Not ashamed

I turn 54 on Friday. Senior discounts are just around the corner . . . as is the amazing title of "grandma."

One gift I give myself every year is the luxury of looking back over the previous 12 months and noting achievements and milestones. This has been a particularly blessed year!

Greg and I married off our two remaining daughters and found out that we're going to be grandparents this fall! I climbed my first real mountain, traveled to Africa and grew my first tomato.

On top of all that, I began my exodus out of shame . . .

At a Genesis Process training I attended last September, God showed me clearly that the root of most of my unhealthy (sinful) behaviors came from a deeply ingrained sense of shame. At this seminar, I learned that our limbic system (primitive brain) equates shame with death--and will do anything to suppress that toxic emotion. Addictions, compulsions, isolation, rage . . . all these can be covers for shame.

While it might surprise you that it took me 53 years to identify this poison in my life, I now understand that shame is about as difficult to spot as a cockroach in a dark room when a light is turned on--the dirty rascals scuttle under the nearest shadow to avoid detection. My shame would disguise itself in all manner of ways--from eating disorders to anger issues to panic attacks--and I'd end up focusing on the shadow and not the actual culprit.

But when God turned on the light and removed all the hiding places last fall, shame had no where to hide. I had to face this deep, dark secret of my heart. And by facing it in the light of God's love and truth, shame's death grip on me was broken.

Perhaps I should define what I mean by shame. I'm not referring to healthy guilt or conviction over sin. I'm talking about the pervasive sense that "there is something terribly wrong with me." It's what Adam and Eve experienced after they fell from grace in the Garden--when shame first entered into the human race. They grabbed fig leaves to cover themselves--and we've been scrambling to cover our sense of nakedness ever since . . .

I'm not sure why shame has always had such a grip on me. My grandma once told me, laughing, that my mom's first words to me were: "That baby is so ugly it can't be mine--there must have been a mix-up in the nursery." She told me the story as if it were a great family joke. Swollen and bruised from a nasty breach delivery, I must have looked like an alien life-form when I was presented to my mother. No wonder she didn't want me.

The nurses finally persuaded my mom to take me home, but I've often wondered if my newborn soul was shamed by her rejection . . . there's something wrong with me . . .

Wherever it came from, I'm sure shame will raise it's ugly head as I continue on my journey. But now that I've got some tools to help neutralize its venom, I shall travel with a much lighter heart.

And I am shamelessly anticipating my 55th year of life!

Franciscan blessing . . .

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart. Amen.

May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace. Amen.

May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection,starvation and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy. Amen.

May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen.

And the Blessing of God, who Creates, Redeems and Sanctifies, be upon you and all you love an pray for this day, and forever more. Amen.

Memorial Day, revisited

I don’t have many memories of my childhood, good or bad. Except for Memorial Day, which my family always spent in Macksville, Kansas (population 310. It increased by 7 when our dusty station wagon drove into town).
The trip from Topeka to Macksville was usually a sweaty seven hour drive through the Kansas heartland. This was in the days before video games, Ipods, VCRs, even tape decks, so my siblings and I had to be especially creative in finding ways to entertain ourselves. I was fond of making dolls out of empty pop bottles and kleenexes. My brothers would oblige me for a while before resorting to amusing themselves with vulgar bodily noises. When we got really bored, we would count (and try to identify) the dead animals along the side of the road.
When we finally cruised past the Macksville city limits sign, I always half-expected to see banners unfurled on Main Street, announcing our arrival.
“The Hurleys are here!” they should have proudly proclaimed, because with the arrival of our family, it surely seemed that summer had begun.
We’d pull up to my great-grandma’s house and swarm into her tiny kitchen. Grandma Thurow was a short, bosomy woman of Bohemian descent. She had a birthmark on her forehead–her “strawberry,” she called it–and I thought she was the most beautiful and kind grandma in the world.
She had a special drawer in her kitchen that was always filled with goodies for the grandkids. Fresh baked ginger cookies, candies and treats of all kinds were there for the taking. There were no rules about eating at grandma’s house.
More often than not, we would burst in and interrupt her in the process of making homemade egg noodles (for chicken soup), or gritsiverst (a delicious kind of German scrapple).
Pies for the big gathering on Monday sat cooling on the windowsill.
On Memorial Day, we’d pile into the our car and head for the cemetary, just south of town. The adults would visit as they arranged flowers on relative’s graves and we kids would play hide and seek among the taller tombstones. Ben, the elderly disabled veteran, would shuffle about selling red paper poppies to the townsfolk as we waited for the marching band to arrive, which was always ended by a real, live 21 gun salute.
My mom especially loved going back to Macksville for Memorial Day. She grew up on a farm outside of town and it was her chance to catch up with her childhood friends and family. Every year, I’d be pinched and patted and told I was the spitting image of my mother. And I didn’t mind. In fact, I loved the connection with the past and with family–it was like an anchor that steadied my young soul through many future storms.

(first posted in 2006)

the power of choice

The book I'm currently reading, "The Hole in our Gospel" has been quite sobering. And eye-opening. The author basically describes poverty as a lack of not only material goods--but also a lack of options. The truly oppressed have little opportunity for choices.

Think about all the choices I've made today--and I've not yet crawled out of my warm bed to dress and start the day. I chose what time Greg would bring me my morning latte. I chose to take an aspirin to relieve my headache. I chose to use indoor plumbing to access drinking water (and take care of other needs).

I chose to put on my (very expensive) glasses so I could check all the emails and other messages that came in during the night. I chose to read several Bible passages online and then share my insights with my online bible bus stop buddies. I chose to turn on the heater to take the chill off the room and put on my fuzzy robe while I sit in my cozy, dry room and listen to the rain falling outside . . .

