in under the skin. The best thing would be to press the wound, get the stuff out and then use an antibiotic cream to penetrate under the skin, but he would totally freak, and Vena would think I was torturing him. So, the antibiotic. Oh, well. The lesser of two negatives.) Looking at his hand was a mistake, because he was already on edge and he started crying. Florence came in and fussed at him for crying, and he cried harder. (African children are only allowed to cry when they are in physical pain, I gather, but do understand that’s my limited observation.) I tried to take him into the bedroom and put on the antibiotic cream, but he wasn’t even having any of that this morning. So I returned to the living room, and watched the news. THESE are the kinds of things that make this difficult. I do not understand what makes African mothers angry. I know what makes me angry—and trust me, that’s something I’ve struggled with my children since they were little. I DO understand the awful motives and feelings that can lead to abuse—but it seems perfectly acceptable for African mothers to grow suddenly angry with their children. Like just now, for instance. Florence is cleaning her nails, and Precious is leaning against her watching. This is all fine until Precious leans a little too far. Florence grows instantly angry, pushed Precious away, and then makes her sit down. Precious cries, and Florence fusses at her for crying. And this is all accepted, perhaps even seen as good, because Vena also fusses at Precious, telling her not to cry and bother her mother.
Two weeks ago, after the tension of the first few days had passed, Florence told me, with this sense of surprise, that she was impressed by how I TEACH Precious and Patrick, how I take the time to show them right behavior, walk them through reconciliation. I don’t mention this to say that I have it all together. I don’t. I even have this idea of writing a book with the title, “Confessions of a Secretly Angry Mother,” that describes the process the Lord is leading me through—of acceptance of motherhood and its frustrations. But I wonder if much of this parenting is leftover from a time when all African women (except the upper, upper class) simply had too, too much to do to really interact with their children. Or is my way of thinking just very Western? Florence says that there are accepted ways for children to act, and when they step outside those boundaries, the consequences are swift and strong. When children do something well, they are praised. But often the children (at least those Patrick’s and Precious’s ages) don’t seem to know the boundaries, and the boundaries seem to be this vague line between what doesn’t annoy the adults and what does, with no warning that the line is approaching. And after writing all of that, I don’t want to imply for a second that these women don’t love their children. They do—their own and others. That’s truly amazing.
I don’t know. There are times I must swallow my Western experience as a 38 year old mother of three and accept that this is temporary. How confused will Patrick be?

