In the car on the way to take Abusolom home, I suddenly missed Emily, Jake, and Maddie so bad I thought that tears were going to start pouring out of my ears if I tried to swallow them down again. Oh, God, it is like a throbbing ache from my throat down to the pit of my stomach. It made me think of Florence, who has not seen her five-year-old Shama for over a year now. My Lord, I cannot imagine. I spoke with her about this when I returned home. She said it was good to talk to someone, that she felt I understood more than anyone else she’d spoken with about it—and I realized I DIDN’T really understand. Yes, the indefiniteness of this frightens me, makes me long for them differently than on trips when my return date is set, but to not see them for more than a YEAR—with no way to get to them! My Lord!

Just a few minutes ago a roach that I swear was a full two inches long just crawled across the floor of the bedroom. Yuck! Oh, another wild moment. In the car this morning, on the way to pick Abusolom up from his oldest son’s house, the radio was on. I was tuning it out, because it was all in Lugandan and the music was bee-boppy, when suddenly, in the middle of a song completely in Lugandan, I heard, “Ba-rack O-ba-ma. Ba-rack O-ba-ma!” It was a song about his inauguration the night before. Strange how excited they are about that here—because he is part African? Perhaps. Because it represents something they do not have, in truth something that is SO unfathomable to them they cannot imagine ever having it—a government that is constrained enough that one person does not stay in absolute power forever? I’m not sure, but I even saw a bumper sticker today that read: “A Ugandan for Obama.”

My sister called me on the way home yesterday, telling me that she’s flying from Nairobi to Uganda to see me this Saturday. That means so much I’m not even sure I can completely imagine it, maybe because if I do it won’t quite meet up to my expectations, or, maybe, like the return date that feels like it will never come, I’m afraid it will get postponed if I get too excited. I wonder if I could stay in the guesthouse for one of the nights with her—Patrick, too, maybe? That would be so awesome. I sound like a teenager wondering if she’s going to get asked to prom.

Woke up weak this morning. I’m not sure what I should eat, can eat, how much to eat. To be honest, I’m almost never HUNGRY. Either I’m a little stressed because we’re about to have a meeting or a court date (I think of it as involuntary fasting–“Okay, Lord, I can’t seem to eat, and I don’t want to worry—so I’ll pray”), or I’m hot–which doesn’t make me want to eat—or my stomach and gut are unhappy—which is much of the time lately. Thank God for Cipro. I wouldn’t mind not eating much, but it sometimes is an issue with my African friends. They took me to what they think of as an “American” kind of restaurant (one where a lot of muzungus eat that’s more expensive) yesterday, but the food was so heavy that I only ate half of my meal and took the rest home for someone else. Then, today, we went to a restaurant THEY would eat at (African food and cheap prices), and they fussed at me because I couldn’t eat all the food on my plate. “We are too concerned with the price we have paid to leave any on our plate,” Wilfred and Philip said. I understand that, but I can’t eat what my stomach won’t accept. They want to know why I eat very little meat. I tell them I don’t eat a whole lot of meat in the United States, that sometimes it upsets my stomach. “How about the intestines?” Wilfred asks. I shake my head. That would have me camping out permanently in the bathroom.

Enough about non-essentials, personal stuff. Yesterday it rained, hard, and the red water ran like raging rivers along the sides of the streets, and sometimes across them. This morning as I headed to the Surgery for Patrick’s second doctor appointment, I saw an entire settlement of houses with water three feet up their walls. Where are those people living until the water recedes? What has happened to the few things they have?

This morning. Patrick had his physical checkup (the one that he either passes or doesn’t that gets sent to the Embassy—big stuff!) at 8 a.m. At 7:15 we went to get in the car, but it wouldn’t start. So Wilfred and I trekked up the hill with Patrick, where he explained to a boda driver where I was going. Then Patrick and I climbed on (bodas are mopeds or motorcycles) and we were off. The last time I was in Africa I refused to ride one, and I came to Africa this time thinking I could do the same. NOT an option for all the places we have to go. I’ve gotten all right with it. I employ Patrick’s method. I do not look ahead at what the boda driver sees. Far too frightening. That’s how young Rachel Tendo from the kids’ home died a few months back. She got scared about an approaching bus, jumped off the boda to avoid it, and was hit by another vehicle. No, instead I place trust in the driver and watch the road surface (to know when bumps are coming) and the side scenery. I also place one arm firmly around Patrick and grip the seat back with the other hand, flexing my fingers every so once in a while so they don’t get cramped and unable to really grip. I try not to think of what I am doing, taking a child on a motorcycle, neither of us with helmets, and weaving in and out of traffic, on and off sidewalks, crossing traffic with no pattern that I can discern. I do the same when we take Patrick in the car and he stands in the front seat, no seatbelt, hanging on to the doorframe and looking out. “What would happen if Wilfred had to stop suddenly?” I think. And then I don’t answer myself.

So Patrick and I rode the boda all the way to the surgery—long way, and the driver got lost once and I was of no help to him, since I really don’t watch where we’re going when Wilfred drives (for reasons stated above). Finally, though, I realized we were on the road. “There it is!” And he took us across the street (hallelujah—not a street I would have wanted to cross on foot—four lanes of traffic) and I paid him extra for his troubles. On the ride there I had been concerned with the time (after the trouble with the car, we were late), with the price (what if we were charged again for this visit—did I still have enough money?), and with the checkup itself (what if the doctor didn’t clear him?). Definitely things that took my mind off the inherent dangers of the boda ride itself, but still worry. “Oh, Lord,” I murmured to Him at one point, “help me to remember this is all in Your plans, and I myself—with Patrick, too—are in Your loving hands. This is not completely working out the way I would have wanted—because I would be ready to head home now or early next week—but it is Your plan. Help me to trust—and trust—and trust.” There was no problem with our being late. We saw a kind, big, African doctor, who, just like Jackson two days before, was perfectly all right with Patrick’s being scared. He had me undress him first, which completely unnerved Patrick, and he began to cry, but I held him close and he quieted. Then the doctor checked his ears and heartbeat and lungs (all while I held him), and then we had to hold him down on the table so he could check Patrick’s throat and belly and privates. Only one issue emerged (which ,for Patrick’s privacy’s sake—later, when he actually cares—I won’t mention specifically), and the doctor said I could talk with Patrick’s pediatrician about that later. Except for a little bit of gunk in his throat and some slight pinkness in one ear, he was fine, and the doctor cleared him for adoption and told me he would send the paperwork on to the Embassy! Wonderful news—and I didn’t even have to pay again—the cost Tuesday covered both visits.

Philip met us at the Surgery, and we were headed on bodas over to the Embassy to REALLY get some answers when I realized I hadn’t brought my passport along. No one gets into the Embassy without ID. I knew that from my previous visit. So we headed to the taxi station instead, and we went back to Nansana and then headed down the hill to home.

Second miracle of the day: I called the Embassy when we arrived home, and on my second try I got someone who was REALLY willing—and able—to answer my questions. An American who walked me through the list of things we would need for the visa interview—and she confirmed that it was all right to have Patrick’s immunizations completed in the States (okay, begun AND completed). Of course, there are documents Dave needs to send—I really don’t understand why those aren’t part of the I-600A approval, but they aren’t. So good to know those things BEFORE the interview, though, rather than be informed of them right when I’m going to be able to taste the possibility of going home soon. So Philip and I went in search of internet—oh, it’s so slow at the cafés—it’s probably worth it for me to get a boda down to Speke Hotel to download work. I was completely unable to even get the U.S. government website to load on a computer, much less print documents from it, so I just sent the list to Dave and asked him to print them off, fill them out, and FedEx them to me since there is one document that must have his original signature on it anyway. More steps, Lord. This is one of those times when I can say that following You is downright HARD—and though there are many moments of joy in the journey, it feels as if I am besieged on every side at times, darts of paperwork and process constantly flying at me from directions I didn’t even expect. But You are so gracious, Lord, so gracious. Today at the doctor’s office, I realized that something had changed between Patrick and me. When he cried, I didn’t feel annoyed, I felt protective. When I held him, he somehow knew he was safe and cuddled even deeper into me. There was a different closeness between us, and that’s a gift straight from You. Thank You.