Shortly, I will get up and choose which outfit to wear to the garden and then Home Depot today. I will choose what to eat for breakfast from a well-stocked pantry. I will choose to drive my miata to the store of my choice to get more grub . . . all these choices will happen before lunchtime today.

Over 26,000 children will die today because of their lack of choices. The basic necessities of life that we take for granted are not an option for these kids. Clean water doesn't exist; nor does food, shelter, safety or medicine. Even if the kids survive, there's no job options or education.

My dog has more choices than these children do . . . and will most likely be alive at the end of the day.

I know that many of us have "compassion fatigue"--the numbness that shrouds the heart in our affluent, choice-laden culture. We are so bombarded with statistics and images of the dead and dying around the planet that we feel impotent--and very distant--from each day's new disaster.

So we make the choice to just look the other way . . .

Our recent trip to Africa put faces to the statistics and I can no longer look away. I recently made the choice to sponsor a little girl with AIDs, and my small investment will help Kevin choose a better future--and God willing, a longer life.

You can choose, too. If you don't know where to start, I know a lot of precious children at the Uganda Jesus Village in Kampala. Make Way Partners is another ministry I support--this organization helps to rescue women and children from unspeakable abuse in the Congo and other regions.

Our choice to get involved will enable others to choose life. We can choose to make a difference.

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

7 Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Isaiah 58:6,7

the graduate

Yellie graduated last night with a Masters in TESOL (Teaching English as a Second Language). There were only two who received diplomas in that field, the first graduates of Multnomah's TESOL program. She already has a job teaching English to immigrants in her neighborhood. In fact, there are jobs waiting for Danielle all around the world . . .

It's kind of funny that Danielle picked a degree that involved teaching English, as she had difficulties pronouncing it as a child. Her troubles stemmed from the fact that she had a penchant for reading books way beyond her grade and experience level--she constantly came across words she'd never actually heard pronounced. Being slightly dyslexic and trained in phonics, Danielle came up with the most unique pronunciations of ordinary words.

So unique that it sometimes took us a while to figure out what she was talking about . . .

"Mom, why does Amy Grant sound so melatchunee?" Danielle asked one day when we were driving home from buying groceries. She was probably 13.

"Melatchunee?" I repeated, trying unsuccessfully to guess what word she'd meant.

"Yeah, she just sounds so sad when she sings," Danielle offered. "Why is that?"

"Oh, you mean melancholy," I said, tickled at her mangled interpretation. We never got to the bottom of Amy's issues, but at least I solved the mystery of the unidentified word.

Most of her "Danielle-isms" weren't too hard to decipher. Buffet was buff-ette, macabre became macaburr, she pronounced bury as burree.

Her most infamous mispronunciation occured during her undergraduate studies at Multnomah. Danielle had to give a speech in one of her classes on the Reformation. So for 20 minutes, she stood before the class and waxed eloquent on the Catholics and Protestants. Only she pronounced Protestant with the emphasis on the second syllable--protestant.

And no one pointed out her error until she'd finished her speech . . .

Maybe Danielle will have an intuitive understanding of what her non-English speaking students are trying to say because of her own experiences :) At any rate, we are so very proud of her and excited to see what doors this degree opens for her.

Danielle may have just earned her graduate degree, but in a few months she's going to be a student all over again--and learning to speak baby!

PS Krispin got to walk with Danielle last night. He graduated in December with a Bachelors in Biblical Studies and is currently pursuing a Masters in Counseling. We are so proud of him, too!

Wildflowers--revisted

I first posted this five years ago on Mother's Day. A few of the particulars have changed--for starters, all my children are now married. Candyce is in Uganda instead of Tblisi (although she's still encouraging me to adopt orphans), Lindsay lives in Portland now (thank You, Lord!) and Yellie is giving me my first grandbaby in September.

But the sentiment remains the same . . .

Danielle reminded me of how she used to pick me bouquets of wildflowers on our annual Mother's Day hike. She was the only daughter in town this year and we had a lovely (although somewhat strenous) climb up to Wahkeena Falls. And the hike was sandwiched between two blessed phone calls--the first from Candyce in Tblisi, Georgia and the second from Lindsay in LA.

Candyce only had five minutes to talk, but it was so good to hear her voice. The minutes seemed more like nano-seconds as she tried to describe for me their work with Tblisi orphans over the past few weeks.
"You need to adopt some of these kids, Mom. You can't begin to imagine what their lives are like here . . ."
Those were the last words I heard before the line went dead.

(I actually went online to see how one would go about adopting Tbilisi orphans, but Georgia no longers permits foreign adoptions. I felt so sad for those motherless children and asked the Lord to send others to Tblisi to love them).

Lindsay not only called to say Happy Mums Day, she also sent me a text message. It read:
"Do you remember that 5 Iron Frenzy song 'Dandelions'? I've been singing it all day and thinking of you: 'You see flowers in these weeds . ..' Love you Mom!"

Like that didn't make me cry. (I almost made me forget the fact that she'd forgotten to put my Mother's Day gift in the mail.) Weeds, indeed!

My daughters are most definitely wildflowers . . . beautiful and hearty, flourishing in difficult conditions far from cultured gardens or the beaten path. They are each unique and amazing, spreading the fragrance of Christ wherever they are. The three of them make a bouquet as delightful as the handfuls of flowers they brought me not so many years ago.

I have to admit it's hard to see them grow up and go their separate ways. But it's time for me to gather my little wildflowers and hand them back to God, grateful for the privilege I've had to help shape their young lives.