Lynda being here was good—on many levels. Good to see her, share things that don’t get shared through emailing. It was also good to learn so much from her, about accepting cultural differences with grace, about being inquisitive in a way that merely expresses interest rather than comparison, about having fun across cultures. Angel opened up even more with her here, and Lynda pushed the envelope on several things I hadn’t been successful at, washing dishes (before I’d been limited to rinsing them), helping with the cooking (and before I’d been limited to carrying things out to the living room, and been disastrous with that with the two broken glasses), and not having to drink African tea all the time (hot milk with a tea bag added, WHOLE milk, and since Lyn’s lactose-intolerant, she was able to say that she really COULDN’T, while all I could say was that it made my stomach feel heavy—and I wasn’t quite bold enough to say that, knowing that milk is more expensive and was probably only being bought because of my presence).
But Lynda also—just her presence and attitude of learning—increased the lessons the Lord has been teaching me about respect and humanity/cultures being equally worthwhile even when they aren’t equal on the world’s playing fields. It’s one of those lessons (and I know I’ve written a lot about this, and for that I apologize, but it’s what I’m heart-learning these days) that I have “known” in my head for a long time. I can spout the right answers. But I’m discovering the sinfulness of my heart in this area as well. It’s one thing to say I truly respect and regard as equal another culture or person in THEORY, but in practice it is a whole different animal. For instance, when I come in from having gallivanted around town with Wilfred, I’m usually tired and want nothing more than to grab my computer and work some (on this or other writing assignments). But Angel is generally peeling potatoes or washing clothes or doing any of the other household chores that seem to fall on her by manner of her being the poorest, youngest woman in the house. I find myself thinking, “Well, Angel can do that. I don’t need to offer to help because I have more important things to be doing, things” (I’m going to be brutally honest here) “that she or Florence are not really able to do and don’t understand.”
It’s a true statement about my horrid pride. And while I asked, often, “What can I do to help?” before Lynda came (and was given a few, very simple jobs they didn’t think a muzungu could mess up), I was urged to greater action by her curiosity regarding their daily tasks because she asked the women about them in ways that honored their work, their lives.
Thank you, Lyn.
Thank you, Lord. You are so patient—and You work through people so amazingly.
Tuesday morning we got up and just visited around the house, getting ready for Lynda’s departure around noon. Angel had wanted to go with us to the airport, but Vena sent her to the market, and she arrived back after we left. Florence went with us instead. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Though Lynda is able to extend more grace to Florence than I sometimes am (it’s like she recognizes the fellow grief of losing a close loved one), there is no doubt that Angel had far more conversation with Lynda than Florence did, and they connected more. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem entirely fair, but I’m assuming that Florence’s status as a widow is higher than Angel’s as an unmarried student. (And just writing that about Florence being a widow reminds me of how little I have experienced of her level of grief.)
The visit to the airport was uneventful, and I was not overcome by intense longings to be leaving myself with Patrick. It still feels like it will be a long ways off. I miss my kids, my husband, but I miss, too, the autonomy of being in my own home, my own place/space, understanding how I fit, what to do/say in most situations. I may also miss amenities like a hot shower, consistent running water, but somehow those don’t really bug me at all. It’s more the not knowing what to do. Last night after we ate dinner, the family sat and spoke Lugandan. I felt that to get my computer or book out would be rude, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. I slipped into the kitchen and washed up the dishes, and then I grabbed my computer and headed to the bedroom. Vena asked, “Aren’t you going to watch The Gardener’s Daughter with me?”
“No,” I told her. “I’m tired tonight and I know it doesn’t come on for another half an hour.”
Okay, not really being allowed to be a mom to Patrick is also bugging me. I gave the antibiotic that the clinic gave us on Sunday (the one that is really more for respiratory illnesses than a skin cut) to Vena to use for Precious, and she said, “Oh, I’ll just give it to Patrick as well.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “That’s an antibiotic, and he really doesn’t need something of that strength. I’d like his body to fight off the little cold he has on its own.”
She gave me the Vena look. “But he has a cough.” (About four times a day, yes, Patrick coughs—we’re talking amoxicillin here, and I generally let my kids suffer through mild earaches, much less a cough, before I let them be put on an antibiotic.)
I tried to explain. She wasn’t happy—I was still getting the squinty eye, the sideways look she has when she doesn’t completely like what you’re saying—but she gave in. Patrick got bandages on his hands instead, which oddly enough makes him very happy. I think he realizes he gets sympathy that way.
Another area of mom struggle—bedtime. Last night, AFTER dinner (I’m not making that mistake again) I got Patrick and Precious ready for bed. But I didn’t put them to bed (big difference). Vena looked at Patrick in his pullup and said, “Oh, no, he can’t go to bed yet.” (It’s nine o’clock at night.)
Now I do need to say that, since Patrick is sleeping in Vena and Wilfred’s room, I can understand her desire to put him to bed at a time when she knows he will fall over with exhaustion and not wake her up all night, but he’s rubbing his eyes, yawning, by this point.
God gave grace, though. “Okay,” I said and started getting ready for bed myself.
Ha! Wilfred was on his and Vena’s bed in the dark watching movies or doing something on his computer. About five minutes later, as I came out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, I noticed Patrick curled up next to Wilfred. The smart little man had taken matters into his own hands.
Wednesday morning, this morning, I was awake around 6:30 (actually before and all through the night, too; I find it hard to sleep well with three other people in the room, especially when one of them is a hacking not-quite-two year old, and I wonder if I’m going to have to whack her on the back at any moment to loosen that nasty phlegm. It must be something you grow up with because Florence and Angel have NO problems, while I’ve somehow turned into a Dave-like sleeper.)
Anyway, I got ready for court and then got Patrick ready. Went out the door when Wilfred announced, “We need to go” in that funny, sudden way he has. When we arrived at the high court Wilfred dropped Patrick and me off and then went to get the car washed because Vena had been bugging him about how dirty it was (pretty understandable since it rained last week and most of the roads are red dirt). I got some hard-boiled eggs from the high court canteen in case I needed them for Patrick and then took him to the bathroom. For some reason I wasn’t as nervous as I was last week, but I’m not sure why.
While Patrick and I were wandering on the grass waiting for Wilfred to return, one of Isaac’s lawyers called me (his name is Job—it’s like I’m doing business with “Characters of the Old Testament” –Isaac’s sister, also a lawyer—is named Esther) and told me I needed to come up to the judge’s chambers because he was in and about to see cases. I got up there and found the other couple from last week with the twins and another Austrian woman with a little girl about the same age as the twins. Fortunately the twin couple had been able to get a second hearing last week, so they, too, were going in for their ruling.
Wilfred arrived a few minutes later, and the great rush turned into the great wait, complete with all of us trying to keep our children quiet because the Africans ranged along the hallway (not Wilfred and the sister from the babies’ home) were shooting us dirty looks. The Austrian lady went in first and then came out sobbing. Her petition had been turned down. The twin couple rushed over to her (they’ve connected several times since they’ve been here in Uganda), and I just sat feeling awful since I hadn’t even spoken two words to her and couldn’t even extend the fake slap-on-the-back commiseration that doesn’t mean a whole lot anyway. Suddenly people were motioning us along the hallway and then ushering us into the judge’s chambers. We sat, confused but silent, and then, just as suddenly, we were being told to leave, that the twin couple was being seen ahead of us (nothing against us, they were just seeing people in the same order as the hearings last week, I gathered). So they were rushed down the hall from the weeping woman, and I had to reach back into the room to grab my bag, even though the judge’s secretary (boy, she’s stern-looking) didn’t look like she wanted to let me.
Then they were out again, and we were in, without my even having a chance to ask them how theirs went (although since I heard the wife say, “Was that good? What happened?” as I passed them, they probably couldn’t have told me anyway). We sat, with that tense, rigid waiting I’m really coming to dislike, and listened as Esther (she was filling in for Isaac today) named me as the petitioner and Patrick as the infant in the case. She really said nothing else—seriously—and the judge began jotting down a couple things on a piece of paper. In that second, I felt a stab of fear—and then the reminder in 2 Corinthians: “All God’s promises are ‘yes’ in Christ Jesus,” and that includes “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Then the judge looked up at us.