A miracle—not with the timing I would have liked, but a miracle nonetheless. We—Wilfred, Abusolom, and I–arrived early at court today only to find that the judge was in supreme court all morning and wouldn’t begin seeing his list of cases until this afternoon.  So we were able—since Zaina still had not finished her report—to get the before-after pictures of Patrick printed in case we needed some evidence before the judge. Then we had even more time just to “hang out” until we needed to be back at the high court. Unfortunately—maybe I shouldn’t say this, since it’s all part of God’s plan—I had to hang out with Abusolom, since Wilfred had to meet someone downtown. So Abusolom and I stood, and he talked, and talked—and of course, asked me for more things—this time if I would like him and his family to come to the airport to see Patrick and me off to the States. Great sentiment, but since I would be the one paying for it, that somehow takes the beauty out of it, you know. Then Patrick had to go the bathroom. I was just planning on returning to the courthouse and using the restroom there—and then we could just wait from there, but Abusolom was being all African male, determined that he knew where Wilfred wanted to meet us and funny about going back into the high court for some reason. So he took me down the hill to the public toilets—where some person who didn’t close the stall door nearly smashed Patrick’s head when I urged him into the toilet ahead of me, thinking it was vacant. The bathrooms were filthy—and on top of that we had to pay 200 shillings to use it. I balanced my bag and my folder of very-important-papers and tried to keep Patrick’s pants from touching the ground as he peed, and then pooped, into a squatty potty (which is what Dave and I used to call them in Japan; essentially a porcelain basin set in the ground that you “squat” on top of.)

Part of the issue with Abusolom was that he was nervous about court. When we had been there earlier, evidently someone had questioned him about his motives for sending his child to America. He was all fired up, ready to tell them about Eva’s death and his illness and his oldest son’s accident.

“They will ask me, ‘How can you look so smart (he was dressed up in a burgundy sports coat, a pink shirt, dress pants, and dress shoes) and not be able to take care of your child? Did you sell him? Did you accept money for him?’ And I will say…”

And he would be off again, the same story again, with greater fervor each time, and I had to nod and agree and murmur sympathetically (it IS, after all, a VERY sympathetic story; it just becomes numb when you hear it again and again, especially in increasingly self-injured tones.)

Then he began telling me the history of his family—again, things I’m quite interested in, but oh, I’m convinced he thinks I’m stupid. No, it’s not that—it’s that he’s MALE and I’m FEMALE—and in Africa a woman has to be tough and forceful if she’s going to get any professional respect from a man—and not only is that not generally my way in the U.S., it sure wouldn’t garner me any points in this particular quest I’m on in Africa. So I agree and nod my head, and inside my pride is standing up and stomping its feet at the same time I’m asking the Holy Spirit to grant me true humility instead of fake subservience.

Oh, Lord, my sin of pride, of believing I am better than others (and true honesty forces me to admit that I do, however ugly that sounds/is) simply because they were born in different circumstances. Had I been born the street child in the gutter, would that make me less smart, less worthwhile? The sin nature I carry within me, says no. It is the same sin nature that wants to have NO gratitude toward a God who made and formed me, that instead wants to claim my educational degrees, the money in my pocket, the ability I have to get on a plane and go back to the States as something I have earned, I deserve.

Yet the complete right attitude escapes me, is possibly NOT possible in this world as it is, still fallen and broken, is possibly NOT possible in my untransformed state. Bit by bit, my God changes my heart, renews my mind, but the brokenness of cultures and divisions, of races and economics—I think that is part of His GREAT redemption at the end of time.

But all of that to say that as Wilfred and Abusolom walked ahead of me up the hill to the high court, leaving me to carry my bag, the “very-important” papers, and a sleeping Patrick, God did give me one WONDERFUL thought. What a man He has blessed me with in Dave, a man who respects my mind, who listens to me, and seeks my advice, who honors my God-given abilities, and desires that I excel. What a gift! I give thanks to You, Lord, and, Dave, my love, if you were here right now I would be thanking you as well.

Back to the miracle. There are several parts to it. First, I was able to meet and speak with a young American couple that is adopting twin 18 month olds. They are the couple Isaac told me about, who came before Christmas without a court date set and who have been waiting ever since. They’ve had the twins with them since December 28^th and since they’ve been backed up on a court date, they have spent their time working on the embassy side of things. They had some great advice—and suggested I go to the Embassy again to meet with several people in order to really go over my paperwork with them. They said—as it has been all through this process—that there are a few “other” documents that are needed that are not listed anywhere. Oh, Lord, is there a reason this must be so complicated? To do what is right, to follow your plan? It is as if they do not want us to do it. I am sure that getting a divorce is far easier than this. Why should that be?

After returning to court at 11:30, we waited again as the judge began seeing cases. People told us the judge was not in the best of moods, was tough this day, to not expect a positive outcome. Wilfred told me that the judge might not even look at our case without the probation officer’s report being attached. The American couple with the twins went in ahead of us and came out disappointed. Their hearing would have to be “heard” again; there was some document missing.

 We went in.

And we came out 15 minutes later with a ruling date set for next week.

Mukama Yabazibwe. Praise be to the Lord!

My ungrateful heart of course said—“But I was hoping for Friday,” but oh, my Lord, thank you! Without the probation officer’s report, that was truly miraculous. Thank you.

Surreal moment tonight—I watched Barack Obama’s inauguration on Ugandan television. Forgot where I was for a little while. Somehow that made me miss Dave more, as if I wanted to watch it with a fellow American. Interesting to watch it with Ugandans, though. The idea of a peaceful passing of power—with the leaving President in attendance and other former Presidents there as well lending support to the new Chief—was unfathomable to them. Pretty cool to think of it that way. I’ve always taken it for granted, I guess.

I broke two glasses tonight. African women are more graceful than Americans, it seems to me—or maybe it’s just I who feel clumsy and klutzy around them. Angel was handing me a tray with the empty glasses on it—and they slid right off. Two of them shattered on the concrete floor—and glass shards went everywhere. I swept and swept and swept until I finally couldn’t see any glittering pieces, even when I got down and put my face just above the floor.

Somehow I’m getting into a bit more of a rhythm here, with this family. I’m less shocked by the differences, able to accept. Still, there are things that I miss or am ready for. Here’s my list: consistent plumbing; trash service (I’ve been keeping a trash bag secretly in my carryon luggage, because the African women burn the trash by hand, and who wants someone else to have to handle the wet wipes dirty from cleaning off feet at the end of the day?);  a hot shower; autonomy—the ability to walk down the street without needing someone with me; the ability to get my own food and not feel as if I’m being waited on in that respect; my own pillow; clean feet—all day long.

All for now. Court date in the morning. Oh, my Lord, it’s all in Your hands.

It’s morning. I didn’t sleep much. The court meets this morning, and I am restless. Zaina did NOT sign the probation officer’s report yesterday. I don’t understand why—after all the work that Wilfred, and Florence, and Liz, and even, in a sense, I, too, went to last week, why would she not? She is so concerned with presenting a good picture to the court, to her superiors, you would think that she would be quite concerned with a court date at which her report is not ready. I don’t understand. There is so much I don’t understand. We need this report for the visa—do we not need it for court? Why not? It is the document we have worked hardest to get. Does she want more money?

Oh, Lord, as usual, it is in Your hands, and a miracle is required to bring it all to pass. Help me to trust in You. “I believe. Help my unbelief.”

“Now to Him who is able to do more than we ask or imagine—to Him be all power and glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.”

Amen.

I have a little more time before Wilfred comes to take me to the Surgery. Dave and I talked for a short while yesterday. We have not yet had a conversation when I have been alone. It is hard to be alone in Africa, especially as a muzungu in an African neighborhood. There is no such thing as taking a walk alone, finding a spot in the house that does not already have someone else in it. The only ones with privacy in the house are Wilfred and Vena. Their bedroom is a sacred place, and no one enters it unless they ask. It is good to see that Africans, too, have that sense of privacy—it is not just American. Yet I know that there are many African families where 8, 10, 12 or more people live in two rooms. How have Vena and Wilfred learned this? Is it just a part of human nature, to want some time alone, to want privacy? Or is it cultural?

I know I want privacy with Dave right now. I long to pour out my heart. I miss talking about spiritual things with him, the things the Lord is teaching us, deciphering our days, relationships with others. Perhaps it is God’s grace that keeps us from private talks, because I know that if I told him all, I would cry (and my African family would be upset), and then I would want more—his arms around me, the warmth of his chest, his strength. So instead we chat, sharing events, things the children have done, nothing deep. He can tell me more than I can him. He can tell me that he misses me, that this feels awful, the indefiniteness of it, the strange sense that I am not coming back. He tells me the kids are holding up well—God’s blessing that Anna came. Such a wonderful distraction. But I miss them! And part of me wants to know that they miss me, their mother, that they feel bound to me as I feel bound to them—because here I am without binding. I am not yet bound to Patrick in the way that I am with Em, Maddie and Jake. And Dave. Oh, Lord, you have bound my heart to Dave.

Oh, I don’t know. I’m babbling now. Oh, Lord my strength, restore my heart, be my tower that I dwell in no matter what surrounds me. And once again, You bring to mind families who are going through far worse, Christian women who have seen their husbands imprisoned for preaching the gospel, who wait, not knowing if their husbands will ever return—or what is being done to them.

