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!
