This is the day that the LORD has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it. (Psalm 118:24, ESV)Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus…And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus. (Phil. 4:6-7, 19, NLT)
Ahhh, Saturday.
At home, Saturday means a day to sleep in, to relax, to catch up on family time and do projects that I never seem to have time or resources to accomplish throughout the week. It’s a day for running errands, for organizing and planning for the week ahead, for fixing and mending and creating and resting. It’s busy, it’s productive, and it’s fun.
Saturdays at the village are a little different.
Sleeping in? Notsomuch. When you sleep with the lights on, it’s just as light at 6AM as it is at 11 PM, so why stay in bed?
Relaxing? Not really. Not when there are chores to be done. Not when you’ve got to wash – by hand – every stitch of clothing you own and get it on the line before everyone else takes up the space. Not when you’re responsible for cooking breakfast for your entire house of 18-25 girls. Not when you’ve got to sweep and mop and slash and dig.
Running errands? Are you kidding me? You have no car, no license, and no stores to speak of anywhere around. You do with what you have. Any “errands” are taken care of by staff guys on their boda-bodas, mainly purchasing cases of bottled water for the weak-stomached muzungas.
I awoke a bit battle-scarred as more than once I found a bony knee or pointy elbow jabbed in one place or another on my posterior side. My “half” of the bed shrunk considerably as the night progressed and at one point I contemplated moving myself onto the floor, but decided against it. After all, there’s no mosquito netting there. Many of the girls are very afraid of the dark – horribly unspeakable things happened to them or their families in the dark – so at Hope House they sleep with the lights on all night long. These girls are completely exhausted by the time they fall into bed at night so no amount of light or noise can keep them awake. I know. Franka proved that.
Despite my discomfort, it was truly an honor and a blessing for me to share a “sleepover” with her. It was a little slice of being in her world for awhile, a memory I will cherish for as long as I live. And no doubt about it, I would do it all over again. Many, many times.
Franka walked me back to my hut, carrying my pillow the whole way. Words cannot begin to describe how beautiful she is, inside and out. As we walked hand-in-hand back to the house, we reminisced about our fun together the night before. As I shared with Trace Franka’s admonition to “stop talking” at bedtime, we laughed, and Franka commented, “You talk too much!” You’ll get no argument from me, Franka. Guilty as charged.
We ate our breakfast of french toast and bananas as the sun rose over the trees. Connor brought our team devotions, a powerful passage from the daily Jesus Calling devotional. The following quotes spoke to me:
Refuse to worry about tomorrow.
I can weave miracles through the most mundane day if you will keep your eyes on Me.
Both of those are deeply challenging in their simplicity. Refuse to worry. Make a choice. Deny it. Stand up in the face of uncertainty and boldly say, I WILL NOT WORRY. I will trust. I know who’s got this and He trumps all. Keep my eyes open. See beyond the surface of things and look for opportunities for God to show up. He doesn’t always appear in the earthquake or the fire or the strong wind. Sometimes, He chooses to show up in the still, small voice. Stay close to Him so you can tell the difference.
We weren’t able to help the house mothers today because the children were home and doing chores. We feared that our presence might be a distraction and we wanted them to be able to focus on what needed to be done. Instead, we hung around the common area, practicing our song and planning for the flag football tournament in the afternoon. After all the activity and busy-ness of yesterday it was a sort of letdown to be so inactive, but it was the best choice for the children.
It wasn’t until shortly before lunch – rice, beans, cabbage, and pineapple – that we were able to spend some time with the children. Jacinta showed up and invited me to take a walk with her, so I obliged. She promptly changed my name to “Mary”, so I promptly changed her name to “Rabbit.” Turns out, she wanted some time in front of my camera.
I had actually met Jacinta in November, 2009, on my first trip to Uganda. At that time, she was living in a refugee camp outside Gulu.
Jacinta is the one in the red shirt. For some reason, I found myself drawn to her and the girls on her mat.
Vicky, the one speaking to me, spoke fairly good English and helped me communicate with all the other girls there.
They laughed as they taught me Acholi words and songs and I tried – miserably – say them.
This moment right here was my mission trip in 2009. Sitting on this grass mat in the middle of a refugee camp in Uganda, singing songs of praise in a language I couldn’t understand, but being welcomed and accepted and loved just because I was there. I never forgot Jacinta, or Nancy, the girl holding the necklace.
And there Jacinta was, out of the camp and in the village. A happy, healthy, beautiful young woman. Going to school and making friends and enjoying life in a community that loves and values her, a community that protects her, a community that sees her as created in the image of God, even if she is too cool for words.
We took a long walk, and during the walk, Rabbit opened up to me, sharing all about her family: her mother and father who had both died (she didn’t tell me how and I wouldn’t have dared to ask), her brothers and sisters. Unable to probe too deeply, I could hear the sadness in her voice as she talked about where her siblings were, and my heart could only hope they were all safe and healthy like her. I talked about my brothers and my parents, that my dad had died, too, and sometimes that made me a little sad. I tried hard to not just hear her words but really listen…I wasn’t sure how long this opportunity would last. Often I felt absolutely inadequate…speechless, if you can believe that. What do you say to encourage someone who has lost so much? How do you tell them, “It’s all right” when it’s not? How do you offer them any guarantees when their security is so shaken? During those silent moments, I held her hand, I hugged her close, I blinked back the tears and just prayed. Prayed for peace. Prayed for healing. Not just for her, but for the others who carry the same burden, who wrestle those same demons, who have endured that same living hell.
And I prayed that somehow I might be a ray of sunshine, a beam of light, a beacon of hope in her life. Or maybe someone who simply drives her crazy with silliness.