“Accepted. Good luck.”
And we were back outside his office.
No one said anything. I looked at Wilfred.
“That was good, right?”
His glance told me he thought so, but was reserving complete judgment.
Esther came out and we followed her to an open space where the twin couple also waited.
“You both got positive decisions,” she told us, and then Wilfred’s face broke into a grin, and we hugged, and I thought, “Oh, my word. He’s actually ours. He’s not home yet, but he’s actually ours!”
Lord, so little fanfare, so little drama. Thank You!
I don’t think it’s hit me, what a big deal this is yet. I’ll be honest, perhaps because I couldn’t think of a good reason for the judge to turn our petition down (we’re blessed to be married, and it’s the first marriage for both of us. We also have children already, so adoption is not some last-choice decision), I don’t think I’m as excited as I should be. I thought, “All right, now we can begin working on the passport, which for some reason is the bigger hurdle in my mind, perhaps because I don’t really understand the process for getting it and it’s the last hurdle that I KNOW OF before applying for the visa that will allow me to take Patrick HOME!
HOME! At the moment, the ache is purely family—the faces of Dave, Em, Jake, and Maddie swim together. THEY mean HOME! I didn’t write this earlier, but Monday morning I woke up from a nightmare in which I’d lost one of the kids. I didn’t know where they were, where I’d left them. I didn’t know which child I’d lost track of, and I woke up in the middle of the dream with a panicky feeling from my gut all the way up to my mouth, like my entire torso couldn’t get oxygen and was screaming for it. I must have made some noise because Lynda woke up beside me (unless she was already awake and struggling with the far-more-difficult loss of Ben—with her sleep habits, that’s entirely possible).
I was having a hard time catching my breath.
“Sorry, Jen,” Lynda murmured.
I got one of those little moments when just the tiniest amount of Lynda and Dan’s sorrow touches me in a way that lets me know I NEVER want to experience that as a parent.
“No, I’m sorry.” I said. “Mine is temporary.”
Still, all throughout the morning, at odd moments I couldn’t predict, panic fluttered up in my chest like a butterfly, exhausted from trying to escape a glass jar, who every once in a while, gains strength to rise and beat its wings against the sides.
Back to this morning—after court. We walked out onto the upper courtyard and Job told Wilfred what to do next. I’m so clueless, and when they describe it to me, I don’t completely understand anyhow, so I generally leave it up to Wilfred. My entire participation usually involves filling out the paperwork and handing over the money anyway. It’s not like I really need to understand.
After talking with Job, we descended the last flight of steps and walked through the gate and out onto the street—where Abusolom waited for us.
Interesting! I wondered how long he’d been there. Was he miffed that we hadn’t asked him to come to court this morning? He really wasn’t supposed to be there—and it would have been strange for him to be. “Here’s the biological father, checking to make sure the adoption of the son he didn’t even know he had until a few months ago (and who almost died because of his lack of too-much interest) goes through. Seems like he’s wanting something from it.” He is, of course, but not for himself, for the other boys. I can certainly appreciate that, but at that moment, outside the court gate’s, my pride, ugly in its sense of self-entitlement, reared its head.
“Why does he have to show up here? Now? He’s probably going to ask me for something else, going to imply that this new bond means he can make me feel guilted into continually giving him things. And it’s not just him. In this society, just because I’m white, anyone could walk up to me and ask me for money. I’m so ready to be home.”
Ugly, I know, but I don’t want to whitewash how I was feeling at that moment. It’s untrue as well—I’m not exactly mobbed on the streets by people who know that, just because I’m a muzungu visiting their country, I DO have more money than they may have ever seen in their lives. My pious self was delivering a lecture. “Jennifer, the Lord just answered prayer in that courtroom. He just did a great thing for you, and here you are being ungrateful, superior and ugly.”
Too true. I was. I am much of the time.
And I am so, so, so, so thankful that my God’s love for me does not depend on my being loveable. Because when I compare myself to Angel, I KNOW that my gratitude, my servant heart, my joy—they all pale in comparison, and if God’s grading on a curve, I’ve flunked.
And I am also so, so thankful that I don’t have to pretend, to bend my head under the lash of my piety’s tongue and pretend to feel thankful when I am not. No, the grace of God, extended to me in all of Christ’s full redemptive work, will even accomplish that. HE is the one who reveals to me my ingratitude, and all He wants me to do is to cry out my helplessness. “Oh, Lord, I see it, but I am helpless to stir up or create the gratitude I know I should have. In this, as in all things, I must throw myself on Your mercy, for anything I produce will stink in its falseness.”
Ah! So Abusolom congratulated me, wanted to know what the next steps were and then wished me “success” (which always catches me off guard because when the Ugandans say it, it really sounds as if they are saying “sexes,” and I know my first look, before my brain processes the word, is one of blank, ‘What did you just say to me?’) Really, how would you look if a fifty-year-old Ugandan man said, “I wish you sexes?”
Then Abusolum talked with Wilfred for a while, and then Wilfred asked me if I had 20,000 to give to Abusolom. I didn’t (I did have a 50,000, but I wasn’t sure if Wilfred wanted me giving him that much), just a 10,000 and a 5,000 and some coins. So I gave him all that, which probably ended up being around 19,000 and the coins were probably good because they gave him transport money, and he told me “Thank you,” and left.
Then Wilfred told me that they had no food at home (Abusolom’s oldest son had an accident and is unable to work right now), and I wished I’d given them the 50. I’ll be able to give them more this weekend.
The wire transfer that Dave sent has still not come, and I’m not sure what to do about that. Wilfred seems very nervous about it, and I’m not sure if he’s just afraid it won’t come in time (I’m starting to wonder that as well) or if he desperately needs money for something else right now and was hoping to “rob Peter to pay Paul,” as my sister said, and find the money for the lawyer later from someone else.
I don’t know. (I wonder how many times I’ve thought that since I arrived here.)
I’m pretty well caught up to this present moment. After seeing Abusolom and getting Wilfred some lunch and his car from being washed, we dropped Patrick off at the house, got dollars to exchange, went back downtown and exchanged them, and then Wilfred dropped me back off at the house on his way to meet with “people” who supposedly will do what we need them to do if we pay them enough money. Who knows, but my brain cannot get used to a place where the price is always bargained, and nothing seems to be for free (other than Wilfred’s care for the kids—he’s so passionate about that he will pull all kinds of strings to get them school fees, food, medical visits, etc. I’ve been used for that since I’ve gotten here, but we kind of knew we would—and what better use for that money? If I weren’t paying for those things, I’d be giving it to Wilfred simply to pay him for all he’s doing, and then he’d be doing the same things with it. He’s just letting me play the role of philanthropist, which is really funny when you consider that my child is on reduced-price lunches at the public school at home.)
So I came home to be with Angel and Florence. We ate lunch, Florence left for a meeting, and Angel and I put the kids to bed. Then we went down the hill to fetch water (water from the tap is currently gone), and I managed one medium-sized and two smaller-sized jerry cans while Angel carried a giant one on her head and a smaller-sized one in her hand. The whole balancing-on-the-head thing is amazing! I haven’t tried it because I suspect it’s one of those things you HAVE to learn in childhood or it doesn’t stick. Plus, I figure, what’s the use of my spilling a jerry can full of effort-produced water. Have I written that we are generally the only adults getting water? It’s a whole lot of little kids—and us. Those kids build their muscles early, carrying a full jerry can in each hand up the hill from the water spigots. I suspect most of them come from homes where there is never running water, so they are doing this every day, not just when the water’s off, like in my and Angel’s case.
It’s funny, when the water is out, I conserve it even more than usual, giving myself spit baths and holding off on washing clothes, but the Africans don’t seem to. Angel still washed clothes this morning and heated water for her bath and the kids. I’m in what my Southern-lady upbringing calls a “glistening” state—close to sweating, while she and the others keep calling this weather “cold” and shiver at the thought of taking a cold bath.
Dave and Jody have both tried to call me, but the network is funny right now. The call connects, but I can’t hear anything on their end, and I shout louder and louder, thinking that somehow that will make a difference. So neither of them knows that the court ruling was in our favor this morning, that we are legal guardians of the boy we’ve been thinking of as our son for nearly a year now.

