Eating Alone

I am sitting next to a little Ugandan child named Lydia. Her mother adopted her last year after being encouraged by her little boys to 'save a child'. At almost two years old Lydia weighed only 19 pounds, now she ‘has three years’ and weighs probably more then some five year olds should weigh. Last night immediately after we got to the church, she picked my lap to crawl in and fall asleep. Her constant discomfort and subtle shifts made me giggle and brought me out of a state of exhaustion into pure joy. The past few days I have had many times where God whispers, 'This is how it is supposed to be'. 

            The first one came when I knew I needed to post on Instagram. I was laying in a twin bed that was not quite long enough. I was just beginning to sort through my pictures when Asia climbed in the bed with me and in exasperation placed her head on my chest. (I still think the best thing I have taught these kids is what “cuddle” means.) I put my phone away. Once I had asked Asia her testimony, but she wouldn’t share.  In this moment, tracing the word “Africa” on my shirt, she began to tell; 'Sydia, that is my real name. It is a Muslim name'. I did not ask anything, I just listened. She told me when she registered herself for our program she put Asia and never wants to be called Sydia again. She said everyone at school and church knows her as Asia, and “never wants to be Sydia”. I promised I would only call her Asia but said nothing more. We then had a tickle fight and stayed up a little past bedtime taking selfies.

            The next day we arrived at Anderson Mill Baptist Church in South Carolina. Although overjoyed with our new location, I was overwhelmed with a to do list. Being on the tail end of my journey with Africa Renewal Ministries my task list is odd. It includes all the things that fall under “my job” of accountant, then it includes all the small things the kids have asked for like more stationary and prayer time, and finally it has me desperately trying to piece together my future with lease agreements and scholarship applications. I had just pulled out my computer to begin, when Samson and Joshua begged me to let them swim. Before America our kids have never swam so they try to seize every opportunity. This day in particular it was pouring rain and 40 degrees outside. I closed my computer screen, grabbed a glass of water and an umbrella and they dragged me outside. I sat on the pool side attempting to save myself from the definition of soaked as Samson stayed in the shallow end just making sure he knew how to hold his breathe. Joshua dog paddled across the deep end with fear in his eyes. I was wet, but happy.

            Packing to leave The Mill, one of our oldest boys Innocent received hard news, in a way that was not ideal. I am not allowed to share but it shattered my heart and my desires transferred from wanting to be back in college, to wanting to be in Uganda providing for him and any other child that had ever been hurt in their life. I was calmed and brought to reality by a woman named Jena Penner who I admire and respect. She has lived in Africa and has seen it all. After talking to my heart, letting me vent, and encouraging me she reminded me to be ‘here’. At the time ‘here’ was standing in the rain, barefoot, in front of a one-room church in Camden, South Carolina, crying for a boy who at 14 is experiencing pain outside anything you could ever imagine.

The next morning we began worshiping and Innocent was still fighting, I could hear it in his silence. As a whole, our group was ideally "struggling" at worship. We couldn’t remember the song, Charles was strumming too fast, and Susan was clapping way off beat, at all times. After three songs I was caught in such a great heart of worship. We were singing (or speed talking) ‘Set a fire down in my soul, one I cant contain, one I cant control’ and then we all laid hands on Innocent to pray Ugandan style. I was reminded God provides anything but ideal situations and those 20 kids together in worship and prayer was perfect in its imperfections. I cried.

            Fast-forward to yesterday, when I am suppressing giggles during bed time devotion because my life is just right. Callie, a girl I met only a month ago, felt comfortable enough to go through my suitcase and come to devotion in my clothes. I couldn’t be mad because earlier in the day I had snapped at her with lots of attitude about giving me too much ice. We acknowledged this exchange of wrath with raised eyebrows. We are officially best friends. Earlier in the morning, I had taught the kids the story of Jonah. I had used analogies that ranged from Keith doing push ups to Martin needing help eating gold fish. Now, Wini was teaching our hosts Jonah with the same analogies that just didn’t quite sound right the second time. 

            I still haven’t posted on Instagram. My bank account is empty. I don’t have a bed or a car to get that bed to my new apartment. I care more about my kid’s hygiene then mine, and my leg hairs prove it. I started a blog about people and have not yet found time to write about someone.  I have six voicemails I haven’t listened to. I haven’t bought my return ticket from Africa because I am not sure I will ever want to leave. My purse ripped, and my pants are too big in the waste but too small in the hips. I still am writing my Easter cards. Then here I lay, with a Ugandan baby who two hours ago told me she wanted to nap and now we are playing air guitar with my feet, and God is still reminding me, 'This is how it is supposed to be'.

Innocent

 

Asia

Joshua (left) & Samson (right)

 

Callie Giersberg

An Unexpected Connection

            Florence Mutesasira, a 35-year-old woman, lives in the tribe Mubende in Uganda, Africa. She has become my best friend in the time I have spent with her in America. I hope I am half the woman she is and hold a quarter of her humility when I am her age. She will not share with me her story unless it becomes pertinent to my situation, unless it encourages me or teaches me. I have put together bits and pieces. I know someone raised her outside of her blood family. I know she returns this favor by raising children who are not her own. Knowing the culture of Africa I assume this comes from the situation of abandonment or orphan. An orphan in America is when a child’s immediate parents die, but in Africa you're considered an orphan when your whole family has passed. Florence sponsors multiple children through the program. I know she is not married but lives with her best friend.

Every month we receive a $250 ‘Per Diem’, which is intended to buy the small necessities like shampoo or new underwear. During the trip I have seen Auntie Florence spend money only on a ten-dollar tote to hold the kids schoolbooks. I spare her a couple dollars for an ice cream cone or taco bell burrito wanting her to “experience America”. Immediately after we withdrawal the per diems she jumps into my passenger seat and I drive her to wire the money to the boy she raises in Uganda.