It’s time for honesty. There are moments I wonder what we are doing, adopting this little boy who at moments seems African to the core. He is language-confused, and because of it, does not speak much at all, just words that are the same in Lugandan and English—like names. His stubbornness unnerves me, frightens me, because it strips away the general, ushy-gushy feeling of love that has been building in the past year. This is where the “love” gets stretched and pulled and tested, and at times my frustration with his behavior makes me question my sanity—or, worse, I wonder if I will ever feel bound to Patrick as I am to the other three. Only God can bring that kind of binding. So once again I face the frailty of my flesh and its inability to produce what is inherently good—and I must allow God to be able for and through me. I have not been giving Patrick enough slack, enough room to be just-three, enough room to be confused by what is happening. He is not in a strange place yet, but here is another muzungu—and not his beloved Jody who rescued him—and everyone is telling him to call her “Mommy.”  Then, on top of that, this “Mommy” is sometimes soft and sweet, cuddling him, talking to him in ways his African mothers never do, and then she is hard, stern, telling him not to suck his thumb, not to run away, these are his limits, limits he has rarely had to have in his staying-at-home-African world. Then she is stern in a different way when the African women are around.  

Too confusing. And “Mommy” needs to remember that. This morning the Lord gave me a good, old-fashioned kick-in-the-rear. Patrick was at his medical checkup. He didn’t want his weight to be measured; he didn’t want his height to be checked; he screamed bloody murder when the medic got close to his thumb with the pricking needle.  And I was a bit annoyed when he wouldn’t step on the scale, refused to stand on it. Then the medic said, “He’s frightened. No reason to do it this way. I’ll weigh you first; they you holding him.” And it hit me. He’s scared.  He doesn’t understand—he’s NOT been raised like my other kids, who take doctor’s visits in stride because they’ve gone since they were tiny—and always with Mommy or Daddy, whom they TRUST! Patrick has no one whom he can trust like that, and it will take time to build it. And because I am stressed, I am not extending the love and patience (with boundaries, of course) that he needs.

We’re adopting him. We’re in this for the long haul—just as my God, who adopted me, has committed to me for eternity. Someone said that to me when he heard we were adopting. “We who are Christ’s are all adopted. He is the only rightful heir.” We are doing for Patrick what You have done for us—on a much smaller scale—because Your adoption cost You EVERYTHING—pain and blood and dignity and a separation from Your Son that is so much deeper and harder than the time apart that this adoption is costing us—and some money (which is Yours anyway). 

Okay, totally frivolous side note: I don’t like motoke very much, which is a problem since it’s basically a staple of Ugandan diet, a banana-shaped “fruit” that grows in bunches and tastes a little bit like potatoes. Not a whole lot like them, because I LIKE potatoes, and motoke somehow seems to stick in my throat.  It is thick, not quite tasteless, but close. I don’t know what it is that makes me almost gag. On other food notes, Vena is the ultimate hostess. She tries to get me to eat ALL the time, and there is just something about the combination of the heat and the stress—and the desire NOT to get sick in a strange place—that makes me want to eat very little. I eat all the vegetables they give me, all the fruit, but I’m a little wary of overdoing it with the meat (I think it was a piece of meat that I ate Sunday that’s continuing to upset my gut) and the hot milk-tea (which is particularly awful because those are delicacies, more expensive, and they are offered to me because I am the guest—and I would rather have vegetables and tea made with water).

On the days when I am away from the house I can eat little, because I know that as soon as I walk in the house Vena will be putting a bowl in front of me and watching me until I finish it. Then she will follow with tea and bread, with another meal behind it in just a couple of hours. She is afraid I am losing weight. “I cannot send you back to your husband like that,” she says. “They will think we did not feed you in Africa. You will go back skinny.” Skinny is not a good thing in Africa, where fat equals wealth.

Today I took a gamble. At Patrick’s medical checkup (this was just the initial visit; the rest of it is on Thursday), I made the decision NOT to have him vaccinated. This decision is not based on real evidence, just on my gut feeling and the truth that I feel a peace that it is best for Patrick. Here’s the situation: Patrick has no vaccination records, none, not that it would really matter anyway because Ugandan vaccinations are different from the U.S. requirements anyway, and he will have to be on that schedule now. For the U.S. Visa Patrick HAS to have medical checkup, and there is only one place that checkup is accepted from, the Surgery on Acacia Road. So when I went there last week to set up an appointment for Patrick, I discovered that the vaccinations are the largest part of the cost. For that reason—but also because the idea of a just-barely-three-year-old getting all the vaccinations required by the U.S. from birth to age three in just a couple of days seems pretty dangerous to me—I asked Jackson, the medic, if the vaccinations were required.

“Aah, I am not sure,” he said. “We must fill out a vaccination sheet as part of our report, but we have had around six American families choose to do their vaccinations in the U.S., and they did not come back to the Surgery.”

“So the Embassy accepted that?” I pressed.

“They did not come back to the Surgery.”

Not quite the clarity of answer I was hoping for. So I called the Embassy. “Are the vaccinations required?”

“Yes, they are.”

“All of them?”

“The vaccinations are required.”

Still not what I was hoping for.

I called again yesterday, Monday—Martin Luther King Junior Day—therefore, the Embassy wasn’t open. I called this morning, hoping to speak to the man, Nathan Fluke, that our lawyer Isaac suggested I speak to. He wasn’t in the first time I called. He wasn’t in the second time either. So I spoke with someone else.

“Are the vaccinations required?”

“Talk to the Surgery. They will know at the Surgery. We require a report from the Surgery.”

“But are the vaccines required, not just the medical checkup?”

“The Surgery will know. We require a report from them.”

By now, I was feeling like I had two heads and they were bouncing against each other. So I asked again when I took Patrick to his appointment at the Surgery. After all, “the Surgery will know,” right?

Jackson: “I don’t know. We just fill out this report and send it with the other papers.” (There are about six different forms. The vaccination report is just one sheet.)

We looked at the vaccination chart together. Most of them are able to be given up to age five, but if we gave them all—ant that’s the ONLY way the vaccination report could be filled out as COMPLETE; even if he had a couple of them, the doctor would still have to check the INCOMPLETE box—Patrick would have to have about seven different vaccinations! No way. He had already freaked out when they pricked his thumb, besides the fact that I didn’t want a very sick little man.

So we didn’t do it. And we will find out if that is okay when we apply for the visa. If it is not, we’ll go back and get them. If it is, then we do what makes me feel best—get home and set up a long-term schedule for getting them done at the doctor’s office just down the street. I have one more person to ask—the doctor Patrick will see on Thursday.

And he is American.  Thank you, Lord. Not to sound like a snob, because I trust an African doctor, too, but to be able to speak and be understood and listen and understand—it will be very nice.

Last note before I sign off (my computer is almost out of juice): today the weather is AWESOME! Cloud-covered sky, temperature in the low 70s, a light breeze. I’m loving it. The Africans, though, are wearing jackets, sweaters, saying, “It’s cold! It’s cold.”

No, this—this ain’t cold! My, what will Patrick do in Kansas?

Wilfred and I pick up Philip on the way—he magically appears on the side of the road, clean, smartly dressed. He will look that way even at the end of the day, when I am hot, sticky and mussed. This struck me last year in my first visit to Africa. I sweat, my face turns red, my clothes show the dirt, my feet stain red-brown—and Florence or Wilfred or Phillip look just as they did when they left the house fresh this morning.

We drop off papers and money for Liz, and then we head off to hospitals to see if we can get the vaccinations for Patrick at a cheaper price. At one hospital—a very nice one—Wilfred picks up information and a price sheet for deliveries (he is thinking ahead to Vena’s time) and then leaves us to meet up with Liz and Zaina and see if that process can be finished. Philip and I visit another hospital—the city center, much cheaper, but still no success. All advise that the injections be given at the surgery, and in my heart I agree, though I would still like them to be done in the States. The idea of giving Patrick three years’ worth of vaccines over a two-day span does not give my heart rest.

I am tired of being the money bag. I remember Aaron and Jody talking about this. It seems the only ones who do not ask for money are Angel and Vena, but everyone else, well, they need money for transport, for giving gifts to so-and-so, for picking up such-and-such, so they come to me. And part of me understands. I have money. They know that. They do not have money. That fact is also painfully obvious to them. What is less obvious, though, is that I have upcoming expenses to pay for, and that money will not magically appear, and the Embassy and doctor’s office will not be satisfied with “I don’t have it.” Part of the issue is that I feel a bit snookered, and I don’t know if I am being taken or not. Does Liz REALLY need 40,000 shillings for transport? Does she need 10,000 for phone time (they pay by the minute here, getting little cards each day to enter minutes on their phone)? And why exactly should I be paying for that? I don’t know, but I must trust Wilfred that if she doesn’t have that money, what needs to be done will not get done. I don’t know, and I don’t feel as if I have any recourse but to pay—and go without food at lunches myself and only change a couple of hundred dollars at a time so that at some point I can say, “I’m out.” I don’t know. Dave and I are learning the lesson that the money is God’s, but I also have a stewardship here—and the adoption must be paid for before Florence can transport her sister to see her grandmother, a visit I am sure is taking place only because I am here to pay for it. Lord, I need your help. I don’t know what to do with this.