Sunday morning—oh, how I wish I could take this back. Lyn and I got ready for church and then waited as everyone else did. I went into the bathroom because I needed to use it before we left. Patrick followed me in and I scooted him out the door before closing it. No sound, and then I heard Florence’s voice, “Open! Open!” with that frantic note to it (I still feel this awful feeling in my stomach as I write this). The fingers of Patrick’s right hand were caught in the hinge side of the door. Oh, he cried (that no-noise at first was the catching of his breath at great pain) and I held him and walked and looked at his smushed fingers and wanted to cry myself, feeling like a great, clumsy muzungu, the bad mother—the one who didn’t deserve to be a mother to this little boy.

After a while Wilfred came back with the car. We loaded in, all eight of us, and went to church. Patrick still cried and snotted all over me. I couldn’t get him to settle. By this point, Lynda had called Dan, who was at church himself and actually able to speak with an orthopedic surgeon who said we could x-ray, but even if it were broken between the joints (thank You, Lord, it was obviously NOT in the joint itself), all they would do at age three would be to splint it for a couple of days.

Vena thought we were downplaying the severity, acting as if it were not serious, so Lyn and I knew we were between a rock and hard place. How to acknowledge that Patrick was in serious pain—no doubt about that—but to convey that a trip downtown to x-ray his fingers was not only unnecessary but would cause greater trauma to him? Both Lyn and I were almost willing just to do it anyway to prove that I, his adoptive mother, had his best interests at heart. So much at stake here—and very sticky how to circumnavigate it.

God amazingly worked things out. At church, everyone but Lyn, Patrick, and I got out and went into church. Wilfred had responsibilities, so he asked Philip’s younger brother Huntington to take us downtown. Here’s where it gets good. First, Wilfred said, though, we would need to pick up Teddy, a girl from Mercy, from the school where she’d been staying and take her to the clinic (local—really just a nurse’s station) and get her treated for a fever she’d been having (with the understanding that we would pay for her treatment, of course). We said that was fine. By this point Patrick had settled down, sad and whimpering on my lap but not sobbing or distraught. Lynda and I just needed to see him close his hand part way (bending both joints in the fingers ) to know that it wasn’t broken. By the time we picked up Teddy and arrived at the clinic, he was doing it, so we were able to take him into the clinic, have the nurse look at him (not that she was nearly as knowledgeable as Lynda, but we had appearances to keep up) and get some medicine for him. Of course, the nurse prescribed an oral antibiotic (for slightly cut fingers) and Lynda and I are shooting slight glances at each other, saying without words that it makes no sense to put the entire body on antibiotics when only the fingers need it. Oh, well.

So we were able to tell Huntington we did not need to go downtown and we were able to go straight out to Mercy to deliver Teddy—and then we stayed there because Wilfred had asked Lynda and I to work with some of the kids who had homework to do over holiday. By the end of our time there Patrick was playing with Sallee and showing his hand to everyone for sympathy. Our biggest worry at that point was infection to the actual cuts on his fingers because the skin had flapped up and then fastened down again, probably trapping some dirt underneath it. If it were my other kids I would have forced them to clean their hands with soap and water, but Vena would have thought I was WANTING to cause Patrick greater pain, so I had to be careful with that. So I’ve treated Patrick with salt-water soaks and antibiotic ointment and bandaids, and he thinks he’s pretty cool with his little bandaged fingers. Some swelling still, but definite progress, and no sign of infection. Thank You, Lord.

While we were at Mercy, though, Lynda’s money was stolen out of her purse. It was partly our own fault for putting temptation in the way of kids who have formerly been on the streets, grabbing whatever they can for their survival. When we first arrived, we discovered they didn’t have pencils and the children needed them for their booklets, so Lynda pulled out her billfold to get money for Michael (one of the 19-year-olds who lives there) to go to one of the barristas (little shops) to get some. She had to pull out a wad of money to get the thousand shillings needed, and probably half the kids saw her wad.

