debily

With all the coverage in the news about the devastation in Haiti, it’s hard to think about much else these days.  And while that’s not necessarily a bad thing, I’ve found myself more and more thinking about Africa.  Uganda, in particular.  Remembering.  Reflecting.  Trying not to forget what I saw, what I experienced, what I learned.

A couple days ago, I had a dream about the children of Gulu.  I dreamed I was back there, watching them dance and listening to them sing.  In my heart, I ached to join them, to wrap my arms around them and laugh with them.  But they didn’t remember me.  They had moved on and I had been left behind.  I desperately wanted to help, to be involved with them, to be part of their daily lives, but I was an outsider and was not welcomed in.

That dream has stirred my heart to wonder: where do I fit in it all?  How do I keep my heart tender and sensitive to the great needs, the dire situations they face daily, while still focusing on my own family and the ministries God has called me to here in the states?  What does God want me to do with Uganda?

I don’t know the answers to those questions.  I’m still searching.  And I know that in time, those answers will come.  God will reveal His plan to me when the time is right, and when my heart is ready.  But until then, I will do what I can to remember the people of Gulu, the Acholi who have suffered so much.

I will tell others to raise awareness.  (please check out this link - sent by my brother - that provides good information and disturbing photographs of the very real situation faced daily by the Acholi: http://halsey.cofc.edu/exhibitions/2010/01_africa/01_genocide_HM.php)

I will pray.

I will give.

And hopefully someday soon, I will return.

Well, it’s that time again.  The calendar tells me it’s a brand-new year.  And although I sit here, finding it nearly impossible to believe that another 365 days have come and gone, I know it’s true.  Each year, January 1 finds me optimistic: a whole calendar year spread out before me, 365 days filled with possibilities: adventures, new friends, times of fun and celebration…all waiting to be lived.

Which begs the question:  How WILL I live those days? Will I treasure each day, fulfilling the promise each new dawn brings?  Will I capture the opportunities that come my way, recognizing the divine appointments God provides me?  Or will I waste my time with empty pursuits, meaningless activity, or futile thinking?  Will I face each day looking forward with a sense of optimism and anticipation, or will I spend more time looking back, longing to recapture once was and can never be again?

This year, as I reflect on that question, I realize it may be time for a change.  So, with that in mind, this year is the year of the “Re-Solutions”: a  year to re-focus, re-new, re-dedicate, and re-fresh.

Re-focus

Last year began with our family undergoing a tremendous challenge.  And throughout those months of uncertainty and waiting, it was easy to focus on each other.  We needed each other.  We had no idea what the outcome would be, so we clung tightly together out of necessity.  But now that life has returned to a sense of “normalcy”, I’ve found myself being distracted from making my family the focus of my attention.  So this year, I will re-focus my energy and time on my family: on carving out time daily for my children and husband to have my undivided attention, to talk together, to build into one another’s lives through shared activities and interests.  I will re-focus my energy on deepening the love - and friendship - that Matt and I share, and commit myself to ensuring that our marriage continues to grow stronger through the challenges we face.

Re-new

Over the past year, I have witnessed the beauty of friendship.  And I realized, more than once, how blessed I am to have such wonderful friends.  This year, I will re-new friendships…both by embracing and welcoming new friends into my life, and by strengthening the bonds I share with tried-and-true friends.  Whether it’s sharing a meal, playing games, shopping, scrapping, or simply talking on the phone, I will take the opportunity to reach out to those who are part of my world and become a part of theirs.

Re-dedicate

Over the past months, I’ve definitely become a victim to bad habits once again.  Those disciplines that once were such an important part of my daily routine have fallen by the wayside.  So this year, I will re-dedicate myself to those things that make me healthier: physically, mentally, and spiritually.  I will commit to regular Bible study both individually and as part of a community.  I will make going to the gym regularly a priority, and will rededicate myself to truly healthy South-Beach eating habits once again.  I will continue to challenge myself to grow professionally, and will be open to God’s leading, whatever the direction may be.