And there is so much to look forward to . . . like getting my first bouquet of wildflowers from my little grandbaby's hand!

Mattress World saved our marriage . . .

Does slugging your spouse in your sleep constitute domestic violence? A co-worker told me today that an Oregon man was recently carted off to jail after beating up his wife while he was deep in slumberland.

This grim news confirmed the wisdom of my purchase yesterday--two twin beds from Mattress World. This long-debated decision came after a rather violent episode in our bedroom earlier this week. Greg kicked me repeatedly in the shins until I finally hauled off and slugged him in the chest.

And then we both woke up!

While I normally don't fight back, Greg has actually been kicking me awake for years. His nocturnal thrashing is the result of nerve damage he sustained during a cervical laminectomy. Almost every night, just as I'm slipping into dreamland, his leg muscles wake up and are ready to rumba. Since I am the world's lightest sleeper, I usually wake up and crash the party.

"Can you please go sleep in the guest room?" I ask in desperation, gently shaking Greg awake. Without a word, he gets up, grabs his pillow and shuffles off to the room across the hall. Most nights I don't think he even wakes up.

I am definitely awake, however, and often unable to fall back asleep. My adrenaline is pumping from being rudely awakened, and frustration (from being kicked) and guilt (from kicking my husband out of bed) ramp up my brain. I even get mad at God some nights over this cruel pairing of a raving insomniac with a nocturnal break dancer.

I've known for some time that twin beds would be the simplest solution to our problem. But I kept putting it off, hoping either Greg would be healed or I'd adapt and sleep through his twitching. Images of Lucy and Ricky Riccardo settling down chastely for the night in their separate beds taunted me as I considered the ramifications of this decision.

But our recent kick-boxing match sealed the deal and our twin Sealy mattresses and box springs will be delivered on Saturday.

So, maybe the mattresses won't actually save our marriage :). But I'm pretty sure they will ensure our safety--and improve the quality of our sleep.

uncertainty

To be certain of God means that we are uncertain in all our ways… We are uncertain of the next step, but we are certain of God. As we abandon ourselves to God, do the task He has placed closest to us, He begins to fill our lives with surprises – Oswald Chambers
This quote encapsulates our lives right now! I don’t think I’ve ever felt as certain about God’s faithfulness–and as uncertain as to what is next for Greg and me. And has our life ever been filled with surprises–it short-circuits the mind, makes us quit trying to second-guess God and just sit back and try to enjoy the wild ride.

Most days leave me breathless . . . and wondering what tomorrow holds!

Footloose

My hands are speckled with paint as I type. Blue paint, actually, the color of the summer sky. I just finished brightening up the downstairs bathroom with the cheerful color. I prayed for the next owners of this wonderful home as I painted, remembering how smitten I was the first time I walked into the house.

The arched doorways and wrap-around porch reminded me of my great-grandmother's house in western Kansas--my favorite place this side of heaven. The creek in the backyard (artificial, but still awesome since I'd specifically prayed for a house with a creek) bubbled happily and pictures of Jesus gazed down on me from every room. The master bath had just been remodeled and now had a big jacuzzi tub and walk-in tile shower. It was love at first sight for both Greg and me. And our girls were pretty excited about the pool . . .

And we've spent a lovely six years in this home, housing children in transition and offering hospitality to friends near and far. We've hosted dinner parties, showers, Bible studies, receptions, thrown pool parties for Somalian refugees, fed hungry missionaries . . . and more. This house was a gift from God that served us well. But now it is time to move on . . .

"Mom, Africa has changed you and Dad," Candyce commented during our conversation yesterday. (Yes, she's home from the hospital, large black gallstone in a jar, resting while Steven dotes on her--which he does quite well). "I hear it in your voice, the things you say . . . I'm excited for what God has next for you!"

I suppose we did come home from Africa with a different perspective. Mostly, though, Greg and I have decided that we want to spend the time we have left doing what matters most--from God's perspective. And we've felt His nudging to downsize, simplify and get ready.

For what, exactly, we don't know. But we'll be ready to roll when He makes it clear.

Anybody interested in a fabulous house in the heart of Happy Valley?

a girl named kevin

I've never really sponsored a child before. Year ago I succumbed to the pressure of an emotional missionary pitch and "adopted" a child in some faraway land. I thought it would be a good project for the girls and me--to develop relationship with and encourage a needy child from a foreign country.

That lasted about three months, I am ashamed to say. But it was hard to feel like we were supporting--on any level--this little girl who was just a tear-stained face in a photo. All we knew was her name and her age. We tried writing letters, but never heard back (I'm not sure she spoke English). Rather than feeling connected to the child, I felt like I was mailing my monthly check into the black hole of mindless giving.

Which didn't set well with me . . .

But I am about to fill out the paperwork to sponsor a little girl at the Uganda Jesus Village. I don't have her picture in front of me, but I have her smile in my heart. I've met her, hugged her neck, listened to her giggle and heard part of her story. I don't know much yet, but here are the things I do know:

She's the youngest child at the UJV--I'd say around five years old;
She's one of the few UJV children not abducted by the LRA;
She is the only child who is HIV positive;
She needs special medicine for her condition;
Her mother is living, but too sick with AIDs to care for her child

and her name is Kevin . . .

While we were in Kampala, I asked Cameron and Jennifer how the whole sponsorship thing worked. Did the children who had sponsors eat better and have more clothes than those without? Did they get more privileges?