“He is a trouble maker, influenced by his surroundings. I pray he finds his way.” She tells me, time and time again. I see her pain and hope for him. Since in America, she has received an email notification of his expulsion from school. In Uganda if expelled from one school in the tribe you are expelled from all schools. She has to pay for him to live and attend a school in another district hours of travel away. Remember, he is not her son.  

Her selflessness is admirable.

In fourth grade, Mwangaza Children’s Choir came to my church in southern California. My parents signed up to be a host family. We were the ones who gave them ice cream on concert days and let them swim when they weren’t supposed to. Following the concert my parents let me choose a child off the wall. Leading this position now, I truly believe God has a hand in the selection process. I once saw a little boy pick a girl off the sponsorship wall. She had tears in her eyes and was wearing an oversized clay covered shirt. I told him she was a she, and was not in his grade, he did not care. He insisted to his father this was ‘the one who needed it’. I do not remember, but I believe I held that confidence when I chose Asiimwe Asifira off the wall in 2004. She was also in the fourth grade and could not speak English. Every two months I received her letter written in Lugandan, as well as a translated letter.  We have recently began to write again. We used to talk about our chores, hers being fetching water and picking crops while mine was unloading a dishwasher. In the sixth grade a letter explained the death of her parents. At the time it meant little to me for I was young and a world away. I responded with an apology and more questions about her culture.

In 2010, again, Mwangaza Children’s Choir flew over the Atlantic to tour the east coast. This time the tour came to our church in Cincinnati, Ohio. Our family was hosting three little boys, one of whom was Asiimwe’s little brother Obedi. My older sister Karen and I became groupies, following the choir around Ohio in order to build a relationship with Obedi. He was a troublemaker. One time he even drummed a speed so fast the choir had to stop mid performance. When I work sponsorship now, a common question asked is “can I write my child?” I tell them about the lasting friendship I built with Asiimwe and the passion I hold for her family and the ministry I work for now. Becoming personable has often helped excite the sponsor on their new commitment to change a life in Uganda. One evening as I was telling the story, Christopher, a young child on the 2015 Mwangaza Children’s Choir tour, interrupted to tell me he knew Obedi. I told him many of the children had shared that with me. I was confused on the idea since it is very rare for kids in different tribes to ever connect. I finally questioned Christopher on the location of Obedi and Asiimwe…

“Auntie, they live with Auntie Florence, everyone knows she has housed them since their parents died.”

With an overwhelmed heart, my mind raced with all the times Asiimwe had told me about the humble selfless woman who raised her. There I stood, in awe at God’s grace and provision. A sister I cherish was protected and raised by Florence. Now I held the opportunity to be led and taught by the same noble woman. I wondered if how Florence rubs my back as I cry in her lap was how she comforted Asiimwe. I am curious if Asiimwe's giggles occur as frequent as mine when in conversation with Florence. I trust that how Florence prays over me for my future holds the same faith and confidence as her prayers for Asiimwe. Asiimwe is now a first grade teacher in depths of Africa. Florence says pictures of my family are in her home as pictures of Asiimwe and Obedi are hung on my fridge. I cry tears of content, silenced by the idea that God’s plans are more delicately woven then I had and ever will imagine. 

I have standing plans to meet Asiimwe in July of 2015. If you would like to know more about my journey to Africa, or details on how you can help please ask! 

Making Reservations

Typing this entry I sit on a curb watching my three boys play basketball on a neighborhood hoop in Alabama. I am not sure where most people write their first blog entry but I am humbled by my location. I have wanted to write a blog for a while. When I was younger I attended a Revolve conference in California where a speaker referenced women’s brains as spaghetti, interwoven and anything but organized. That day forward, I picked up 54 different journals, trying to organize my noodles. I find them now when I am cleaning, with only a page or two filled out.

            A few years ago, I began to get involved with a Christian ministry on my college campus called CRU, where I met Kiley. When I began to share my life with her she encouraged me to write. It was not until Christmas of 2013 that I began to jot my thoughts down in a $2 notepad on a rooftop of an orphanage in Thozen, Haiti. Now I have filled many of those notepads. I continuously buy the same notepad in superstition that it was the notepad itself that kept me consistent in journaling.

            No one, yet, has gotten the privilege to read through my entries. It made me sick to my stomach, when I talked my sister through the pages so she could find the speech I wrote for her wedding. I insisted to “just take a picture, do not take the journal, and I will kill you if you rip a page out”. As people see it grasped tightly in my right hand or spread across my lap they encourage me to to blog. They want to see what is running through my mind, which is so urgent to transcribe.

            I thrive in community. People often comment on how quickly I make friends. Friends joke about how I refuse to skip a “hello”. Acquaintances question why I reference everyone as “babe”. Truthfully, I cannot remember their name. This is where the title of my blog comes from. I hold no hesitation in talking to the person in front of me in line, or sharing dessert with my waiter, or asking my flight attendant how much she gets paid and if she feels lonely. Many days I am overwhelmed, in a good way, by the opportunities I have been given and the relationships I have built. The popular quote is, “life is all about connections”.

            My life is a hot mess, so I am not quite sure if a connection has helped me get anywhere, for I feel as if I have gotten no where. I feel like I am a wanderer who is terribly lost. Nonetheless, I am grateful for the people who have walked through my life. I find reassurance in this today… I sent a response email to a woman who is in residency at a hospital in Sudan, at lunch I missed the friendship of a felon who led an international drug cartel, I started my morning off brushing my teeth next to a nationally ranked power lifter who just had her 19^th birthday, and at night I cried in joy with a mother from Uganda, Africa. My posts to follow will be filled with people and their stories, so I can share with you what they shared with me. 

Please join me, at a table for two.