Re-fresh

As we exit 2009 and enter 2010, I can feel a need for refreshing in my spirit.  Throughout the past year, I have found myself more than once in a dark, gloomy place.  The new year provides me with an opportunity for “in-the-light” living.  And while I still struggle with those familiar temptations, I know that the victory is already mine…and that hope can give me the strength and the courage to live looking forward.  Throughout 2010, I will find ways to refresh my spirit, through times of reflection, recreation, and rest.

May this year be a year of re-discovering all that God has in store for us!

The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy.

I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.

John 10:10

An unusual thing happened today.  It snowed.  Which means that quite possibly for the very first time in my life I will experience a true “white Christmas.”

The snow began sometime between noon and 1, while my children were eating lunch.  I was standing in the kitchen making sandwiches, and Trey asked if it was snowing yet.  I looked out the window and could tell that although the precipitation was frozen, it was not yet snow.  And then, all of a sudden, there it was.  Big, fat, fluffy white snowflakes being driven across the yard by gusty north winds.

“God must be either crying or sweating,” Trey commented, using his childlike explanation for rain.

“But it’s Christmas Eve!  Why would God be crying?  This is the time we celebrate His Son’s birth, and I would think that would make Him happy,” I responded.

“Maybe it’s tears of joy,” Trey answered.

And that made me stop.  Right in the middle of making a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, knife in hand.  Looking outside and seeing the snow, I told him, “You know what?  I like to think of this snow as confetti from heaven.  God’s own ticker-tape parade to celebrate and announce the birth of His Son so everyone can celebrate with Him.”

My children smiled and were satisfied with that.

And I realized the power of that moment.  I remember clearly the night my own son - my firstborn son - arrived.  Though it wasn’t in a stable but rather in a crowded operating room with doctors and nurses and a NICU team on hand ready to assist if needed, I can remember the exceeding joy at seeing his precious face and mop of black hair for the first time…of hearing his hearty cry…of wrapping my arms around him and cradling his little perfectly formed body close to mine, watching him breathe and feeling his tiny heart beat.  Quickly we shared the news with friends and family, and over the next few days we had a parade of visitors in and out of our little hospital room, coming to see this new life and dreaming with us of how this little one would change the world.

Two thousand years ago, God gave us the miracle of His son through human birth.  This proud Heavenly Father was present in that very stable, His glory evident through the light of a mysterious star appearing overhead.  He announced His son’s birth not with email or cell phones, but with the hosts of heaven - legions of angels singing together in a mighty, deafening chorus: “Glory to God in the highest!”  And those few who visited this Child were forever impacted by the One who came to change the world.

So how fitting it is to have a “white Christmas.”  The redeeming work of God’s Son, come to save us.  To cleanse us.  To make our sins “as white as snow.”  To completely cover all our failings, our struggles, our faults, and make us pure and holy in God’s sight.  A once-for-all act of sacrifice, that allows us hope of life eternal.

This year, I know I’m not dreaming of a “white Christmas.”  It’s a reality, in more ways than one.  And I know that because of the gift of salvation, my days will be merry and bright…and all my Christmases will be white.

I am Second.

Those of you in the Dallas area have probably seen the billboards, heard the radio ads, watched the tv spots, or perhaps even ventured to the website.  For those of you outside the Metroplex, I am Second simply reflects a lifestyle characterized by God is first.

Today, our church began a new sermon series for the Christmas season based on the I am Second campaign.  Except instead of using local celebrities -  athletes, artists, executives, and personalities - we’re using biblical characters central to the Christmas story and examining how they typified a life where God was first.  Our first example was Mary, the mother of Christ.

A simple, ordinary Jewish girl.  A girl with hopes and aspirations of living a normal life.  A girl who dreamed of marrying and having children, of parties and celebrations with friends and extended family, of experiencing all of life that the culture of that time afforded.  A girl with nothing to offer God, certainly, in terms of status or notoriety.  A simple girl from a simple town.  And yet…

“And having come in, the angel said to her, ‘Rejoice, highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!’”  (Luke 1:28 NKJV)

Highly favored.  Blessed.  Spoken to her by the messenger of God Himself.