Cameron explained that it didn't work like that. All the money that came in for the kids basically went into a fund that paid their school fees (there's no free education in Uganda). The church that oversees the UJV--Streams of Life--provides all the food for the children at this point. Sponsors can write their children and send gifts, but the UJV staff tries to keep things pretty evenly distributed.

Jealousies can abound in that kind of situation. Candyce told me that Lucy (the girl she sponsors) got picked on and tormented because she was the flower girl in the wedding.

(The orphanage in Seeta, where Lindsay's Resty lives, has a wise policy. There are 12 children to a house there. They suggest that the sponsors buy small presents for all the children in the home when they do something for their child. Makes sense to me. I'm sending 12 journals I made from Little Golden Books with the team that's going back there in June. Resty can pick the one she likes then give the rest away).

I am excited to develop a friendship with Kevin. I can pray for her daily. I can email her messages that Cameron and Jennifer will deliver. I can visit her as often as the Lord allows. I can hear more of her story and maybe someday visit her home in northern Uganda.

And with God's help, I will!

If you are interested in sponsoring a UJV child, visit their website.

tales out of africa

I took Greg's suit and dress shirt to the cleaners yesterday. Even though he'd only worn the shirt twice, the collar was deeply stained by his sweat and the red African earth.

"Hmmm, we don't have much luck removing spray-on tan," the owner clucked, shaking his head over the soiled collar.

"It's not spray-on tan," I assured him. "Just good old African dirt."

"We don't see much of that here," he replied, peering at the rumpled garment with a little more enthusiasm. "Let's see what we can do . . ."

Just as the African dirt clings to our clothing, the memories of Africa stick close to our hearts. I've written about the exotic tapestry of sights and sounds and smells we encountered on our brief visit. But I have yet to tell you the unforgettable stories we heard.

They were tragic tales for the most part. Children orphaned by AIDs or war. Boys and girls abducted from their peaceful villages and forced into a demonic army led by an insane commander. Young adults who survived their captivity by numbing their hearts and minds and becoming ruthless killers themselves.

I don't have the time--or the heart--to tell you all the stories. But here are a few that haunt me. One little girl, who now lives at the Uganda Jesus Village in Kampala, was abducted along with her family by the LRA (the Lord's Resistance Army, led by Joseph Kony). At age five, she was forced to watch as the rebels--some not much older than she was--chopped her mother into pieces with machetes. Her captors made her gather up the severed body parts and pile them in a wheelbarrow. She was then ordered to bury her mother's bloody remains in the jungle.

You can only wonder what she dreams about at night . . .

And then there's Jennifer. Jennifer (who oversees the UJV with her husband, Cameron) lost both her parents to the rebels and was kidnapped herself when she was nine. She quickly learned that to survive, she had to be more arrogant and ruthless than the other kids. That little nine-year-old girl, who'd grown up in a loving and educated family, soon figured out that she had to kill or be killed.

After enduring the horrors of the rebel camp for a year, Jennifer and about 20 other girls tried to escape. That tale in itself is harrowing; at one point the girls (now only a handful) were recaptured by a neighboring band of LRA soldiers. They radioed the camp the girls had escaped from and were told to keep the children alive and return them. They would be used as an "object lesson" to encourage the other children in the camp not to try and escape.

Because she'd witnessed it before, Jennifer knew exactly what that gruesome lesson entailed. Each runaway would be slowly hacked into pieces with an axe--starting with their hands and feet and ending with decapitation. Unable to sleep that night, Jennifer--with bound hands and feet--slowly inched her way into the dense jungle and was followed by the other captives. They struggled silently through the thorny underbrush, painfully crawling on their knees and elbows for many hours. Then Jennifer cut her ropes using sharp rocks and set the other girls free as well.

They had several more brushes with LRA and death before they reached safety and eventually returned to what was left of their villages. She was raised by relatives and World Vision played a major role in her restoration and education.

Fifteen years later, Jennifer is finally able to talk about her hellish experience in the rebel's camp.

She told me that sharing her story with the UJV kids has been a big part of her healing process--and I know Jennifer plays a huge role in their redemption. She understands the despair of their past but offers them hope for the future.

"You have to have hope," she often told me.

I wish you could meet Jennifer. She is beautiful and funny and filled with the love of Christ. There's not a trace of bitterness in her; she forgave her tormentors a long time ago. She's a walking example of someone who has allowed the joy of the Lord to be her strength.

To know more about UJV, visit their website.

And yes, those are pictures of Candyce and her team on the home page :)

my scattered heart

We are back in Portland--arrived home yesterday about 2:30. The flights back were long but without incident until the short jaunt between Seattle and Portland. Poor Greg lost his cookies due to the turbulence; and Horizon lost our luggage somewhere between those two cities. Go figure . . .

I was sweating when we left Entebbe Sunday night (after spending a wonderful day with Cameron and Jennifer, who oversee Uganda Jesus Village) and I couldn't get warm in the frigid Portland rain after we got home yesterday. Right now, I'm sitting in front of a space heater drinking African coffee. At least my heart is warmed as I sip the rich brew and think of Africa.

Several people warned me that I would leave my heart in Africa and that appears to be the case. Pieces of my heart are now scattered across the planet: in California, where my children were born and Jonah is buried; in Kansas, where I grew up and buried my mom and grandma; in Texas, where I found Jesus and a surrogate mother in my aunt; in Alaska, where my heart and soul feel most alive; and, of course, in Oregon where I currently live.

And now a part of my heart is in Africa . . . as is my youngest child and my African son.

There's no doubt in my mind I will return.

wedding snapshots

this will be brief, as I'm packing up and getting ready to go to Streams of Life church to hear Greg preach. But I want to get some of the wedding highlights down while they are fresh in my mind . . .