Philip and I got Patrick’s passport photos taken yesterday—and Philip’s as well. Patrick was grouchy and turned away from the camera and Philip had to coax him to get him to do it. Still, the photos show a glum-faced little boy, nothing like the face he usually wears. Philip didn’t smile in his either, and I asked him if it was the Ugandan way to be so formal. It must be. The photographer kept a suit jacket on hand for men to wear in the photos.

Patrick had a tough day yesterday, getting carted by Philip and I to hospitals and the photo shop and finally to the lawyer’s office. He did fairly well, but he has not been taught some of the things that will be so necessary in American culture—to stay still when out in public, not to run away, to have boundaries on where he can run. It meant that everywhere I went with him, he had to be limited/held, not a very fun thing for a three-year-old. Jake wasn’t a whole lot different at that age, running away from me at the Wheaton Library and nearly stopping my heart. Nor do African children say “Please” or “thank you,” I’m not sure why, but since that is one of my pet peeves with Em, Jake, and Maddie, I am beginning the struggle with Patrick—and it is going to be an uphill battle. He reminds me of another little boy—stubborn and strong-willed and needing consistent teaching. We may have a tough few months ahead of us. Oh, Lord, am I ever thankful for Your clear leading and direction—without it, I am not sure that I could continue with this, day after day.

I met the lawyer yesterday. I like him. He’s younger than his voice sounded, but he’s very simple (that’s how Wilfred described him, and it fits) and he truly thinks that Patrick and I can be back on a plane in the three week time span (from the time we arrived). I’m not giving myself any hope on that count. Nor do I envision us getting on the plane any longer (that daydream kept me going the first couple of days here). Now I just settle in for the day, trying my hardest to enjoy this time, these moments, worrying less about being American and letting go of things I didn’t know enough to let go of when I first came. I will be Patrick’s mother when the time comes, for now, I learn—much.

I took Philip and Patrick to lunch yesterday. I didn’t eat because my stomach still felt strange. As we ate, Philip kept looking over my shoulder—he was facing the street. I turned my head, and he gestured to a street child, a girl, sitting outside the restaurant, a piece of cardboard over her head shielding her from the sun. I looked at him. “Do you ever feel overwhelmed?”

“Yes,” he said. Then he told me the story of how he, Wilfred, Wilson, Ben and David met—and how they began taking street children in, even though they didn’t have anything themselves. Amazing! I am both humbled by the African lack of ownership and puzzled by it. I do know the method of living that Wilfred and Vena employ—a couple in their first year of marriage who have a young widow and her child living with them, as well as Patrick and a 23-year-old on school holiday, is amazing. At the same time I recognize that these staying with them have a very set pattern of helping that they follow. Having Angel at the house means that Vena doesn’t have to cook, means Wilfred has someone around to run errands and iron his clothes. This all has a pattern to it, as if everyone in the pattern understands her role, her jobs. I am outside this loop, and I do not understand, but I can see the benefits of it (always having a babysitter, knowing a meal will be prepared even when you are late getting home, etc.), but I am also American, and that means desiring privacy! I must be honest and admit that—it doesn’t seem very Biblical, does it? Oh, Lord, for the day when cultures will be swallowed up in YOU! Personal ownership completely given over to YOU! I can’t even imagine what that will look like.

Before we left the restaurant, we ordered a meal to go; then we gave it, a bottle of water, and some money to the girl. It isn’t enough. It isn’t a home, safety, a place to sleep where she can’t be attacked. It isn’t the peace of knowing that someone else will give her food when she needs it, that it isn’t her responsibility at age 9, maybe 10. 

Last night, after arriving home, I still felt tired, my stomach out of sorts. I lay down and napped, my first real one since I came. My body is fighting off something, and the Cipro hasn’t killed it off yet. Then Michelle Pagieu came over—so nice to have a muzungu conversation, my first real one since arriving here over a week ago.  Later, Mike, another muzungu, came to the church small group that meets here on Monday evenings. He spoke—so good. Refreshing—and the topic seemed to fit me as well as the Africans listening. The last two verses of Jude—GOD is able—not I. Boy, am I being convinced of that in this process. I am not able.

I could not keep my eyes open last night—nor did I want food, still. I was able to get some fruit down—and a small amount of motoke, but it seemed to stick in my throat, and I had to will it down. Finally, at about 9:30, I said good-night, apologizing to Mike and telling him I really wasn’t usually this out of it. He understood—which was nice since the Africans, when I tell them that I am still in some strange way “jet-lagged,” look at me as if I am speaking Russian. Nor do they understand, completely, that it is still the middle of the night in the U.S. as I write this in the middle of the morning here. They understand, but they also don’t. I’m not sure. American smartness and African smartness are so different, so different. I could not function here. I could not learn to wheel and deal the way Wilfred does. What he does requires so much expertise, so much knowledge, and I am learning to appreciate and honor that.

All for now. I go to sponge-bathe (the water’s off, and we have no idea when it will be back on) and get ready to take Patrick to get his medical checkup and some shots—hopefully not too many. My efforts to speak with someone at the Embassy who can give me a straight answer about that have been fruitless.

Saturday was a quiet day, spent at home except for an excursion to an internet café (please don’t think a coffee bar. I wish! Just a small shop filled with computers—and internet! Thank you, Lord). I paid for an hour and teared up as I read emails from Dave telling me about the kids and home. I miss them so much. I know the twins didn’t realize that for Mommy to get Patrick means Mommy is gone a long time. Maybe Mommy was keeping herself from feeling that, too. At this moment it feels more like weeks than just eight days since I last hugged their small bodies and kissed their cheeks.

Oh, God, please help me.

Darlings, if I could be there with you RIGHT NOW, I wouldn’t want to say anything, just hold you. God, you are blossoming mother-love in my heart for the little one who lies on the bed next to me, but I sure do ache for the ones at home.

Enough tears. On to yesterday. Sunday! Wow, I am almost caught up. This laptop is like my link to home. I wake up early and write and feel almost as if I am telling you—all of you—about all of this. Strange since all I’m really doing is typing words on a screen. If God can use it to help me feel connected, though, thanks be to Him.

For the very first time (I mean in the actual moment that I write this—early Monday morning) I have an upset stomach. I must remember to take some Cipro with my tea this morning.

So yesterday, Sunday, we went to church (our first taxi-bus blew a tire—so loud—and we had to switch to a second one). The service is 2 ½ hours long, but it didn’t feel so bad, even though what I wanted more was to be completely alone with you, Lord. Wilfred did the kindest thing, though. He told the church Patrick’s story and then had him brought up on the platform. Then he called me up as well and asked the congregation to pray with him for this week’s adoption proceedings. Tears streamed down my face as I looked out at hundreds of African arms reaching toward me. What must they think of this muzungu taking one of their children? I don’t know, but I felt, whatever their feelings on that subject, the genuine Spirit of the Body of Christ enfolding me in that moment.

After church it was off to Wilfred’s parents for lunch. They feed their own crowd of a family on Sundays, plus anyone else who happens to be passing through—like me, for instance. They are sweet, sweet people. Nearly finished with raising their own five daughters and a son (Wilfred), they have now taken in two little boys from Mercy. Edwin came to them four years ago as an incredibly malnourished 1 year old. You would not know it now. He looks American in his health and physical appearance, other than the brown stains on his milk teeth (African term for baby teeth) that I think come from those early days of sucking on things like sugar water rather than on real sustenance. Just a few weeks ago, they took in Ephraim, 2 years, 2 months old—and about ten pounds in weight—and that’s NOW. They tell me he was in just terrible shape when they first found him. Another case like Patrick. Ephraim looks like a shrunken little old man, with eyes that match. They watch everything and everyone. He has gotten to the point now that he can scoot around on his bottom, even crawl a bit, but the best thing was to see Wilfred’s father scoop him up and carry him up the hill to say goodbye to us. They are obviously close.

We went next to see Patrick’s dad and brothers. Abject poverty. I write those words and wonder how often for me they are just words/statistics/a housing area—and not real people. Yesterday it meant Patrick’s oldest brother Michael with two children of his own (and his wife abandoned the family), also caring for three of Patrick’s brothers, all living in a one-room mud-bricked house in which the packed-dirt floor literally slopes downhill. We are linked to that family now. In African tradition, we have an obligation to keep Patrick in contact with his roots. Just yesterday Abusolom handed me a packet of information about his family history that includes his own story and the names of all his children—Patrick’s brothers. It is invaluable information, typed up and copied at who knows what kind of effort on Abusolom’s part.