She could have cowered in fear.  She could have offered excuses.  She could have - dare I say it? - agreed.  She did not.

Instead, she offered herself wholeheartedly, unreservedly, willingly:

“Let it be to me according to your word.”

And through her, we were given a Savior, a Redeemer, a hope and a future.

I find myself deeply challenged by Mary’s example.  By her willingness to follow, to trust in God’s plan for her, to not allow her fears about her own future to be a hindrance to obedience.  I am humbled by her humility, that although she carried the very person of God Himself within her womb she did not consider herself to be god-like.  I am inspired by her faith, that although she faced rejection from her family, her friends and even her future husband, she responded with an unwavering and unquestioning belief in God’s absolute faithfulness.  I am convicted by her sincerity, that in the face of a difficult and daunting task, she offered praise and adoration and worship of God’s greatness.  I am encouraged by her simplicity, that though she too was fallen and sinful, God was able to use her to accomplish His perfect plan of redemption.

And I am reminded, once again, of the power of being second.  Like Mary, may my hands and heart always be open and willing to follow His leading.  May my prayer be like that of Mary’s:  Let it be to me according to Your word.

May I be second so that He can be first.

Tonight was the fulfillment of a dream come true for Crisana, apparently.  It was the annual downtown McKinney Christmas Parade - the “Parade of Lights” - and her Daisy Girl Scout Troop had chosen to participate.  Our theme was “The Nutcracker”, so some girls dressed as mice and some as nutcrackers.  And Crisana?  Of course, she was a ballerina.

It was a COLD evening, even by New England standards.  The daytime high had been somewhere in the upper 30’s and the lows that evening were projected to be in the 20’s.  But despite the chill - and having to stand in it for an hour before the parade even got going - Crisana never complained.  She loved the thought of being the center of attention and being part of such an exciting event.

The floats went first and there were several other Girl Scout troops walking in the parade, so we waited until nearly the end before we had our moment of glory.  But Crisana rose to the occasion - literally - walking en pointe the whole way, working the crowd at every opportunity, and living her dream.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get many pictures, but thankfully our troop leader did, and she made this video “scrapbook” of the occasion.  Enjoy!

It’s that time of year again.  That time to go see The Big Guy himself: the jolly old man with the twinkle in his eye and the furry red suit.  It’s time to go see Santa!

We have visited the same Santa every year since Trey’s first Christmas.  As far as our family is concerned, he’s the real deal.  And sometimes, he gives me a little glimpse into the character of God.  This year was no exception.

Unfortunately, the comparison was a little different.  We had actually visited a different Santa first, at the Dickens of a Christmas festival in downtown McKinney.  This Santa took the time to interact with both our children, asking them what they wanted and responding to their requests.  He took a genuine interest in them and made them feel special.  He listened to what they said, and seemed to enjoy getting to know them.  Even when a line formed behind us, he didn’t hurry the children off.  He made sure the conversation came to a natural conclusion before he wished us well and told us he’d be by on Christmas Eve.

By contrast, our “regular” Santa was quite different this year.  Perhaps it was the fact that we showed up just a few minutes before closing time.  Perhaps it was the fact that there was a cute little baby in front of us.  Perhaps it was the fact that Santa was tired…or busy…or cold…or hungry.  The fact was, we were hurried through the process with very little interaction or interest.  Though Santa remembered us, he was not as welcoming or inviting to the children.  I almost felt as though we were imposing.  So we quickly gathered our coats and gloves and left, having spent less than 5 minutes with the one my children had waited 11 months to see.

I was deeply saddened by that encounter.  Disappointed.  Even a little hurt and angry.  As I thought about it that night and contrasted our two experiences, I was reminded of myself…and how I approach God.  Now, I realize God is more than a cosmic Santa Claus.  But like that first Santa, he welcomes us as we come to Him.  He has eternity available to Him, so time doesn’t matter.  He wants to know us, to hear our requests, to have us share with Him and talk to Him and take time just to be with Him.  He’s never too busy, or too tired, or too cold, or too hungry to spend time with us.  He loves us.  We are precious to Him.