Just getting ready was a trip! Candyce and Jacey had to be at the salon at 6:30 a.m. yesterday to get their hair done. Africans don't like doing mzungu hair, so give themselves plenty of time for the chore. I showed up with bagels and cream cheese at 9:30, in time to see the finishing touches put on Candyce's hair. Even though she specifically asked for no oil to be added, her hairdresser slyly worked a small amount into her hair. The shiny look is desirable in this culture I presume.

Oil was also added to my hair and then a very hot straightening iron applied. The stylist asked if I wanted my "fringe" up or down. Down, I told him. So I ended up with straight, oily hair and an overly long fringe framing my face. But at least we were all out of the salon by 10:30.

We went back to the guest house to dress and put on makeup. Three cars (two mercedes and a toyota for the parents) arrived around 1, and we made our way to the church. The processional had already started before the bride even arrived, so we all scurried to our places. I lugged a big bag with water, tissue (toilet paper, actually), camera, snacks and makeup for the bride with me to my prominent place at the very top and center of the stage.

The processional went fairly smoothly, except for the ribbon that blocked the arch the wedding party was supposed to walk through. No one had told us it was tradition for the bride to go first and cut the ribbon. Candyce, according to American tradition, went last, so all the others in the party either walked around the arch--or under the ribbon! But it all worked out and Candyce and her dad finally walked triumphantly down the aisle.

I can only describe the rest of the wedding as beautiful chaos--you will have to come see the video, I can't really explain it. It was awesome to watch Candyce and Steven wash each other's feet--and you couldn't keep from dancing when the UJV kids closed out the event with two lively African songs.

After a brief greeting, our cars whisked us all away for pictures and two hours later we arrived at the reception (at the guest house) where we were all introduced again, speeches were made, cakes were cut and we ate and danced the night away. Besides seeing my beautiful baby girl being married off to my wonderful new African son, the highlight was dancing with Resty. That girl has moves--and showed me a few!

God spared us from rain--we had a few sprinkles during the outdoor reception, but the weather passed right by. About 11 last night, however, the skies burst and it rained violently for about 2 hours. So thankful the Lord blessed us with perfect weather.

I will post more pictures and stories when we get home. Candyce and Steven are on their way to Mbosa, Kenya today for their honeymoon. It was hard to to goodbye last night, but that sadness was overshadowed at the joy we felt in welcoming Steven to the family.

Thanks for all your love, support and prayers!

rehearsal, african style

The rehearsal was quite the hoot. Was originally scheduled (by Jennifer) to start at 2:00, got postponted to 3 and eventually got underway around 4:30. TIA! (This is Africa)

Jennifer did a wonderful job overseeing the event. She reminds me of Lindsay, very good at organizing and motivating people. She'd grab an empty water bottle and pretend it was a microphone and greet the invisible audience. She's pretty no-nonsense, too, firmly ousting the small, grubby urchins who tried to join the wedding party. As far as I can tell, the church has no doors, so the whole neighborhood will be invited to the wedding :)

There were two main rules for the rehearsal: 1) Candyce is to be the center of attention at all times, and 2) be flexible! My role/position changed about 20 times as we worked through the ceremony, but I have no worries about tomorrow. I think it will all go splendidly and everyone will have a wonderful time.

The officiating pastor never showed up for the rehearsal and the Uganda Jesus Village boys (who will serve as both choir and ushers) trickled in towards the end. Greg has a major role in the ceremony, which is very cool--and not often allowed in Ugandan weddings. I'm really excited that Abdullah (my boda boda driver) has promised to come to the wedding--he loved the shirt and tie I bought him. Steven told him that the wedding is at a Christian church, but Abdullah said that was OK, he would be there.

I think Candyce and Steven's wedding will be a bit like the wedding Jesus talks about in Matthew 22, where the poor, the blind and the lame are all invited to the ceremony.

Candyce, Lucy (flower girl), Jacey (maid of honor) and I will all be driven to a salon in Mengo very early tomorrow a.m. Jennifer told us that the hairdresses here think it takes at least 3 hours to "do" mzungu hair. Cracks me up, since it takes me about 3 minutes to fix mine at home. We will take our wedding clothes, make-up, snacks, etc. and spend all morning getting gussied up--then a rented mercedes will pick us up and transport us back to the church right before the wedding. Candyce will stay in the car until it's time for her to walk down the aisle with her dad. Since the church is just a big, open air building, there's no place for a bride to wait or get ready.

The reception will be back here at the Namirembe Guest House. There will be BBQ'd goat and pork, matoke (mashed bananas) and other African fare. I hear that the guests will bring presents--and it's not uncommon for chicken and goats to be offered to the happy couple (can I bring the chicken back to Oregon, Greg?) Please pray for good weather on Saturday since most people will walk to the wedding and the reception will be out of doors.

I don't know if I'll get much chance to blog again since we've been using Candyce and Steven's computers and they will be taking them back soon. But I am going to have the wedding video'd and will take lots of pictures as I can. Candyce and Steven will head to Mbosa (Kenya) early on Sunday for the honeymoon.

Greg is preaching twice at Streams of Life church on Sunday, we are spending the day with pastors and new friends and then finally will be dropped off at the airport at 10 Sunday night. To start our long, sad trip home . . .

I will have a showing of the video and pictures when we get back (and recover from jetlag). If you are anywhere near Oregon, you are invited to come and virtually celebrate with us!

Thank you for all your love and prayers! Truly wish you all could join us!