Patrick’s brother Jackson, about ten years of age, looks like what I imagine Patrick will look like in seven years or so. Intense, deep-set eyes, jutting, determined jaw. I just don’t want the constant wariness to also have to be there. Abusolom is very proud of that boy. He’s the one he’s asked for a little bit of money for—to provide a mattress, bedding, and school supplies for. After yesterday, I am hoping to do that for years to come. What could it mean for Patrick to have a full-blood brother in Africa who is getting educated?

Then, more poverty, a visit to Vena’s uncle in a rabbit’s warren of homes that stretch down a hillside. Literally, we wound our way down through the three to five-foot wide paths between the buildings on either side. Step, step, jump over a small stream of water (don’t want to know what is in that), traverse a pile of trash, avoid the eyes that say, “muzungu, muzungu” even when their mouths don’t—and then arrive at the doorway of one room crammed tight with a couch, two chairs, a table (that sits on top of one of the chairs when it is not in use because it would be impossible to get to the bed if it were out all the time), and a curtained-off sleeping area. Sunlight peeks through the edge of the roof, where the sheet metal doesn’t completely fit. Crate-like, crooked wooden shelves cover one small wall and hold all of life’s possessions—toothbrushes, a few plates, two cups, odds and ends. Advertisement posters pulled from walls and poles in town plaster the walls, almost completely covering the brick and mud walls.

This is Vena’s uncle and cousin’s home. And I literally feel as if I have descended a long, long tunnel underground and popped into a hole. If I let myself, I could become claustrophobic just sitting here, thinking of the rooms upon rooms that surround this one, not knowing which meandering path leads out—to some sort of space and air. I fight down the feeling, and listen as Vena speaks family history with her uncle—in Lugandan—and her cousin brings us Fanta orange and Sprite to drink and small cakes to eat. So much of me wants to say—“no, don’t spend money on me. I don’t deserve that.” But Vena has come bearing fresh fruit from the market, and it is all the African way. (And I remember visiting poor homes in Alabama when I was a child, and it was the same there, drinking tea so filled with sugar I first understood the Southern phrase–“Tea you can stand a spoon up in.”)

All for now. Wilfred has malaria—a mild case and I paid for him to get an injection last night so that he will heal very quickly. This week is too busy for either of us to be sick. I must shower so we can hit the ground running. Much to do. Pray that all goes well: court date, hearing, Patrick’s medical exam, passport, visa. So much. I am off to run cold water from the tap into a plastic basin and then stick my head in it now that the bathroom is light enough I can see what I am doing.

I had little to do on Friday. Peggy went and bought me minutes for my phone, and I finally learned how to put them on! Hallelujah! And then I made some phone calls—one the very disappointing one to the Embassy. I just don’t like the idea of Patrick having that many vaccinations at once, without being able to consult a doctor whom I know I will see again. Far too hard on his little body.

Then I went with Florence to Mercy, to see the kids there and assist with their letter-writing to their sponsors. Fun and long, too. They fed me there: motoke (a potato-tasting, banana-looking fruit that they mash up and eat with all kinds of things on it), g-nut sauce (made from g-nuts–like peanuts, just purple and better tasting, I think), and red beans. Good, but too, too much. I gave some to Angela, a little 5 year old who is spunky and busy—an African Ramona or Junie B. Jones—and she finished off her own and then most of mine. I’m amazed at how the children can “put away” food. Perhaps it’s because this food is mostly starch, with little protein, I’m imagining. I’m not sure.

Some great kids at Mercy. Ten-year-old Herbert is intense and careful and very, very focused. I liked him a lot. Little Nici, almost three, whom I met last year, still has the herniated belly button (they stick out from the belly– in some cases, like Nici’s, a LOT) but has lost her fear of muzungus and climbed right into my lap and latched on. So interesting to see the differences between girls and boy existing in Africa as well. Like Maddie and Jake at that age, Nici loved writing her card, making careful O’s that were obviously imitations of letters, while Patu scribbles, simply happy with making a mark on the paper.

Sallee is still ornery, but Hope is sweet and more willing to talk than last year—or perhaps she was just overwhelmed by the number of muzungus then. I played peek-a-boo off and on with three small naked boys about the age of two (Africans really don’t mind the smallest ones running around naked—Patrick often wears just a shirt around the house, and yesterday we took him out with us wearing just his underwear.)These children—Nici, Herbert, Angela, Hope, the baby boys—are at Mercy right now, even during their school holidays, because they have no relatives at all. Many other children are at Mercy because they have only one parent who cannot afford to take care of them, or both parents have died but they have aunties who check in on them. These children—at Mercy full-time—have no one. And while there are house mothers and lots and lots of siblings (when Mercy is full, it has around 65 kids—too many for the house, really), it’s just not as good as having a family. That is where Patrick would be if we were not adopting him. As I played peek-a-boo, I blinked sudden tears from my eyes. Two of these little boys played readily, but another one hesitantly, his eyes the too-old African children eyes. I don’t want to know what those eyes have seen.

Ignorance is bliss. I know that nearly everyone Wilfred and Vena have in their home has some story similar to Florence’s (widowed already at 25, and with one child taken away from her by relatives) or worse, but there are often times I don’t ask. I am not sure, since most don’t offer, if these are stories these people want to share with the American muzungu, me, with her husband of 17 years and three healthy biological children. I am also not sure, American muzungu that I am, that I want to know the heartbreaking stories of those who are closest to me.  So I stay in ignorance of 23-year-old Angel’s story, a young woman whose school fees are still covered by sponsorship and who is currently staying with Wilfred and Vena during her holidays. She must have no family, none. How does that happen in Africa, where people seem to keep track of 2^nd and 3^rd cousins as if they are siblings?

I am currently writing this at not-quite 5 a.m. The sleepless mornings continue, although last night was better because Florence slept out on one of the couches and I slept on the bed with Patrick, who is a fine sleeping companion—did not kick me once—although I did wake up a couple of times to find his hard, hot head pressed up against my back. I am not sure if these sleeping arrangements (dictated by Vena) are because she and Wilfred do not want Patrick sleeping in their room tonight or if it’s because Florence has been such a terrible sleeping companion of late, and I teased her about it. I hope it’s not the latter. After I teased her about it, she apologized, which was not at all my intent. I will see if I can do damage control tomorrow.

I got smart last night—at least about one very small thing. One of the reasons I have not been sleeping well, other than stress and a wild sleeping companion, etc., is the heat. I deal just fine with the days, which are similar to hot Kansas summers, with just a bit more humidity, but the nights! It cools down outside, and I steal chances to sneak out on the back porch. But the mosquitoes also come out! And since there are no screens on the windows, at night the Africans close up the windows, and the house becomes a stuffy tomb. I don’t know if it’s because they are just used to it, or if they actually prefer it that way, but when they go to bed, they pull up covers and wrap themselves in comforters, while I lie on top of the sheets, feeling the heat prickle my skin, the sweat glaze my stomach. So last night, since I had to wash out the dress I wore because it was so dusty, I took it to bed with me, laying it across my body as I fell asleep and then pulling it over whatever part of me felt too warm during the night.

One more side note—Patrick lies on the bed next to me, sprawled on his back, his legs and arms spread-eagled, one leg draped over the side of the bed that is next to the wall. I touch his skin and it feels cool and good—unlike my own.

Okay, back to running events. On Friday after we returned from visiting Mercy, I just hung out at the house until later that night. About nine Angel asked me if I wanted to walk up the hill with her to buy a few things for the household. Wilfred and Vena’s house is in a small, walled compound that has six, 4-roomed (plus bathroom) homes inside it (these little compounds are very common in Africa and, I think, denote economic level: no compound—usually a non-plastered brick house with a dirt floor; homemade compound surrounding several small houses—they usually have no plumbing/electricity; stone compound surrounding several houses like Vena and Wilfred’s—plumbing/electricity[though not always working], bare concrete floor; one house with a stone compound—this can range from a house like Wilfred’s to one with tile floors to a very nice house! Anyway, I’m sure I’m categorizing it all wrong—and don’t forget that there are a whole lot of shacks/shelters that are far below anything I just described—but what’s interesting is that in many of the neighborhoods I’ve visited so far (neighborhoods seem to be linear here, running in horizontal lines along the rutted, red-dirt branch roads that come off the main roads, mostly paved) is that there is a huge mix of all types of housing in them and TONS of little shops, which can also range from “shack/shanty” to plastered-brick buildings. Wilfred has told me there are some NICE neighborhoods in Kampala, but we haven’t visited any—not surprising.

So, after all that description to try and set up a world about as far from my small Kansas town as possible, I’ll get back to it. Angel and I walked up the road. Even in the dark she seemed to have no trouble knowing when her feet would meet the dirt (Africans have this slow, rolling way of walking that allows them to gracefully traverse uneven ground) while I stumbled and tripped my way next to her. All along the street the shops were buzzing, and people were everywhere—no different from the daytime, but with a greater hum to it. When we reached the main road, it was—well, more. People sitting in small groups talking, men playing games, people selling—roasted corn, chicken on a stick, g-nuts, as well as the usual shops , people buying, children running around. I’ve never been to Mardi Gras, but I imagine it a bit like that. Just add live chickens in cages and lots and lots of red dirt. But it does feel festive and a bit drunk.