But too often, I am like our regular Santa.  Preoccupied.  Distracted.  Put off with other things.  I may take a few moments here and there to spend time with God…but then it’s rush-rush-rush off to somewhere else.  And even in those few moments I spend, my mind wanders, thinking about things I need to do, people I would rather be with, or tasks I want to accomplish.  My Heavenly Father waits patiently for me…yet I treat Him more as an obligation than a precious Friend.  I perform my required duty without taking the time to develop and cultivate a relationship.  And because of that, I miss out on His blessing.  The joy of His presence.  The beauty of His fellowship.  And the richness of a life devoted to listening, hearing, and following Him.

This season, may I take the time amidst the busy-ness to listen.  To hear.  To rest.  To enjoy.  But most of all, to be filled with all that He is, and all that He can be through me.

Dateline: 7:17 P.M. Gulu time.  That’s 9:17 A.M.  CST for those of you keeping score at home.

MEETING THE CHILDREN!

Today we finally got to meet the children!  It was a day of celebration for us all!

The children are trucked in from one of 5 different IDP camps around Gulu.  They range in age from infants to older teenagers.  All of them have been identified as orphans and are served by Village of Hope.  We met at the Gulu Baptist Primary School, which has a large open field where the children performed for us.

They had pulled out their desks from the classrooms in order to have places for us to sit.  They placed our benches underneath the trees while they crowded onto the benches in the sun or sat on the ground.

There were probably 200-300 children at the school today.  Unfortunately, due to recent rains one of the groups was not able to get there.  The rains made the road unpassable for their truck, and so they had to stay behind.  It took two trips in our van to get us all there, so while we waited for the rest of the group to arrive, Jennifer and I “worked the crowd”, greeting the children and shaking their hands.  The children were very polite, if quiet, bowing to us as we said hello, and smiling shyly as we complimented them.  It was obvious they had worn their very best clothes for this special occasion, but most of them were still barefoot and their clothes often were stained or had holes and tears in them.  I thought of the vast amounts of clothes my children have hanging in their closets, stuffed into their drawers and was humbled and deeply grateful for God’s provision and grace in our lives.

As we waited, one boy in particular began doing cartwheels.  As soon as he realized I was watching, he began “performing”, and soon two other boys joined in.  They ended up dizzy and lying flat on the ground, but we were all laughing.  And seeing all that joy on their faces made me realize why I am here.

The groups came up one by one to perform for us: songs, memory verses, dances.  The traditional dances were my favorites, with the older boys beating out the rhythm on the drums and all the children from about 6 years old on up dancing to the beat and singing in their native Acholi language.  You could see the pure joy of escaping their harsh reality on their faces as they danced and sang.  For a few short moments, they had a community.  They had a place to be accepted, a place to belong.  They were the stars, admired by us.

We enjoyed lunch in one of the classrooms at around 3 P.M.  Slowly, I’m learning what being on “African time” means.  We were served first, and then each camp lined up to receive their food from the kitchen.  We were served meat in addition to the rice, beans, posho, bananas, and cabbage, but the children did not receive any meat.  While we were waiting for all the groups to be served, one group went into the classroom next door to us and had an impromptu jam session.  Of course, I had to go check it out.

By this time, after two 750 mL bottles of water and a bottle of Coca-Cola, it was time.  Time for the visit I was so not looking forward to.  Time to make the trek out to the pit latrines.  Now, I’ve done enough camping to be fine with using pit latrines.  However, in Uganda, most latrines are not made with Western-style seats.  No, my friends, they are squatty-potties.  Honestly, I would be more comfortable digging my own trench in the brush than having to use one of those. But that was not a choice, so off I went.  As I entered the dark stall, I was greeted with the raw smell and the “eww factor” of bodily fluids spilled onto the floor.  My first thought was I’m so glad my children aren’t here to have to deal with this.

And instantly, I was ashamed.