Your Smartness is our Pride

Greg refuses to blog, but I thought I'd relay some of his impressions in today's post. Yesterday as we were walking through the Mengo district (kind of like a suburb of Kampala), he commented on the smells of urban Africa.
"There are three dominant odors," he remarked as we stepped across a gutter filled with trash and muddy water. "Garbage, burning garbage and exhaust."

Despite the fact that piles of garbage, in varying states of combustion and decay, are everywhere, the people here are impeccably clean. I've seen women walk out of the lowliest of mud huts, pick their way gracefully through the sticky red African mud, looking impossibly pristine. Their clothes are spotless and pressed to perfection. Someone told us recently that Ugandans think Americans always look rumpled!

Driving home from dinner last night (at a very posh western-style resort where Candyce and Steven will spend their wedding night), we drove by clusters of people who were sweeping dirt from the streets (which are made of dirt). The people here don't have much, but I've seen incredible care go into maintaining what they do have. What a lesson for us!

The other thing Greg gets a kick out of is the signage here. We've tried to memorize some of the quirkier signs. Greg's favorite is the banner over a clothing store in downtown Kampala: Your Smartness is our Pride! (Candyce says that Africans like to look smart). Other signs of interest: Glory Be Take Out, Blessed Man Garment Company, Hallelujah Market, Avoid Morning Sex (we have no idea what this means) and Eat Your Way to Better Sex (we wish we knew more about this).

Most businesses, even banks, have some kind of christianese as part of their title--so the opposite of Oregon!

Today we are just chillin' at the guest house. The wedding rehearsal is at 2 (which means it will probably start around 4). I am sad to think how quickly our time here is drawing to an end . . .

Robert, the Bugandan driver

Robert, our driver, was wearing an odd-looking tie yesterday. It wasn't a tie, really, just a tie-shaped scrap of fabric he had pinned to his shirt.

"What's with the tie, Robert?" I inquired.

"Oh, it is to show that I am of the Baganda tribe," he explained. He then told me that the "tie" was made from the bark of a tree which is used by the Bugandan people. The material was kind of a cross between burlap and the husk of a coconut--and the same reddish-brown color of African dirt.

Come to think of it, I seen lots of the locals wearing bits of the fabric--strips tied around their arms, waists and heads. The reason the Bugandan people were wearing the fabric was to show their solidarity after the ancient tomb of four of their royal kings was burned to the ground last Monday.

Rioting actually broke out in Kampala, resulting in several fatal shootings the day after we arrived. Tensions were high--some were saying that the president of Uganda, Museveni, torched the tombs as a political slap in the face to the current King of Buganda (there are many different tribes in Uganda. The Baganda tribe resides in and around Kampala, which is the capital of Uganda. The president is not Bugandan, however, and there has been conflict for the past 60 years between the government and the Baganda people over land ownership and other matters).

A few days ago, President Museveni published a speech in the paper which denied the government had anything to do with the fire. He blamed wicked elements of society and quoted Galations 6:9, affirming that these evil doers would reap what they had sown.

I asked Robert what he thought about the matter. He replied that it really made no sense for the government to do such a thing and that it was probably bad people from a rival tribe.

We are learning a lot from Robert. He is very wise. He is also a good driver and a very hard worker. I asked it he would get to take Easter day off, and he replied: "Only if there are no jobs. If there is a job, I will take it. We must sweat to make a living here in Uganda."

We found out last night that his brother and sister-in-law both died of AIDs a few years back. Robert is now putting their children through school--which is expensive. He told us that his father is suffering from an undiagnosed disease which has rendered his legs useless. He is very weak and experiences tremors. They have visited many doctors, Robert told me, but he has not improved. His dad's name is Geoffrey if you want to pray for him.

Robert speaks Lugandan and is trying to teach a few words. I've managed to pick up a few words and phrases, which I've used liberally in the markets. My very bad pronunciation usually elicits a smile or laugh, but, as Robert says, that is good.

When people ask how I am doing, I say, "bulungi!" Which means "I am good!"

Which I am!

resty, my african grandchild

So, Danielle isn't due until September, but I met my African grand daughter today. It was kind of a miracle--we didn't really know if we'd even get to the orphanage on this trip. But Candyce and Steven were busy this afternoon and Robert wasn't, so we made the 45 minute drive to the orphanage in Seeta this afternoon.

Betty, the director of Adventure village, met us when we arrived and gave us a tour of the facility. It was amazing--just four years old and they already house, feed and educate over 800 children. We asked if we could see the little girl Lindsay sponsors and Betty expressed doubt since there were so many children and we only had a first name.

Resty . . .

Lindsay had decided to sponsor her after coming to work at the orphanage with Abundant Life 4 years ago. The first time I saw a picture of Resty, I knew she was such a special child. The sweet sadness in her eyes haunted me . . . I prayed for her every time the Lord brought her to mind. I sent her a journal I'd made for her this past Christmas.

But never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd get to meet her!

I prayed all the way to the orphanage that we'd be able to find Resty. Candyce has been unable to locate her when she visited a few weeks ago. But Betty said she'd try to track down all the little girls named Resty for me to see if I could identify ours . . .

The first little girl Betty brought out for us was unmistakably Lindsay's Resty! Her beautiful brown eyes, shy smile, sweet spirit--it was her. It helped to see that she was hugging the journal I'd made her closely to her chest. I hugged her tiny frame and announced that we were Lindsay's parents. She beamed and opened the journal to show me a letter she'd written on the last page to our daughter.

She called Lindsay "mom".

Prompted by Betty, Resty told me she was the head prefect of her class (I think she's grade 3). That sounded impressive enough, but I didn't find out until later that meant she was the top student in her grade and considered the teacher's assistant!

