Ducks

One of the guys who works for us, lost his 1 year old daughter on Wednesday. There is no real way to describe the horror of death especially in one so young. I sat on the dirt floor of a small (8 feet by 8 feet) room on Thursday morning, my back against the mud and stick wall, nestled in with about 15 other women. On a foam mattress, in the corner of the room, looking completely exhausted and numb was the mother. Her mother was lying beside her and in between the two of them, was the little girl. Wrapped in a local cloth, as if she was still sleeping, her mother and grandmother gently caressed her little body, brushing away a stray fly or two. Every five minutes or so, the mother would see, really see her child lying there dead and the emotion would wash through her face and loud wailing would erupt. The rest of us sat shoulder to shoulder, crying, glancing at the child every two or three minutes to see if hope against hope their was some movement.
Outside sat several other groups. The sisters-in-law sat in an outdoor kitchen around a small fire with three rocks, discussing at length whose fault this was and the fee that our worker (the little girl’s father) must now pay to his wife’s family. The men sat together under several trees on long benches. The smell of local brew was in the air and they looked defeated. Between the two groups were, strangely enough, two mother ducks. They each had about 8 ducklings each following them from group to group. It was a bizarre picture, since there are no nearby ponds, and I was reminded of the children’s story Make Way for Ducklings. They are beautiful ducklings and it was easy to imagine sitting in a place far away and watching them frolic in a State park somewhere. Instead, in the absence of a pond or a lake, the mother ducks were taking them to two large mud puddles. Each puddle is shallow, only about 3 feet wide and filled with muddy, rancid water. Yet there are the ducks trying to practice swimming, floating, splashing. At some predetermined time the mother signaled to her young and out they came in a straight line to trade puddles with the other duck family. As I glanced up and stared around me, I took in the mud houses, the cooking fires, the exposed latrines, the children running around in torn and tattered clothing, some just with a bead necklace strapped around their tummies. I notice the women, tired to the very bone. I can’t help but draw analogies in my mind as everyone here struggles to do what they can with the little they have.
Several hours later the hole had been dug within the family compound, benches re-arranged and the coffin arrived. The mother was half carried by her co-wife to the graveside. It was brutal to watch this tiny casket, hastily made and covered in bright purple cloth being lowered into the cold hard earth, as the mother lay on the ground at the very edge sobbing. The noise of the dirt hitting the top of the wooden box a sharp contrast to the silence that surrounded us.
We often say that life here is hard. When someone asks whether we love this place, love living here, the answer is tricky. We count it a privilege to be exactly where God wants us doing the work he has called us to do. But there are things about this place that tear at one’s soul. The ever presence of death, the squalor, the hunger, the day in and day out grind of living on the edge of survival. None of these things are beautiful. And we long for the day when sickness and death are no more, and the weeping and sorrow turn to laughter. When all of creation is redeemed and even the ducks from Bundibugyo splash in beautiful cool lakes.

Shell-Shocked

O-Level Exams started yesterday with Geography. To help ensure fair exam practices and to try to prevent corruption and cheating, the Uganda National Exam Board (UNEB) sends out scouts to the various testing locations. These men and women travel from Kampala and visit any schools qualified to administer the national exams. They make their reports to the main office and are involved in uncovering various schemes that might happen during the month long exam period. The scout for our end appeared a little worse for wear yesterday afternoon. He had decided to visit one of the more remote schools and hired a motorcycle to zip him out there. Unfortunately the small foot bridge that crosses the small river washed away two weeks ago and the river was high enough (waist high, he reported) to prevent the motorcycle from crossing. Instead both he and the motorcycle had to be carried across by men waiting at the spot to provide just such a "human taxi" service. Needless to say, this whole process took longer than anticipated.... fortunately they didn't drop him!