Ashamed of myself and my pride.  Ashamed for believing that in some way I deserve better than these people.  That my children deserve better.  Ashamed for wanting to shelter my children from the harsh reality that these children live out every day.  These beautiful orphans are someone’s children…someone who probably wanted to protect them as fiercely as I desire to protect mine.  And now they have no one to do that.  It’s up to us to make a difference in these children’s lives.

The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting and interacting with the children.  At the close of the day, we were each given an opportunity to speak to the children through an interpreter.  I spoke of the joy I saw in them as they sang and danced, and how it brought joy to my heart.  I thanked them for their hospitality and friendship and reminded them of the fact that they always have a friend in God…and now a new friend in America.

The trucks came shortly thereafter to pick up the children by groups.  Even though they had nothing to go back to, the children ran eagerly to their trucks and climbed aboard.  As they drove off, you could hear them calling and see them waving to us:  “Bye!!  Bye!!”  Our vans arrived and we loaded ourselves in to head back to town to the hotel.  I realized just how different my life is than the ones we had met today, and I was challenged that it is only by the grace of God that I enjoy these blessings.

Dateline: 8:48 P.M. Gulu time.  That’s 11:48 A.M. CST for those of you keeping score at home.

REFLECTIONS ON GULU

I had the opportunity today to walk around this “vibrant” city and see it firsthand.  To witness the activity of daily life here with my own eyes.  To experience its movement, its rhythm, its pace.  To see the faces and look into the eyes of the people I have waited many months to be connected to.  These are the things I noticed:

• First and foremost, I saw a boy (probably about 8 or 9 years old) wearing a Texas Aggies windbreaker!  It was dirty and hardly could be called “maroon” any more, but there it was, plain as day, emblazoned on the back: “Texas Aggies.”  I so wanted to take his picture.  And for the record, not a single stitch of Longhorns attire to be seen anywhere.  The Spirit of Aggieland lives in Africa.
• Gulu is - on the surface, at least - “busy.”  there is activity going on all the time with people milling about and walking from place to place.  There are no sidewalks, so the streets are crowded with pedestrians, bicyclists, boda-bodas, and vehicles (mostly large trucks and passenger vans…most people don’t have means to own cars.  And why would you want to with the condition of these “roads?”) .  But as I looked around me, I noticed a hollowness, an emptiness to their lives.  It almost seems as if they’re trying to look busy or act busy for the sake of something to do.
• Survival here is a full-time job.  From the moment people wake up to the time they go to bed late at night, their daily routine revolves around surviving.  Meals take hours to cook over charcoal fires that line the streets.  Shopping involves hopscotching from one shop to another, always negotiating for the best deal, never accepting anything at face value.  Nothing is simple, yet their lives are far less complicated than ours in the States.  Nothing is easy, yet the hardships are accepted without complaint.  There seems to be a predicable routine to life here.  The pace is comfortable to them.  It’s an ebb and flow that makes sense to them and their way of life.  Survival may be much more difficult here, but they find a way to make it work.
• There were lots of children out and about all day long.  We saw some girls and boys - mostly teenagers or young tweens - in uniforms as if going to school.  But there was a much larger presence of children who were NOT in school - many appearing to be of school age - who were either left to loiter at the family business or were working themselves.  All day long we passed unattended children out walking the streets, whether on the roads to the villages or around the bustling center of town.  Some of these children were obviously preschoolers, with no older siblings or parents around to watch over them.
• The people are friendly and warm, as I was told they would be.  They are very curious about Americans and our technology, especially our cameras!  Many Africans have cell phones, but our digital cameras seem to fascinate them.  Whenever we drive along the streets, people wave and greet us and children run alongside the van yelling “Hi!! Hi!!”  We stand out - for obvious reasons - despite our efforts to “blend in.”
• Gulu is dirty - trash piles of rotting food and waste line the streets.  You can look down an alley and see it filled 3 feet deep with garbage of all kinds.  There are no trash cans visible anywhere and recycling is non-existent.  People throw their trash down wherever they happen to be standing, regardless of the environmental impact.  The roads are semi-paved throughout the center of town, but are nothing more than hard-packed dirt once you reach the outskirts or turn off a main road.  They are filled with potholes and deep ruts that make driving a slow, tedious process.  However, it’s neater than I expected, with evidences of western influence in clothing and economy.  The hotel is comfortable, if sparsely decorated, with warm and friendly service that would put most Americans to shame.