Then we started working, but it was so loud with all the kids in the front dining room that Moses (the boy I was working with) pulled me to the back dining room, in one of the back buildings. I left my bag in the room with Lynda. I gave it a quick thought, but thought, “Oh, she’s in there. It will be all right.”

Later, after the poor kids had been working for three hours (and, oh, those booklets are SO not helpful—far above the children’s learning levels and not learning-focused at all—just evaluation—and what they evaluated, the kids didn’t know, so I’m not sure WHAT the point was), Lynda came back to find me in the back, and our bags were left unsupervised in the front. When Lynda and I picked them up about a half hour later, her money was gone.

What an awful feeling. It wasn’t violation, it was, “Oh, what have we done to one of these kids?” I knew we had to tell Wilfred; these are his kids—he cares about their spiritual state—about their growth. When he called me a few minutes later, I told him. He asked to speak to Delores (one the girl leaders) and then big Moses (who isn’t BIG at all at around 5 feel, 120 pounds, but since he’s twenty-three and not ten like little Moses, he gets the “big” title).

Here’s what’s amazing. When Wilfred arrived, he disappeared for maybe three minutes, and then came out. “We need to go,” he said cheerfully. We thought he assumed that there was no way he was going to get that money back, so he wasn’t even going to try. (We didn’t think there was much of a chance, either).

The next day, however, Wilfred disappeared in the morning, and then came back around lunchtime with the full wad of Lynda’s Ugandan shillings—the currency we were most certain we WOULDN”T see again. The Kenyan shillings and fifty dollar bill still haven’t shown up, but Wilfred’s wisdom and restraint (on Sunday he told the children he was very disappointed and would be out the next morning to talk with them) made the guilty one think and feel sad—and confession resulted.

We ate a late dinner at home Sunday evening, cleaning Patrick’s hand and washing up the dishes, and then we went to bed.

Monday we hung out around the house—which is far more enjoyable when I have Lynda around—someone who will speak English exclusively with me, no Lugandan asides, plus, she’s my sister, and we get along well. Then we went downtown with Philip because he needed to send some emails to Moody Bible Institute (where he’s hoping to attend next year) and it’s so hard to get things done at an internet café (I generally get one email sent every thirty minutes in one). We took taxis to Speke Hotel and relaxed outside while first I and then Philip did some work on the computer. So nice—part of me feels guilty enjoying anonymity and luxury so much, but I don’t think that’s the way God wants to me feel. But I’m not certain, because when you drink a cappuccino (oh, that was SO good!) and know that round the corner is a street child begging for money to buy bread, it makes you think. Oh, Lord, so many things we don’t have answered down here. So many ways our flesh interferes—and our guilt complex as well. I don’t want to make “going without” a more spiritual way of being simply because it requires some self discipline or it just sounds like it would be. Quite truthfully, if my “going without” is a result of my trying to be pious or earn some kind of respect and love from you, then that stinks in Your nostrils just as much as the glutton who ignores the street children every day and eats steak while they watch. As usual, I cannot reduce this to a formula, a mantra. Following You requires one footstep to follow another, and though the way is narrow (after all, I can only follow YOU, not anyone else), it is not a straight line that I can predict. I suspect You want me to ask You in all situations if You want me to give/not give, indulge/go without.

Lynda and I were talking about that verse in which Paul says he had learned contentment in ALL situations—in plenty and in want. I am not in want—never have been truthfully (except in great need of help—and that just possibly counts)—but I do not think I have learned how to be content and not GUILTY in plenty. I always feel bad that I have and others do not. Yet what I have has come straight from Your hands. Thankfulness FIRST, I think, and perhaps the right attitude toward giving in all situations becomes clearer.

My computer’s battery died while Philip was writing his last email (I really should have taken the power cord), so we went to an internet café so he could finish up. Lynda and I walked while we waited (and the straight exercise felt so good—I’ve missed running here, but in the area where I’m living, a muzungu just walking is a strange sight—a female muzungu in shorts and a tank top running might just bring shame to Vena and Wilfred in the neighborhood.)

We ran into street children, of course, and I determined that the next time I walk downtown I’m buying some bread and passing it out. Of course, I might get mobbed. Who knows? AAAH

We also found a little supermarket and bought two loaves of sweet bread for the house (we almost got salt bread, but the checkout clerk warned us—Angel told us later that’s for diabetics, who knew? It actually looks more like a regular, homemade loaf of bread than the “sweet” bread, which does have a hint of sugar taste to it. We also got toilet paper because I hate running out at home, and I’ve found my attitude hasn’t changed here. Side note: I find that I (trying to be conscious of limited resources here) actually use less water and toilet paper than Vena does. I pull two squares to wipe my butt, and she pulls off six to blow Precious’s nose. Strange. I’m also never sure when to flush—how much ARE they paying for running water? I don’t know.

By the time Philip was finished in the café, it was almost dark, and we really shouldn’t have still been downtown. Lynda and I could tell Philip was getting a bit anxious, as we walked through crazily crowded streets and sidewalks to try and find a taxi headed up toward Nansana. Dave called me as I walked, and Lyn walked behind me as I carried that huge black laptop backpack and talked on the phone, sure that at any moment someone was going to snatch it from out of my hand. People and cars go so many different directions; it’s not like Chicago where pretty much everyone is going the same way—the sidewalk almost has lanes, and you catch on to them pretty quickly. Not in Kampala. Bodies everywhere. It really is an ideal place for a pickpocket. You get used to the feel of flesh brushing against you as you walk, bodies bumping into you. I don’t think I would know if it was a person actually trying to lift something from my pocket or backpack.