We went to about three different pharmacies (all within yards of each other) and six different shops, most selling exactly the same things, but only the last one, of course, having honey, which is what Angel was trying to buy for Wilfred. This is not an area where one sees muzungus in the daytime, much less at night, so even more than the usual, “Hi, muzungu.” One man offered me his drink—a small plastic bag filled with I-don’t-know-what-kind of liquor in it, and asked me if my work was going well. I said it was and asked him the same. “Ah,” he said, “with this” he held up the plastic bag, “and this,” he gestured with his cigarette, “I am happy.” It reminded me of the homeless men on Lower Wacker in Chicago, but it also made me think that this is just another way to anaesthetize ourselves against our need for a right relationship with God. The only difference is in the “stuff” we use to do it—cigarettes and alcohol for this man, drugs for many on Lower Wacker, material things for the middle-class American. The material things just seem a more moral and acceptable substitute, don’t they?

Journey to Patrick, continued:  It is easy to get overwhelmed in Africa. So many needs—part of that is perceived need on my part as an American, the need for people to be busy with American kinds of things, to have something to do that has an American kind of purpose. I often have to ask the Holy Spirit to help me to see Biblically and not culturally. That passage in Philippians 2 applies to my African brothers and sisters as well. But, anyway, I don’t want to get off on the tangent of culture-there are books written on that—and being in the middle of it doesn’t allow for the distance to really think it through anyway. All of that to say, though, that there are moments, surrounded by what seems to me to be chaos and everyone looks at me, the ONLY white person in, possibly, miles, when I wonder, “What on earth am I doing?”

I’m thankful for the still, quiet voice that then reminds me. “You’re adopting Patrick. It is what I want you to do. Rest.”

This is just snapshots/thoughts in very little order. I am trying to type this fast before I go to the internet café and pay for time to send something to you—so I will be rushing it, even though I would like a couple of hours to write to so many.

This morning, Wednesday, I got up, held Patrick and Precious for a while. I can still see small effects of Patrick’s early malnutrition. He is barely larger than Precious, at 20 months of age, is. Then Florence and I took a taxi-bus (don’t think American taxi—envision a 15-passenger van with seventeen people crammed in that stops randomly along the road to discharge some and take on more) and then bodas (a motorcycle—and the girls I came to Uganda with last year will be surprised because I refused to get on one then. It’s an unavoidable necessity this time). We went first to the Embassy because I wanted to get a phone number for contacting them when we have the complete list of all the things we have to have to get a visa for Patrick. (Oh, Lord, keep me from discouragement at all the hurdles we still have to jump). They wouldn’t let Florence in because she didn’t have her ID card on her. It felt like a little piece of the U.S.—minus the Ugandans everywhere—but air conditioning! And American CNN on the television in the waiting area. Weird experience—the “guards” let me in to see someone ahead of the Ugandans waiting.  No real answers there—other than a phone number.

Then we were off to the Speke Hotel so I could get wireless internet and download the pictures Jody had sent me, pictures of Patrick when he was 15 months old and first brought to Mercy Home (downright awful—unrecognizable as the Patrick of now, with one lopsided eyelid, and the skinny, flopsy look of a preterm newborn) and pictures from less than a year later—of a grinning, chubby two-year-old. We’re hoping they will help us with the court, or at least the probation officer.  It was nice to sit at the Speke Hotel, downtown, with no one calling me “muzungu,” and people acting like it was entirely normal for me to be sitting there. I downloaded the pictures and then answered my email, did a little bit of work, and sat enjoying the relative peace and quiet. I was fasting that day along with Wilfred and Angel, but Florence had a nice lunch out, an experience that I’m sure only happens when muzungus are in to work with the orphanage.

While Florence answered an email, I was able to read a book and my Bible. I’m amazed at the wonders God’s reminding me of in odd moments, even while so much of my energy is focused on not making mistakes, trying to figure out what I do in a culture I don’t understand. As I read of Christ’s amazing sacrifice and love for me—the ultimate sacrifice of death and separation from His Father, I wondered, too, at the sacrifice of His coming to earth at all. Was I/am I feeling just the smallest bit of what he did? The complete unfamiliarity of all surroundings, the sense of being alien, the general sense of animosity, the animosity that comes just of being different.  I don’t want to completely parallel the two situations, of course, because He truly was different, sinless in a sinful world, and truly the object of Satan’s hatred. B ut I felt like I experienced a little, tiny taste—and most of all I got the reminder that Christ knows exactly where I am. He has not forgotten me.

Wednesday night, though, oh. My sister Lynda, who has lived in Africa for years, has told me it is often difficult being an American woman with African women. Lynda has lived in rural Mozambique, so I am sure that it is much harder there because the African women I live with are understanding and generous and caring, and are even around muzungus somewhat often–yet the differences SO remain. Different parenting styles, not wrong or right, just DIFFERENT. Wednesday night I played with both Patrick and Precious the way I would play with my own children, but they were louder than African children should be. Then, later, when Wilfred needed money for something or another, I did not have enough money. I’d given him nearly the full amount I had exchanged for shillings the day before. Wilfred was fine, but there was a sense from the women that I had failed. I asked if we would need to take a gift to Liz’s house the following morning. The answer was yes, but again, I did not have enough money with which to buy it. The air in the house was tense, unsettled, and late that night, when I could not sleep—yet again– I asked Florence, who was up taking out her braids, to be honest with me. She brought up both topics, asking me if I had been giving Wilfred enough money to “appreciate” people and if I had given Wilfred enough “appreciation,” meaning money. Then she said I could not let the kids climb on me, play with me, that I should not hold Patrick or Precious so much, that it disrupted the household. The honesty was good, but it stung, and it was another of those moments when I wondered how on earth I was supposed to know, inherently, the ins and outs of African culture: that EVERYONE in Africa, for instance, needs appreciation, whether they are “honest” or not (and I don’t mean Wilfred, since he is, in essence, working for us and therefore more than earning his money—and tons of gratitude to boot—and besides Florence has no idea of what we have already given him—they evidently don’t speak of such things, which I appreciate), and how the children are to be raised, where the line is between good fun and too much fun. Not much sleep that night, and many moments of wondering, “What on earth am I doing?”

The next morning was not any better. Florence, Patrick, and I were travelling to meet Liz, the information officer, and then Florence was travelling downtown to get a paper from the lawyer that the probation officer needed to sign. When we met up with Liz, she, Patrick and I would get on a taxi-bus going out to the district office, while Florence boarded a bus toward downtown. As we left the house, I wasn’t sure whether I should hold Patrick’s hand, carry him, have “nothing” to do with him, what? Florence held his hand, and finally, almost to the top of the hill, she carried him because he was too slow—of course. I was miserable, wanting to hold him myself, but unsure. I should have spoken up, but I was hoping for some kind of sign from her. My error, and the tension remained. When we met up with Liz, things didn’t get better.

“Do you have the papers for the probation officer?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you give them to her yesterday? You were supposed to deliver them to her yesterday. When will she have a chance to read them?”

I was bold enough to ask, “Did I know about this?”

“Yes, I told you two days ago.”

I’m assuming that was one of the things she and Wilfred discussed in a visit to Liz’s house, in my presence—in Lugandan. They often assume, when they speak in Lugandan, that I have somehow taken in the information, that it has soaked in and I am fully aware of the entirety of the situation. In some ways it makes it easier for me to be a guest in the house—they can carry on all kinds of normal household conversations, the ones you don’t normally have in front of strangers, and I am oblivious to everything except tone and gesture—and even those are different enough in Africa to be misleading to an outsider.

We did not meet Liz at her house as I had thought we were going to, but along the side of the road, so no gift actually was required this day, but I had racked my brain—and my “stuff;” I was still missing my big bag at that point, but my smaller bag with all the gifts had been delivered—and decided to give Liz the one-year Bible I had brought. No one at the house seemed interested in it, so I didn’t see any harm in passing it on.

Once Liz, Patrick, and I were settled on the taxi-bus, I brought it out and presented it to her, apologizing for my too-often-worn, sweat-filled clothes at the same time. The air noticeably improved, and the rest of the journey—a second taxi-bus and then bodas–was far more pleasant.

The bodas dropped us off directly in front of a low building, one room wide, and about five rooms long, with all the rooms opening directly to the outside. The probation officer’s “room” was second from the far end. We entered, and I took a seat on the sofa (wondering if that was the proper thing to do) while Liz sat next to the probation officer, a friend—or at least acquaintance—of hers. They chatted, and I kept Patrick occupied, wondering the entire time what the protocol was for that—how much noise and movement was a three-year-old allowed to make in this kind of situation, and how should his mother respond when he made a little too much noise? I decided to err on the too-strict—I’m learning—and I think that went fairly well and was helped by the many Africans popping in and out of the office who played with him. I could relax in those moments.