Betty asked Resty if she'd like to show us her room, so she eagerly took us to her small house. Each house at the orphanage houses 12 children who are supervised by one mum. Resty proudly showed us her room, pointing out her bed and her schoolwork which decorated the wall behind her bunk. Then she squatted down and opened up a small suitcase next to her bed.

"I have something for Lindsay," she told us. Resty carefully removed all over her worldly possessions from the small bag, each item carefully folded and neatly arranged. Underneath the clothing she'd stowed several letters from Lindsay. She read us the one Lindsay'd sent her at christmas.

Then she pulled out to hand-decorated envelopes and told us they were for Lindsay. I tucked them lovingly into my purse, assuring Resty I would deliver the mail.

Before we left the orphanage, I invited both Betty and Zion, the head teacher, to Candyce's wedding. She'd met them once, so they considered themselves good friends. The best part is that they agreed to bring Resty! So I left money for some new shoes for her and I will go shopping tomorrow to buy her a dress.

How fun will that be? Speaking of the wedding, I bought Abudullah (my muslim boda boda driver) a shirt and tie today and Steven will invite him to the wedding as well.

Oh, I wish you all could be here for the big event!

shower shoes and crazy zoos

So, Candyce tells me she's getting a kick out of showing us around Africa. Since it's all new to us, it reminds her of the first time she came to this continent.

But mostly, I think we just make her laugh.

Take, for instance, the fact that I tried to wear shower shoes to church yesterday--which would have been the worst fashion faux pas imaginable. I was actually kind of dressed up for me--in a skirt, nice top and matching flip flops. It just so happens that my flip flops look exactly like what most Africans consider to be lowly shoes to be worn only in the bathroom.

Luckily, Candyce noticed my footwear and told me to go change them before our ride to church arrived. I told her it would be nice to know such important cultural practices in advance. She just laughed.

She didn't laugh at me today, though, after our boda boda ride downtown to get her bridesmaid's dress fitted. I jabbered happily away with the driver, relieved to discover that he was "born again." He got quite chatty when I told him my husband was a pastor and seemed reluctant to quit talking when we reached our destination. Candyce finally came over and drug me away right about the time he started asking if I could sponsor his children to come to America . . .

This afternoon we went to the zoo in Kampala. All us mzungus were charged four times what Steven and Robert had to pay. As usual, Candyce protested the injustice, but to no avail. I must say, though, that the zoo was worth every schilling. You could tell the animals all felt quite at home--they were all native African creatures. Their enclosures were so casual that you could have climbed in and communed with any of the critters if you'd cared to. We got so close to the rhinos that we could hear him huffing as he munched on the abundant grass. I could have nearly reached out and stroked his leathery hide.

The monkeys were amazing--and running freely throughout the park. Candyce is terrified of monkeys, so I never really got close enough to take good pictures (or get attacked, according to her). We saw poisonous lizards snaking through the grass along the side of the zoo road. It was all quite exciting!

We ate lunch at a wonderful pizza place right on the shores of Lake Victoria. We sat outside and enjoyed the afternoon breeze and devoured three tropical pizzas and a BBQ'd tilapia (caught in the lake that very day!) We've had amazingly good food since we arrived--one night we went to a cafe that specializes in steak. The food was superb, but the combined odors of sewage, garbage, kerosine and insect repellent (we were eating outside) made us all a little queasy. Funny how that little sense of smell can have such a big impact!

We are enjoying our stay here at the Namirembe Guest House. We've met lots of interesting folks from around the planet--here on mission trips, relief work, to adopt children . . . it has been fascinating to hear their stories. One medical missionary told us of a fatal bus crash they saw coming back from their clinic in Jinja just the other day. Most of the passengers died--some because no ambulance or help could get to them in time because of the congestion on the roads. He is developing a boda boda that can get medical help to the scene of accidents and carry injured people to the hospital! What an amazing blessing that would be in this place!

I want to write about the government and all the armed men we see everywhere--even armed guards at the zoo! But I'm running out of power and we need to go plan a wedding.

snippets of africa

Well, here we are, smack dab in the middle of our stay in Uganda. The plane trip here was just that--a trip! We changed planes in Seattle and Amsterdam--our three hour lay-over in Amsterdam was extended by another two when we had to change planes because the first one we boarded developed a fuel leak. We watched two fire trucks pull up as they unloaded our luggage--and were meekly herded to a less flammable jet.

After 26 hours of travel, we arrived in Entebbe--cleared customs easily and had a joyous reunion with Candyce and Stephen. We got checked into the Namerimbe Guest House around midnight and got to bed around 1 a.m. (after changing rooms 3 times. Don't ask!)

Day one we just kind of chilled, went into Kampala after we rested/cleaned up and hit the African craft market. Candyce and Stephen gave us a crash course on how to barter, which I failed miserably. I would just think about the poverty we'd driven past to get to the market and would end up paying almost the full price. My spiritual gift is mercy . . .

The next day we drove to Jinja and saw Bujangali Falls and took a short boat ride to the mouth of the Nile. Pretty amazing sights! The weather has been good, hot and sunny during the cay, cooling off nicely at night. We have really seen many animals--these weird vulture-like things that hang out around the dumps (seriously, driving back from Jinja I watched small children digging through the endless dumps with those giant birds poking around right next to them. The birds were bigger than some of the children!) We saw a monitor lizard at the mouth of the Nile. Robert, our driver, got quite agitated and told us they are very dangerous. But that's not as close to danger as I've gotten.

