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.

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?