We sat down under a shade tree as we continued to talk. Of course, it wasn’t long before we had company. Muzunga + Camera = instant popularity.
It’s all smiles and good behavior at first. Then they see what they look like, and the giggles start. And then, the show begins!
Oh, yeah. They’ve got muscles. They may not be as big as those other guys, but you definitely don’t want to mess with these two.
One more thing…these guys can dance. With a chick on their head, even. Don’t worry, the chick was fine, if a little traumatized.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJZSuXBQTBs&feature=youtu.be[/youtube]
After lunch, I learned that Rose was up in Love House, sorting through the suitcases of donated clothes to distribute them to the children. I had heard about this process, but had never seen it in person, so I headed up there to see if I could “help.”
We sorted clothes into general piles: dresses, skirts, girl’s tops, little girl’s tops, t-shirts, boy’s shirts, little boy’s shirts, pants, shorts, and baby clothes. Piles of clothes covered every square inch of the sitting room floor. You couldn’t walk from the doorway to the couch without stepping on some article of clothing.
The children lined up outside the house, boys in one line, girls in the other.
With nearly 200 children, each line was quite long. But despite that, and standing in the sun, there were no scuffles, no arguments, no fighting. The children waited, patiently, knowing that they were guaranteed to receive something.
And then, the distribution began. Rose would select two items: a shirt and pants or shorts for the boys, a top and a skirt or a dress and a t-shirt for the girls, and we would simply give it to the child standing first in line.
Even if the clothes weren’t the right size, even if they didn’t match, even if the children didn’t care for the style or color or design, they didn’t complain. They took what they were given, willingly, and traded and bartered with others if possible. Or they simply made do. No fussing, no refusing, no trace of ungratefulness.
As we distributed, dark clouds roiled overhead. We pushed the pace, trying to get through the line before the rain fell. We didn’t quite make it. The last few children had to scurry for home, grabbing their laundry off the line with their new clothes on their way. Thunder echoed around the camp. Lightning flashed overhead. Winds blew rain sideways as windows and doors were quickly drawn shut. Soon, everything around us was soaked.
Rainy Saturdays are the worst. Stuck at home with nothing to do.
Unless you are surrounded by your best friends!
We hung out on the veranda of Love House, singing the new songs they had learned – “Open the Eyes of my Heart” and “I Depend on You.” I taught them “Boom Chick-a-Boom” and we sang and laughed and chanted and clapped until my voice was hoarse and my hands felt like they would fall off.
While we were singing, we noticed some unusual activity going on at Mercy House. Rain had soaked their concrete front porch and some boy – we later found out it was Clinton – was “surfing” from one side to the other. First on his feet, then on his knees, then on his hands and knees, he would slip-slide his way from one end of the veranda to the other. Kari thought that looked like fun and before we knew what was happening, she had run across the courtyard to join him. We had nearly as much fun watching them as they did sliding around!
The rain finally let up and the girls quickly hustled out to go to choir practice. Trace and I joined them as they rehearsed their worship set for Sunday. Though small in number, their voices echoed off the walls with such force I felt as if my eardrums might burst. Another rainshower passed over us, providing cool breezes in the sweaty atmosphere. An hour, maybe more, of continuous singing and exuberant dancing…better for the heart and body than any workout in the States…and we could hardly keep up. Since we weren’t allowed to sit down (We’re not finished, Gloria kept telling me, pulling me out of my seat every time I thought I’d take a rest), we finally excused ourselves. Returning to our hut, we discovered the other 5 girls had been “trapped” inside by the rain and were itching to get out. Trace and I used the quiet to sneak in a quick power nap.
The rain dampened our plans for the flag-football tournament, as well as movie night. If the children were disappointed, they certainly didn’t show it, and had their usual evening routine of dinner, prep, and worship. I joined Susan in the P6 class for worship, since she had invited me to her house for a sleepover. Kristie was sleeping over with Flavia and Rachel was sleeping over with Gloria, so we all joined up for our walk up to Love House.
It was incredibly smoky inside the house because of the fire outside using wet wood. I was concerned that this would make it difficult to sleep, but the rooms were fairly smoke-free. We visited in the room, and then of course came the request to dance. They taught us the Acholi friendship dance and then asked us to teach them “American dance”. Yeah, right. As if we have any traditional dances.
So what did we do? We taught them the Cupid Shuffle. Rachel had brought her ipod with the speakers so we actually had music to dance to. We did the Cha-Cha Slide and even attempted the Electric Slide but as with Hope House, they claimed it was “too difficult.”
After getting all sweaty and hot dancing, we sat down to play a game of “concentration”. Sitting in a big circle, we had to “let’s begin…first one…no repeats…and no delays…girls names…” or boy’s names, it didn’t matter. Rachel proved how important it is to have lots of friends because not once did she repeat a name. I was out in the second round. Once we had a winner, we all agreed: it was time for bed.
Susan and I crawled into her bunk – she gave me the spot next to the wall – and they turned out the lights. Many of these girls have been out of the camps for a few years, and have worked through some of their fears and trauma. The room was very dark, which made it much more comfortable for sleeping.
Within moments, Susan was asleep, and I listened, quietly, to the sounds of the girls around me. Peaceful sounds of deep breathing, quiet sounds of still bodies. The mother in me drank it all in, feeling the swelling of love inside, a love so true and deep it almost hurts. I wanted to reach out to these girls, to sit on their bedside and stroke their hair, like I do for my own babies. I wanted to whisper in their ears words of love and tenderness, words of assurance and blessing. I wanted to hug them goodnight and say prayers of peace and sweet dreams. Instead, I lay, quietly, very still, enjoying the moment, until I, too, fell sound asleep.