I finally turned the backpack around and we wound our way through street vendors finally to reach the line of taxis. But then we couldn’t find a taxi headed to Nasana. We settled for one going about halfway, and then we boarded bodas (Philip and Lyn on one; I on another) to finish the journey. They took us all the way to the house—my first experience riding a boda at night; not too bad—and then didn’t want as much money as we offered them, actually gave some back. Amazing!

The church small group that meets at Wilfred and Vena’s house on Monday nights was almost over, so we slipped in the back and Philip joined them for the last few minutes (I get the feeling he really is supposed to be there) while Lyn and I hung out with Angel in the kitchen.

After everyone left we had dinner, which I was actually hungry for. Then I cleaned Patrick’s fingers and went to bed. Precious coughed (a bad one) for a long time, and then we got some sleep.

Speaking of sleep, my eyelids are beginning to close right now. I’ll write more tomorrow.

I am now writing on one of the couches out in the living room, and my sister is curled up asleep next to me. We picked her up at the airport in Entebbe this morning. As we got there, I pushed away images from my mind of arriving there, ready to depart and head to my family. Not yet.

But she’s here, and it’s good to be able to talk with her. I’m not sure where she’s staying, probably here since it’s a little tricky getting a guesthouse when Vena has offered a bed here. Lyn is such a good sounding board about African vs. American things. And she’s so comfortable with all the cultural differences that it helps me to be completely at ease as well. It’s interesting to find out how much I’ve learned in my two weeks here. Not so much about getting around, but lots about the family and the ins-and-outs of this particular household. That’s cool.

All for now.

It is now Monday morning. So much happened this weekend, but is has been very good having Lynda here. She reminds me to give grace with differences, to be honest about them and not evasive, to not pretend that everything is okay or that I understand. I’ve been learning so much, and she has speeded up my learning curve, and helped me to continue to learn the lessons the Lord has for me—that cultural differences do not create superiority (a head lesson that has to also be learned by the heart—and all the senses: eyes, ears, nose, touch.) To be gracious and compassionate, to be more and more like You, Lord. Thank you.

Okay, so Saturday we just stayed at the house and watched a lot of bad television with Vena—talking during most of it, but being oddly fascinated at the same time. Nigerian television is interesting—and so big they are now calling it Nollywood (India  has their Bali wood—funny). Much of it has a moral lesson of one kind or another, and you learn much about culture from watching it. People here still have strong beliefs in spirits, and they will often turn to a witch doctor or “spiritualist” (considered less “evil” by those at least nominally committed to Christianity) for a charm or healing or get-rich-quick spell. The movies show this, and also show the deep-seated cultures that resist education and globalization. It’s a true representation, though. Wilfred was just telling me about a well-educated and travelled medical doctor who still visits a witch doctor. Vena tells me that when a building is built, there is traditionally a sacrifice required, and the bigger the building project, the bigger the sacrifice required. So for several of the tall buildings downtown, a child sacrifice was probably required, a street child snatched for that purpose, or a small baby taken from a poorer neighborhood. It would be so easy to do. I watch at church as the children run all over the neighborhood with each other as the adults sit in the service, and I wonder which of the men living in which house is a child molester? Culturally, I resist pointing the finger. This is the African way, and generally the village as a whole DOES take care of the children, but the exceptions exist, and they seem to exist more and more (or maybe they always have and I am just assuming it’s increasing because I am learning more and more of it). I wonder if there is some elaborate plan of childcare that I am just unaware of. Vena does not seem to be concerned about where Patrick is (so I must act as if I, too, am unconcerned), but when Wilfred wants him to be brought to the front of the church, he is there within a minute, carried by some girl around the age of 11 or 12.

It is so easy to judge what you don’t understand, and in my humanness, I don’t even realize I do it sometimes. I must rely (I sure hope I’m learning to do this more and more) on the Holy Spirit to reveal that to me. I’m very good at hiding my sin nature, my pettiness, and my pride from myself—or at even disguising it as something good.

So, back to Saturday. No U.S. soap operas, but several Latino ones (I’m assuming Mexican , but I may be wrong) that have some very un-U.S. American twists. For instance, in Second Chance (and I’m confused by that English title, because the Spanish equivalent doesn’t translate to that. Oh, well.) the household of Don Pedro is filled with controversy and scheming because the honorable Don Pedro has died, leaving a loving daughter, a scheming, unfaithful second wife, and the trusted young worker (who just happened to be having sex with the wife). Here’s the strange twist. Don Pedro reincarnates as a gorgeous hunk with secret, brooding eyes who gets a job in the household as the chauffer. He then tries to influence things so that the daughter is taken care of and the wife and her lover do not get their way and take over his company.

I write all of that because I’m a bit amazed that I’ve been watching it (and actually following the plot lines) and because I think it’s funny that Mexican soap operas are airing in Africa. Anyway, Lynda and I watched with Vena Saturday afternoon and evening—and then with everyone else as they got home—and then escaped to the kitchen when it got a bit steamy—the show, not the household. We had an interesting discussion about that. In the States, conservative Christianity would say that Wilfred and Vena were not very strong believers because they watch stuff that we might say is questionable. But their entire lifestyle is built around helping orphans and people poorer than themselves. Seems to me they have their priorities in better order than I do.

At the same time that I want my kids to miss me (what mother doesn’t want to be missed?) I am so thankful they are doing well. Thank You, Lord, for the assurance they have that “Mommy will come back—with Patrick” without the sense that it’s taking too long (although next week when I’m not back for Em’s Kansas concert, I think it will really hit home for her.)