Most of the conversation was in Lugandan, though a comment in English would be thrown in occasionally. “Where is that man?” I assumed that to mean Patrick’s father, and I’m also assuming the English delivery was to inform me that she, the probation officer, didn’t have all day for this meeting.

She looked over my paperwork, asking me just a couple of questions. Then, finally, Abusolom (Patu’s dad) arrived, and she asked him many questions—in Lugandan. Florence arrived as well, with the paper from the lawyer—and sat next to me. Despite our difficulties the night before and that morning, she felt like a life buoy (which is the name of a soap here, oddly enough—a derivative from the old LifeBoy, I wonder?)

At some point the probation officer began shaking her head. “Not enough,” she said. “I need these—“ she gestured to the before-and-after pictures of Patrick that I had brought her—“to be on paper, with captions under them. And I need….” She went on with a list.

Then she talked some more with Liz and Abusolom—and in the middle of that Dave called me—and I slipped outside to tell him I couldn’t talk then—and could he please pray for me? I needed it so badly at that moment. We hung up quickly, leaving him confused—and knowing that made me feel worse.

The only other snippet of English in the rest of the meeting: “You say the court date is next week? Next week? Impossible. It will have to be postponed.” I sat in silence, willing my face to show little expression.

A little more conversation, and we were ushered out.

I paid for transportation for Florence, Abusolom, myself, and Patrick back to the house. Being in sole charge of Patrick that morning, and feeling as if I’d done a decently-African job of it, had given me confidence. I held Patrick on my lap on the boda and then carried him down the hill from the main road to Wilfred and Vena’s house. Time for change, I felt. And that alone felt good.

After dropping a by-then asleep Patrick off at the house, Abusolom, Florence and I headed downtown by taxi-bus to meet up with Wilfred. We went first to a stationary shop (which has computers) to create Word documents with the pictures and captions under them. The probation officer had also requested a picture of our family, and thank God Angel had found a copy at the house in an older book of photos which I had sent Patrick the summer before. We were able to scan this and print it out as well. Then we went over to Isaac’s office—still only his secretaries in—to this day (Sunday) I still have not met our lawyer—for which he has called and profusely apologized, so I’m not feeling bad about that. We’ll be getting together Monday almost as if it were a week earlier, since the court date is now THIS Wednesday.

I took Abusolom, Wilfred, and Florence out to eat—nothing fancy, but more than they are used to, I’m sure. I asked for a salad, but they were out, so I had a hard-boiled egg, and Wilfred fussed at me to eat more. “If you’re not fasting,” he said. “You should eat. You need the food.” In the heat, though, and with my mind feeling constantly a bit stressed, I have very little appetite, and an egg seemed to be more than enough. An egg—and a Fanta orange, which I sipped with great pleasure.

After lunch we picked up my second bag from the KLM office—hallelujah, praise God (don’t forget to stretch the “o,” clip the “d”), and again, I mean that seriously. The lack of clean clothes—or borrowing African clothes—was not only making ME uncomfortable physically but was beginning to present a negative image as well—sloppy American!

Then I gave Abusolom transport money to return to the surgery near his home and get his medical report –another request from the probation officer. I also gave him some money to buy his mother a gift, as he was staying at her house that night. Abusolom had also asked me about paying for some school supplies for one of Patrick’s older brothers, which, again, seemed fine to me, but I told him we couldn’t talk about anything like that until after the court date—and even then it would need to be carried out through Wilfred.

The day was looking better, particularly since Wilfred confirmed what I had already suspected, that the probation officer had said the bit about the court date being postponed to scare me a bit—and to make me more willing to pay her a “professional fee.” She didn’t call it “appreciation.” Wilfred saw no problems with the court date staying on this Wednesday.

Our last stop after dropping Abusolom off near a taxi-bus area was to the surgery, where Patrick has to have his official medical examination. The cost of the vaccinations is extreme, but I found out later from the American embassy that they are required to be taken here in Uganda. I’m going to check back with them on Monday.

Home that afternoon and evening was fine, especially when everyone went out, leaving me alone with quiet 12-year-old Peggy (who’d just arrived from relatives the day before) and Patrick and Precious. No one watching me, the ability to relax a bit with the little ones. But, of course, I had to make another serious muzungu mistake.

By nine the two little ones were rubbing eyes and getting fussy. So, being American, I scrounged what food I could—two peanut butter granola bars I had brought from the States—fed them, washed them, made them go to the potty, and put them to bed. They were asleep in minutes.

But dinner is the largest meal of the day for Africans—and they eat it late, their children eating it just before they go to bed. When everyone got home they expressed surprise at the two being asleep already. “What did you feed them?” they asked. That was when I got the first sense that I had committed a serious cultural faux pas.

Two hours later, as everyone was getting ready for bed, the two little ones woke up (now here’s one that doesn’t make sense to me—if you go into a room where a child is sleeping, turn on the lights and begin talking, wouldn’t you expect them to wake up? If they have enough food in their bellies, the answer is “no,” I guess.) Florence got Patu some leftover food from dinner, but then I sent her to bed and stayed up with him while he ate in the living room (there is no dining room, the adults eat with bowls on laps, and the little ones eat with their hands from a bowl placed on the floor). When he was finished, I washed him again, put him on the potty again, and sent him back in to Vena. One down.

Precious was still tossing and whimpering in the bed above Florence and me. Finally Florence got her up and fed her some bread and tea, making small, not really unkind, comments about children needing to eat before they go to bed, particularly little ones the age of Precious. I was listening more to the promptings of the Holy Spirit to ask the questions, speak the uncertainties, so I got up and sat on the kitchen floor with them, apologizing for what I had done.

“It’s all right. They were sleepy,” she said. 

Still the heaviness in the chest, like when you are a child who has done a wrong and has no idea how to make it up. I had thought I was learning how to make my way with the children acceptable to the Africans—and here I pulled this one.

Fed, Precious was put back in the bed, but still no sleep. We brought her down between the two of us. Still no. Finally, with Florence falling asleep—except for her daughter’s crawling on her—and myself wide awake with tension, I got up with Precious and we read books on the kitchen floor. Then we lay down on a couch in the living room (where Angel is sleeping now that Peggy’s here) until she fell asleep. I dozed, too, but when I felt she was in deep baby sleep, I put her in bed with Florence and then went back to the couch myself. Like mother, like daughter, the two move a lot in their sleep.

By the next morning, my efforts to undo my error had completely paid off. The error was forgotten, love was restored, my attempts to apologize were brushed off. “You did nothing wrong.” We may never completely understand each other, but these women are very gracious and when they forgive, they almost seem to forget as well.

Oh, so much to tell you. How do I explain a culture that is so vastly different from our own? I don’t know, so I will just try to include bits and pieces of the sights and smells and sounds as I tell you of what I’ve been doing the past two days.

I have been getting a lesson in African grass-roots politics—and it is, well, I cannot think of a nicer way to say “corrupt.” You see, even though Wilfred has gotten the report from the probation officer and the paperwork for this and that, now that it is court time, it must all be typed up in some form of legal fashion and re-signed by all the people who wrote it in the first place AND by the officials in charge of or in some way connected with that district. AND we have to do it in two districts because one is the local and the other is the regional—and somehow they’re both involved. Now, Wilfred would probably read this and say it was all wrong, a very bad description of what he’s been doing, but that is what it seems like to me. So yesterday we encountered the family and child services agent, dressed in a police-type uniform, who looked over the paperwork, pointed out some wording she didn’t like, handed it back, and told Wilfred, “Get that fixed, and I’ll sign it—but it won’t be free, you know.”

So Wilfred pulled out his laptop; I retyped the legal document (see what I mean by “legal”); I saved it onto my flash drive (boy , does Wilfred need one of those. I’m going to leave him one of mine when I go. Fortunately, I have two with me); we drove across the road to the stationary shop (which has a computer, a printer, and a copier—now don’t go thinking internet because I haven’t yet found that in any of the places I’ve been so far); he paid to have it printed out; and we went back across the road to the agent—and she signed, accepting a “fee,” of course.

I stay in the car during these encounters, Wilfred assuming that if they saw ME—a muzungu (white person)—the “fee” would be multiplied. I am absolutely certain that he’s right. Keep in mind that the officials are not doing us a favor—letting something slide past them. We’re presenting them with perfectly legal documents, and they’re charging us to do what is supposed to be part of their job.