And now, since a picture is worth a thousand words, I give you the “vibrant” city of Gulu. Continue Reading »

Dateline:  2:37 P.M. Gulu time.  That’s 7:37 A.M. CST for those of you keeping score at home.

WE HAVE ARRIVED!

It’s been 38 hours since our flight left DFW, and I am now settled into my new home-away-from-home, the Hotel Roma in Gulu.

Continue Reading »

Dateline: 12:30 P.M. somewhere-over-the-Mediterranean-Sea time.  According to my watch, it’s about 4:30 A.M. CST for those of you keeping score at home.

I am sitting on a 767 bound for Entebbe, next to a Senior Principal Auditor for the Ugandan government, flying over the Mediterranean Sea.  At some point I will have to stop pinching myself because the bruises are beginning to pile up.  That will probably have to wait until after we fly over the Sahara Desert and the sun goes down.

I must admit, I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of sitting next to a complete stranger for 8 hours.  Especially a man.  No offense, but really all I wanted to do was turn on my shuffle, listen to my music, and sleep.  I wasn’t feeling the desire to be especially friendly or talkative.  But God had other plans for me than sleep.  He had some talking and teaching to do, through a Ugandan government official.

We began with introductions and general pleasantries about our families and what we do for a living.  In the natural course of conversation, he asked why I was going to Uganda and what I would be doing there.  I responded that we were going to visit some friends who run an orphanage there and help them out with some of their responsibilities.  When I mentioned we would be going to Gulu, his response was, “Gulu is a vibrant city.  You will find the people as warm as the climate.  But it is a vibrant city.  I think you will like it there.”

I found this response curious.  I have no idea if he is out of touch with reality or was just trying to give me a good impression.  But to describe a city where refugees live in squalor and orphans were living on the street as “vibrant” struck me as odd.  And a bit arrogant.  As he talked about the privileges his children enjoy, I had to suppress my anger at the disparity of the children we were going to minister to.

And then, out of the blue, he looked me straight in the eye and asked:

“Tell me, what motivates you?”

Really, Lord?  Right here?  Right now?  THIS moment?

I took a moment to gather my thoughts…to try to assemble some sort of coherency to the jumble that was floating around in my brain.  To try to figure out a way to get those thoughts out of my mouth using words and sentences that would make sense.

I told him I have a strong faith.  That I’m a Christian and as a result believe firmly in God and desire to obey and follow Him.  That because He loves me so much, I try to do the things that would honor Him and please Him.  That I try to obey what the Bible says and live a life that reflects that.

He smiled and nodded his head.  And I felt the Spirit nudge me.  Ask him.

“But, Lord, my heart is still pounding.  My hands are still trembling.  And I don’t know if I’ve really done a good job of answering his question.”

Ask him.

“But what if he starts to ask questions?  What do I do then?”

Trust Me.  But just ask him.

And so I did.

“Now you tell me…what motivates you?”  I asked with a smile.

He responded, with a hem and a haw and an uncomfortable shift in his seat, “Pretty much the same thing.  I am a Christian, too.”

He handed me his business card with his address, telephone number and email on it and expressed his hope that we would be able to keep in touch.  Our conversation turned to a discussion of the symbols on the Ugandan flag pictured on his card and his visits to New York and Washington, D.C.

I have no idea how God will use that conversation, but it is my hope that in some small way I may have planted a seed in the heart of a government auditor in Kampala, Uganda…and that someday that seed may bloom and bear fruit.

UPDATE:  Just before the plane landed, he informed me that he was heading home because his mother had recently passed away.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the opportunity to pray with him but expressed my sympathy and told him I would be praying for him and his family.  He smiled and thanked me and again expressed his hope to be hearing from me.  By then it was time for us to get off the plane and so our conversation ended.  I knew I would be going to Africa to minister to orphans.  I never expected I might also have the opportunity to minister to a government official, too.