This morning I washed clothes African-style. They use a blue soap for pretty much all washing. It comes in a long bar that they cut up into smaller pieces. Three tubs filled with water (the same ones we use for bathing; they’re about the size of a cat litter pan, but round, and about as deep), you wash in one, rubbing the blue soap into the “dirty” portions of the clothes (armpits and neck for shirts), and then scrubbing them across the thumb portion of your hand. Then you wring them out, and plop them into the middle tub, where you swish them to get most of the soap out and then wring again. Then it’s into the last tub for the final rinsing, then the wringing and onto the line. As the water gets soapier or dirtier, it either gets thrown out or recycled to become a different part of the process.

So now all my clothes are clean. Good thing since I was down to my last pair of pants. My favorite pair—favorite because they’re very light and dry lickety split—somehow got a hole in them (just a small one), but since I’m without the capabilities of stitching it up here, I had to improvise and use a bandaid. It will work so that I can wear them as well as serve to keep the hole from expanding.

The only difficulty of being alone much of today is that I don’t know the system. Kidney beans were left simmering on the charcoal cooking fire, but I wasn’t sure if they were just being boiled or cooked till they were paste (I let them get between the two and then took them off). Florence assumed Angel would be back sooner; Angel probably assumed Florence would be here till later. When Florence left, I asked her, “What should I feed the kids?”

“There’s porridge in the black thermos,” she answered. “And then Angel will be back to fix lunch.” (Lunch is around 2 here). But Angel returned around six, so I had to punt, feeding the kids beans and water and going without myself (which is fine since my stomach’s still recovering from earlier this week.) There is food in the house (pineapple in the fridge, leftover potatoes in a pot on the counter, beans in a bag), but I am limited in my ability to cook and I don’t know what is being saved for dinner or the next day. It is partly my outside culture looking in, but it seems to me the Africans act as if there is ONE right way to do things (washing clothes for instance). I’m sure there isn’t, there must be as many variations as there are for sorting clothes in the States for instance, but whatever way I am doing things does not seem to be one of the variations. I am just doing it WRONG!

When Angel got back this evening, she fed the kids more porridge, and then we walked up the hill to get Rolexes (eggs fried with green pepper, onions, and salt and wrapped up in a wheat tortilla-type thing).  Each one was about 700 shillings, the equivalent of about 75 cents. Then we got a small pumpkin and a good-sized pineapple (each about 75 cents as well). As we walked back down the hill, I asked Angel how much mangoes are.

“About 300 shillings each,” she said. “How much are they in the States?”

“Much, much more,” I answered. Much, much more—besides not being nearly as good as the mango I’ve eaten here in Uganda.

As we walked up the hill, I looked back over my shoulder at the rolling hills of Uganda. They are beautiful, lushly green, with handmade red-brick homes dotting the sides. I wonder if those more isolated, country homes have as much trash surrounding them as the ones I walk past right now. I remember last year that our trip to Masaka was such a breath of fresh air, a contrast to the slums and crowded conditions of Kampala. Yet Masaka is still called by many the birthplace of AIDS, and I have photos I took of family graves there—two big and a varying range of medium to small to tiny—signifying that entire families died of the pandemic all about the same time.

At this moment the battery-charged computer provides the only light. The electricity shut off a few minutes ago. Who knows when it will be back on, but it seems to return more quickly than running water does when it goes out. I will sign off now to save some battery for later, since I do not know when I will be able to recharge.

It is Friday morning, January 22, 2009. I have been in Africa for a little more than 11 days, gone from my family for almost 13. I must face the truth. I will not be heading home for another two weeks.

Oh, Lord, that’s hard to write. But here are the facts: 1. our court ruling is not until next Wednesday (Oh, Lord, I need Your help with gratitude—I so with it could have been today—please remind me of the couple whose hearing was postponed—and then they must wait on their ruling as well); 2. We cannot apply for Patrick’s passport until after the court ruling (I SO do not understand that, except that the idea is that the child will not need a passport if he is NOT going to be adopted and leaving the country); 3. We cannot apply for a visa interview until we have EVERYTHING (including that stupid passport) in hand; 4. When our visa interview is scheduled, we must wait for the U.S. Embassy’s ruling on THAT.

Two weeks.

I cannot do it.

I feel trapped, surrounded, held back by people who do not want my good, hampered by those who see only the present and not the future. I have a scream inside of me, tears inside of me, that want to come out SO badly, but there is nowhere for me to cry, nowhere for me to scream.

Nowhere for me to turn but YOU.

And I think that is exactly what you want.

I am finding that I cannot do my usual Bible study right now, exploring the Word for depth, asking for new truth to be revealed to me. I can only read the Psalms or one verse at a time—and cry out to you along with the words on the page. This morning I turned to Psalm 40—not by design. Now before I type it, I want to be clear that I completely understand that my situation pales in comparison to so many others, that just around the corner here in Africa are people whose lives are in true despair. But to my Lord, who knows my heart, who sees the complete depths of my weaknesses, I CAN read Psalm 40. MY additions are in parentheses.

I waited patiently for the Lord (oh, not so patiently); he turned to me and heard my cry. (I will believe that You hear my cry; that You do not EVER turn a deaf ear to me). He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and the mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand (that describes so clearly what I need. I feel like everything under me is uncertain, and I slip constantly).

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord (oh, my God, I cannot say that this is my greatest desire right now—that’s to be home with my family—but I DO want to be faithful, I DO want to show Your faithfulness, Your intimacy through this journey, and it IS my desire that others would come to know You in this personal, amazing way You want.)