Yesterday, I had my first boda boda ride. Bodas are small motorbikes which dominate the streets of Kampala, weaving in and out of traffic with reckless abandon (I've been told Bodas are one of the main causes of trauma in Kampala and it's not hard to believe). Candyce and I decided to go get our nails done in a salon across town, and we decided to take bodas to get there. Stephen was a little worried about me, so he arranged for a young driver he'd previously ridden with to take me.

"Take good care of the mom," he sternly warned the young man.

It was probably 80 degrees by mid-morning, but my driver, Abdullah, wore a heavy winter jacket and a helmet. He grinned at me widely, then we started off for Garden City (the muzungu side of town). Always one to stick my foot in my mouth, I leaned forward and asked, "So, do you know Jesus?"

I'm not sure why his odd hat and non-African name didn't clue me into the fact that this was a stupid question.

"I am muslim," Abdullah answered, taking his eyes off the road to stare at me momentarily.

"Oh, then you know Jesus as the prophet, right?" I asked, wondering if I would end up in a ditch somewhere.

"Oh, yes!" he agreed cheerfully, and then proceeded to drive more carefully than any boda boda driver in the history of the planet. He pointed out anything of interest as we motored along, weaving deftly in and out of traffic, always carefully avoiding potholes. It really was a wonderful ride, and he even agreed to hang out and wait until we did our girl things at the salon.

On the ride home, Abdullah actually told me a bit of his life story. His parents died when he was young, so he had to work to put himself through school (there are no public schools, all education costs money here). He'd finally graduated grade 12 and found a job as a boda boda driver.

"Do you like this?" I asked as we dodged a herd of goats crossing the street.

"What choice do I have," he asked, shrugging through the heavy, soiled coat.

I hope to see Abdullah again . . .

Today we worshipped at the Streams of Life church where Candyce will be married. Greg and I were introduced to the whole congregation, who were all invited to the wedding. The service lasted 2 1/2 hours, which was shorter than usual we were told. After church, we were invited to lunch at Candyce's wedding coordinator's house--and so I had my first home-cooked African meal since our arrival.

It was amazing! Jennifer, who is married to a muzungu from Canada and helps run Uganda Jesus Village--a home and school for former child soldiers--cooked a wonderful meal of mashed bananas, stewed liver, seasoned beef, rice and fresh pineapple. Jennifer, who is a former child soldier herself, is so filled with the love and grace of God that it was hard not to just stare at her sometimes.

Such beauty from ashes! I look forward to spending more time with her and her family and the children she loves--some of the boys will be singing at Candyce's wedding!

So, Candyce's wedding is my main mission on this trip, but I'm grateful for the short snippets of culture I've experienced so far.

conflicted

The closer it gets to our departure date for Africa (which is tomorrow), the more conflicted I feel.

For one thing, I am still sick. And if you read my last blog, you know that I do not like to suffer. Being sick is bad enough in your own home--but having to travel across the planet with a hacking cough and inflamed sinuses does not sound like a good time to me.

Or for the person next to me on the plane, for that matter . . .

I'm sure I will survive, however, and will arrive in Kampala restored to health and ready to help my youngest daughter plan the third--and final--of the Strannigan girls' weddings.

Which I am conflicted about as well.

Not the fact that she's getting married--we love Stephen and think he's the perfect match for Candyce. I just struggle with the fact that we don't know when--or if--she'll ever come back to Oregon. They are working on getting Stephen a visa, but only God knows when that will be granted. Chances are that Candyce will miss the birth of the first baby in our family. And I can't even think about her children being born and raised half a world away from me!

And while Candyce puts on a brave front, I know she is conflicted as well. Maybe that's not the right word, because she decided a long time ago to obey God, no matter what sacrifice that required. For the sake of the call (and marriage to Stephen is part of His call on her life), she's left family, friends, security and comfort. I know she struggles with that loss at times, and that selfishly makes me glad. At least then, we can share the pain of being apart. How I thank God for skype and the internet!

Africa itself is the final matter I'm conflicted about. Maybe I know too much, but it's hard for me to go as a tourist. I know the trip is mainly about Candyce and Stephen's wedding, and I am excited for that. But we will also be doing touristy things--seeing the sights, haggling at the markets, and going on safari. It feels strange not to be going for ministry purposes.

Just last night, I was reading a Uganda travel guide about Murcheson Falls National Park, one of the spots we hope to visit. Two entire pages in this section were devoted to Joseph Kony, the founder of the Lord's Resistance Army (people were gunned down in the park by the LRA in recent years).

The author describes how Kony's rebels killed 48 people in Northern Uganda in 2002: (WARNING, this is quite graphic!)

"The adults were hacked apart with machetes and knives, the young children beaten against a tree until their skulls smashed open--before they abducted an estimated 100teenagers. Later that year, the LRA executed 28 villagers, chopped off their heads and limbs, boiled them in a pot, and had been about to force the surviving villagers to eat the human stew when the government army arrived."

Not your typical travel guide commentary! Suddenly I wasn't so interested in visiting the park. Not because I was scared; but how could I go merrily sight-seeing as a naive tourist when I know that such violence still happens daily in Africa? I'd rather be working alongside Candyce and Stephen, taking the love of Christ to those broken ones who have survived such atrocities. (Did I mention that Candyce will have a choir of former child soldiers singing in her wedding?)

One thing I'm not conflicted about--I am planning to go back to Africa this summer! Lord willing, I will return with one purpose--to be the heart and hands of Jesus to all I encounter, be they orphans or widows or former LRA soldiers.

And how blessed I will be to have Stephen and Candyce Mogga Wani as my teachers and guides!