So let’s see, at my count we’ve bribed two or three officials— sometimes I don’t even know that Wilfred’s done it because it is SO common he forgets to mention it—and we’ve bribed a police officer. Oops, the police officer’s money was called “appreciation.” That one happened yesterday. I was with Philip and Sam, two other young men from the church. Sam’s a teacher, but he’s on “holiday” (that’s what they call “vacation” or “break” here), and Philip is a pastor at the church (he’s twenty-three!). So Philip is driving me (we’re borrowing cars right and left, and I pay to fix them up to the point that they will take us there-and-back in relative safety—more expensive than public transportation, but it would have taken a week to do what we accomplished in two days had we not had vehicles). Anyway, back to my point. Philip is driving me up to meet Patrick’s father (who’s dying of AIDS) and to bring him back from his village to Kampala because he has to sign some documents and appear in court with us. We have an appointment at six p.m. with the probation officer to sign those papers, so Philip is flying, and I almost say that literally. I just close my eyes much of the time—and pray for our safety. So the officer—standing on the side of the road, khaki-uniformed, beret pulled down over his forehead, gun—semi-automatic, no less—waves us down after Philip pulled a particularly risky passing maneuver at an extremely high speed. I have no idea what to think, but I notice Sam pull some money out of a small wallet and hand it to Philip, who hides it in his palm. Philip, very apologetically, explains to the officer what we are doing, but the officer doesn’t seem to want to budge. Then he calls Philip to the back of the car. I’m a bit nervous for him at this point, but Sam actually seems to relax, so I take my cues from him. Two minutes later Philip returns to the car, grinning. The officer did not take his license, but he did accept a small “token of appreciation.”

It’s weird. How do you apply biblical concepts to a situation like this? I don’t know. Nor do the Africans involved. Philip told me he doesn’t like to drive fast and he doesn’t like to bribe, but that is life here, and there is no one to go to who might not be corrupt themselves.

Ah, that is not entirely true. In the midst of the corrupt officials, I have also met several truly Christian officials—and there is a world of difference about them. Liz, the local information officer who also serves on the board of the Mercy Ministries orphanage, is absolutely wonderful. People here tell us we look alike/act alike, that I am a white version of her, and she a black version of me. I don’t know if that’s the reason—or simply because she’s incredibly nice, but we hit it off right away. Yesterday evening we went to her house to look over some paperwork and she gave me cabbage leaves, some corn, a pumpkin, and some thyme—all from the wonderful garden she has in her yard. I really like her—and not just because we look alike.

Oh, back to the wild ride to pick up Patrick’s father. We met him, delivering a gift of sugar, bread, and a bottle of juice. Then we drove to the next village to meet the pastor of his church. (At some point this Muslim father turned to Christ—or maybe the story I heard about his being a Muslim wasn’t right to begin with. Who knows.) Both meetings went well, lots of shaking hands and “God bless you” and “You are welcome here.” But then we began the ride back to Kampala, and I was afraid this man and I—at the moment we share a fairly important bond—were going to ride the entire way in silence and he would hate me and refuse to sign the consent form to let me adopt his son. I’m praying, “God, please let me know what to say,” and wondering how much English he knows—and then he turns to me and starts telling me about the scenery we’re passing. Praise God (and if you make the “o” long and accentuate the “d,” you might just sound like a Ugandan saying it).

He really is dying. Not like, “Oh, my word, this man needs to be in a bed somewhere—stat!” but he is rail-thin in the way that makes you afraid someone might snap in two if they fell, and when he moves you sense every movement is a deliberation and costs some effort. We got along well. He asked about Patrick—and I was happy to tell him—and he told me about the absolutely beautiful Lake Victoria, the Nile River, and the Owens Dam, all of which we passed on the road.

Then, just on the edge of Kampala, Wilfred calls Philip (have I mentioned that Philip is also one of my favorite people here?) and tells him the meeting with the probation officer has been postponed. After all that speed! My dear Father, I KNOW You protected us today. There is not a doubt in my mind about that.

On the drive home, both Jody and then Dave called me. So, so, so good to hear their voices. I am a bit afraid that at some point I will be overwhelmed with sadness or exhaustion or frustration and cry or be unable to BE here with this African family in the way I know God wants me to be. God has sustained me, though, and I can truly say that the fortitude I feel is not from myself because there are times it is almost as if I am watching myself react to something and thinking, “Oh, my Lord, that had to have been you, because I felt a moment of panic or despair crawling in my gut, and it didn’t come out.”

One such moment was today, when Wilfred informed me that our court date has been pushed back a week.

Oh! Lord, what are you asking me to do? I miss Em and Jake and Maddie and Dave SO much already. Help me!

I wanted to cry, to be honest, or at least to gasp, but then this came out of my mouth, “All right, Wilfred, it will be next week. Can you bear with having me as a house guest that long?” God, how did you do that?

And then, tonight, clarity set in. We were NOT ready for that court date. There are still a few things to be gathered, AND Wilfred has an exam that he must take in the morning at the same time he was also supposed to be in court with me. So I step back and say, “My good God, I have no clue what ride you have me on, but I’m just going to let You hold me.”

I have not written that much about Patrick, just about the process of making him our son. He and I are bonding. He runs to me when I come in the door at night, and he understands that I’m his “momma,” that, somehow, I am his in a way that I am not Precious’s, even though I hold her a lot, too. How are you making that happen, God? Again, I am amazed, and though I am very ready to get on that plane with him and be his mommy in complete practice, I am also amazed at how You have put me in this family’s home so that he can be cared for while all this is going on.

One last little bit about Patrick (or Amooti—the pet name his birth father gave him; it’s pronounced AH-MO-T, just tack the “t” sound on the very end of the long “o” sound). He’s bright and funny, with a very good sense of humor and a great belly laugh. He’s busy and active and a fantastic jumper on both feet. He loves to run through the house pretending he’s driving a car and he LOVES to look at the photo album filled with pictures of Dave and the other kids. He’s starting to know their names and to be able to distinguish them. Another miracle!

All for now. I’m running out of battery.

Dear Family and Friends,

I’m not even sure when I will be able to send this to you, but I’ll write anyway, and send it when I can. Current situation: I am sitting on the sofa in my African host family’s home (the same family that has taken care of Patrick all these months we’ve been waiting), and guess who is sitting next to me?

You guessed it—our son!

I am living African right now, without even my luggage, which didn’t make it with me.  So the same set of clothes—or borrowed ones, an almost non-existent amount of shampoo to wash my three-day-old dirty hair, and currently the power is out, has been all day, and I am only writing this because I was able to charge my laptop before it was gone. Still, I HAD electricity, which is more than MANY, maybe most Africans can say, and there is running water, so I had a cold sponge bath today that felt absolutely heavenly! And I’m being totally serious.

At the same time that my introvert soul says that I would like to be alone for at least a few minutes a day (or alone with our new son), I am asking God to help me to have patience and rest and understand that this is part of the journey that He has ordained—and also that He will help me to just walk it with Him.

I can see—at the same time that I just want to be Patrick’s mom full-time, to be alone with him to really get to know him—how wise it is for me to get acclimated to him in the environment where he is familiar. I am learning what he acts like when he needs to go to the bathroom (yes, he IS potty-trained; amazing, I know), that he is a night owl, how he likes to play, how he is used to eating—so much. I am learning, too, what it is that African women respect and see as good mothering.

Time warp. I am now writing this at not-quite-four in the morning here. My body has not yet adjusted to the time change, and even though I am able, after a while, to fall asleep fairly well at night, I wake up far too early and lie in bed waiting until I hear someone else stirring. I have no idea what time it is because I was too cheap the last time I bought a watch to purchase one with a light on it. That may change when I get back to the States (Dave’s probably rejoicing as he reads this!). I have not yet woken this early, but I’m sleeping tonight with 20-month-old Precious (and the name fits) and she fell out of the bed and I scooped her up, cuddled her until she was calm and asleep again, laid her next to me on the bed—and couldn’t fall asleep again myself. The past two nights Precious has slept on the bunk above me with 23-year-old Angel (also a fitting name), and Precious’s mother, Florence, has slept next to me on the larger bottom bunk. But Florence is spending the night at a friend’s house, so Angel is getting a break from squirming Precious—and I am awake. And, just as a side note, I am also incredibly thankful for the mosquito net that surrounds us all in this bed and keeps from us the nasty, black, malaria-carrying creature that is buzzing around the bed. I have not seen a mosquito yet in the daytime, but they do come out at night.

Whenever I am tempted by the self-pity that is such a natural reaction of my human soul, and feel sorry for myself being separated from loved ones right now, I remind myself of Florence’s story, twenty-five year old Florence whose husband died when she was pregnant with Precious and whose older daughter Shama was taken from her by her husband’s family after his death because they were not sure she could provide for her. Florence has not seen Shama in a year and a half.

So, self-pity, be gone with you. Oh, and good news—one of my bags (they missed MY flight to Uganda and the baggage service here has been tracking them down for me) arrived yesterday. Of course, it was the one WITHOUT my clothes. Florence told me that today I was borrowing from her because she is tired of seeing me in the same pants. Perhaps the other bag will come today.