Blessed is the man (woman) who makes the Lord his (her) trust, (oh, help me to trust You. Please. I waver so much), who does not look to the proud, to those who turn aside to false gods (money! I must not put my trust in these people who want money to accomplish the job they are supposed to be doing). Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders You have done. The things you planned for us no one can recount to You; were I to speak and tell of them, they would be too many to declare. (This is SO true—from the beginning of this process to even further back—going to Grace College, meeting Dave, the ways You have led us through our 17+ years of marriage—You have done amazing things).

Sacrifice and offering you did not desire (keep me from the pride of believing that Your acceptance of me is based on MY actions, MY “piety”; teach me that it is in CHRIST I stand—and You completely accept me because of YOUR sacrifice; my own will not increase Your love and care for me—that has been done for me. What an amazing thought!)

BUT MY EARS YOU HAVE PIERCED! (that exclamation mark is my own. I know the picture this presents—the faithful slave, given his freedom to leave, instead chooses willingly to stay, out of a desire to be close to his master, to know the master better and better—and so has his ear pierced by the master as a sign to show his willing choice to others. This choice to be close to YOU—that is what You want from me. You continue to put me in situations where I must cling to YOU—you pierce my ear).

Burnt offering and sin offerings you did not require. Then I said, “Here I am, I have come—it is written about me in the scroll (I don’t know about a scroll, but I DO believe that You have plans for me, Lord, plans that “work together for the good of those who love the Lord.”) I desire to do Your will, Oh my God; Your law is within my heart. I proclaim righteousness in the great assembly; I do not seal my lips, as You know, Oh Lord (oh, that is not true. There are many times I have failed to proclaim You to others. Forgive me for my lack of pride in You!) I do not hide Your righteousness in my heart; I speak of Your faithfulness and salvation. I do not conceal your love and Your truth from the great assembly.

Do not withhold Your mercy from me, O Lord; may Your love and Your truth always protect me. For troubles without number surround me; my sins have overtaken me, and I cannot see. They are more than the hairs of my head, and my heart fails within me (so true—the unfaithfulness and doubting of my heart rise up, my failing to acknowledge that Your plan is BEST and GOOD—my sin, oh God, is constant).

Be pleased, O Lord, to save me (THANK GOD Your love for me is not affected by MY unfaithfulness. You ALWAYS remain faithful to Your promises to me). O Lord, come quickly to help me.

May all who seek to take my life be put to shame and confusion; may all who desire my ruin be turned back in disgrace (I know this isn’t true of those delaying my departure, but it sure feels like it sometimes). May those who say to me, “Aha! Aha!” be appalled at their own shame.

BUT MAY ALL WHO SEEK YOU REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN YOU; MAY THOSE WHO LOVE YOUR SALVATION ALWAYS SAY, “THE LORD BE EXALTED!”

(And now the return to the inconstant, wavering state of the human heart—thank you for your honesty, psalm writer David). Yet I am poor and needy; may the Lord think of me. (That is my only hope.) You are my help and my deliverer;

OH MY GOD, DO NOT DELAY!

Psalm 40

It is later in the same day that I typed out Psalm 40 and rejoiced in the amazing truth that Scripture is real and alive and applicable to every situation of our lives. The Lord has given me so much this day:

PERSPECTIVE: Yes, I am separated from my family, but I have food, shelter, the real hope of being reunited with my loved ones in the not-too-far-distant future. I am with people who are truly amazing in their caring of others and in their care of me. The culture may be different, and I may feel strange and under some wild expectations as times, but I am blessed to be here. (This doesn’t change the truth that I know I will be in despair again sometime soon, but for the moment, the Lord has given me this different, better vision.)

RESPITE: One of the things I have found hard the past couple of weeks is the lack of being alone. Everywhere I go, I am with someone. And when Dave calls me—it’s like I’ve asked for an audience. I can take the phone into another room, close the door, turn off the light, yet within seconds someone is there, sitting down, sometimes not even with a real reason to need to be in the room. I don’t get it, but it means that we literally have not had a conversation with him when I’ve been able to completely speak my heart. Well, that didn’t change today, because Dave hasn’t called yet and I have no minutes on my phone to call him and tell him I’m alone (somehow the 5,000 Ugandan shillings I had on my phone yesterday disappeared when a couple of people in the house asked to make a “couple” of phone calls) but Vena stayed somewhere last night, helping someone with a graduation party; Wilfred left this morning for whatever he does when he’s not helping me (probably paying kids’ school fees); Angel left mid-morning to pay school fees and whatever; and Florence left about one to work with Michelle Pagieu (she’s the Ugandan Orphans Relief Fund sponsorship coordinator, and she’s here on her ten-day trip to check on the orphans and deliver the sponsorship letters). So I have been alone with Patrick and Precious most of the afternoon. I’ve written a lot, read some, cared for the kids, and enjoyed having no one look over my shoulder as if I’m doing it wrong or strangely.  Good to be alone.

FOCUS: I’ve spent so much time writing about this journey that I’ve neglected the book I’m writing, in part because the electrical current here is funny and I can only write when my laptop is charged, unplugged and running off the battery (hence, limited in its time span). But I spent some time today adjusting my settings and getting more life out of my battery’s charge, so that should help that issue. The main thing the Lord gave me today is a desire to use this down time to work on the book, to finish it possibly (if you’re reading this and thinking that’s a fairly ambitious goal, you need to know that I’ve been working on this thing steadily for over three years, and it’s several hundred pages long AND when I write “finished,” I DON’T mean revised and edited, just “all the scenes down on paper.”) It’s funny, I thought of this while I was back in the States, waiting for a court date, but then that faded in the hustle of getting ready and everything else. But now I will probably have more down time like I had today, and the Lord was good to give me the desire again. So good. A focus other than waiting on court dates and passports and visa interviews is GOOD—since none of those things are in my control anyway. And I am not to trust in princes, but in my God.