Out of propane

It is no small feat to cook here. Much of what we eat has to be cooked from scratch and the local ingredients are somewhat limited. We can get flour, yeast, baking powder, salt, eggs, sugar, milk (thanks to Scott and Jennifer’s cow!) tomatoes, onions, beans, eggplant, rice, peanuts, cabbage, local cow/pig meat (freshly butchered on the spot),sour green oranges, avocadoes, pineapple and surprisingly enough Coca-Cola. Everything else has to be purchased and brought from over the mountain (either Fort Portal- 3 hours away, or Kampala- a day’s drive) We usually buy our groceries every 8-10 weeks when we travel to Kampala and Bob and Jennifer Chedester (our Fort Portal teammates) send weekly items like vegetables, for which we are VERY grateful. We have a small frig that runs on kersosene and a small oven that uses propane. While not up to American standards, we feel pretty fortunate to have such luxuries out in the bush, while just outside the school gate our neighbors are cooking over open fires on rocks selected from the river. Again, there remains the tension of holding the self-pity of my own sacrifice in one hand and the guilt of my comparative abundance in the other. All of this to say that my meals are pretty planned out in advance, and after a decade of cooking here my routines are nicely set. It does take a long time, but I’ve grown fairly accustomed to ordering my life around the preparation of our family’s meals.
However, this past week has thrown me a significant curve ball. Country-wide propane shortages have meant that my spare tank, which went out over the mountains 3 weeks ago has still not been filled and returned. So it was with a sinking heart that I noticed that the remaining tank attached to the stove was empty. Fortunately, the oven was hot enough to finish cooking the last two loaves of bread and to almost cook the pasta al dente. Sigh. On Sunday, Kev went out to the market and purchased a small kerosene sigili cooker. The picture should be at the top of this post. Let’s just say my creativity and resourcefulness will be stretched as I cook all of our meals on this one little burner. Pray that the propane would come soon!

Edith Apuuli

One of our friends died this week.
She was about my age, and her death was sudden and unexpected. We heard on Tuesday that she was having some bleeding and needed to go to Kampala to the hospital. By that evening the doctors and nurses thought she had stabilized. She was even up walking around a bit. However, the end was swift and seemed to come out of nowhere. One hour she was up and talking with her husband, the next hour she was dead. We are still grieving and would ask you to pray for her husband, Apuuli and her daughter (about Louisa’s age) Sandy.
Edith taught English at Christ School with us the very first year we opened in Bundibugyo. She and her husband had long worked in the district with World Harvest Mission serving us and the people here in a multitude of ways. While there are many “Edith stories” that come to mind, my favorite is from several years back, just after the war had ended . The army was still a serious presence, most people were still in refugee camps, but times were generally peaceful. Rumor came that an evil spirit was passing through our area. We heard the screams/banging of pots and drumming from miles away each night coming closer each time. People here were beginning to panic and talk was flying fast and furious. About 7 in the evening a mysterious fog rolled in (I kid you not, it was bizarre. I watched from our porch as it rolled over the soccer field.) All at once the banging and drumming started. The noise was intense as people all around responded in absolute terror and fear. In an effort to ward off the spirit everyone was making as much noise as humanly possible…. for HOURS. For many of our Christian Ugandan brother and sisters it was too difficult to trust that God would protect them. Many had taken up drumming and chanting… but not Edith. In the midst of the storm surrounding her, she was up washing dishes and singing praise songs with a determined, calm smile on her face. Such was her faith. We will miss her.
Kev drove to Fort Portal on Thursday to see the family. He had just arrived when Apuuli drove up with Edith’s body. We don’t really have the custom of hearses and funeral homes here. The family is responsible for getting a loved one’s body from the place of death to their home for burial. She was in a wooden casket with a glass window for viewing. Apuuli opened the door, saw Kevin, threw his arms around him and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. In a polygamous culture, in a place where wives are often seen as commodities that are collected and disgarded, here was a husband whose heart was broken over the loss of a dearly loved wife and best friend. What do you do at a time like that… Kev sat with him and heard that long story of her last hours and grieved with him, acknowledging the great sorrow and loss. People often ask, “Where is Jesus, in a time like that?” We would argue, right there in the midst of all of it. In the hurt and deep pain, as well as He was in the years of strong and abiding love.