Capturing Shadows

Seasons

2012-01-23T23:04:00.001-05:00

The sharp cold weather of January turned for a moment, and western Pennsylvania blew a mild breeze through our chilled, college town, melting snow and giving false hopes of March before February. We have passed the darkest days of winter now, and lately, I have been contemplating the subject of seasons.

It is helpful for me to have a focus for each season, something to frame in the months and separate each from the other. Four months have passed since I dared to write, and though I thought about it occasionally, this latest season of my life had to be characterized by silence. On a grand scale, this is the finishing college season and the preparing for marriage season. But on a personal scale, the last four moths have been a season of accepting change, nursing bruises and keeping quiet.

The New Year did not begin as freshly as I expected. Two-thousand-and-twelve was born in some of the darkest hours of that season of silence. And when January broke forth, I wrestled and pondered and ached all the more. It has taken me the whole month step forward, but, finally, this season of silence is over.

“Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

Necessary Endings

2011-08-19T10:30:00.013-04:00

C. S. Lewis wrote,"We do not write to be understood, but to understand."

Though this is my usual way of functioning--writing till all the pieces of my scattered heart are carefully aligned in a way that I can finally make sense of them--not even writing has helped to ease my mind upon leaving Africa.

So I stopped.

What any writer will tell you is that to stop writing...well, that is a dangerous thing. Giving in to the temptation of putting down your pen, when you pen is your primary mode of maintaining sanity never helps clear away confusion. Rather, you cease to understand.

I left Uganda.

I cried when I hugged my mother goodbye and left her standing under the vibrant blue awning shading the airport doors. I cried as the plane lifted off the ground and sped high above the continent making the huts and hills shift from barely visible to hidden behind brilliant white wracks of clouds. I cried sitting on the tarmac in Ethiopia, because I was on land, in Africa again after short hour-long flight, but even then I could not leave the interior of the plane. Staring out the window at the fence that separated the airstrip from grazing goats and young boys kicking a football, I felt everything deeply.

Arriving in Dubai, I didn't cry. But I didn't write either.

I tried. Tried to focus on the scattered pieces. The fear of never returning that was crippling my ability to hope. The stark reality that I had spent the last night under my father's roof as an unmarried daughter, though the wedding is still nine months away. The sharp pieces of a hundred other things firmly probing at my soul, cutting the threads that were my ability to write. To understand. We sat for seven hours on less than comfortable chairs, trying to sleep before our early morning connecting flight. Pen poised and journal open on my lap as I shivered in the unexpected blasts of airport air conditioning, all I could do was copy the song lyrics flowing from ipod to ears.

Copying lyrics is not writing...any non-writer can tell you that.

Leaving Dubai and passing through one final metal detector, I tried to gently remove the single Karimojong bracelet from my wrist. The man behind me was nervously pushing, everyone was rushing and as I tried to remove both bracelet and shoes simultaneous, the bracelet snapped and my composure with it.

The obvious symbolism and intense sentimentality made me sick to me stomach and I pushed through the metal detector afraid to make eye-contact with the Muslim security guard for fear of causing a dreadful scene. I cried in Dubai, staring at the bold tan line on my right wrist and the broken aluminum bangle that Lokwi had given me on my first visit to Nakaale when I was fourteen.
"Here," Zack removed his own Karimojong bracelet--the one I gave him three years ago when we had just started dating-- and slipped on my wrist.
"No..." I pretended to be calm and began to give it back to him, " Its okay. Its yours. I am fine. Its just a thing."
"No, really," He replied, " Right now, you need it more than I do."

Sometimes material things really do matter. At least to sentimental people they do. And to rather emotional girls who are feeling very broken.

I wore the too-big-bracelet on the twelve hour flight from Dubai to JFK. In twelve hours, one can do a whole lot of writing and thinking. I did neither.
But upon returning to my future in-laws house in New York, catching up on sleep, praying a great deal and crying just a little bit more, I ordered a book on a whim. The author, Shauna Neiquist, writes the following, which I found particularly relevent considering both my heightened emotions and my inability to begin writing again.:

"This is what I've come to believe about change: it's good, in the way that childbirth is good, and heartbreak is good, and failure is good. By that I mean that it's incredibly painful, exponentially more so if you fight it, and also that it has the potential to open you up, to open life up, to deliver you right into the palm of God's hand, which is where you wanted to be all long, except that you were too busy pushing and pulling your life into exactly what you thought it should be. 'I've learned the hard way that change is one of God's greatest gifts, and most useful tools. Change can push us, pull us, rebuke and remake us. It can show us who we've become, in the worst ways, and also in the best ways. I've learned that it's not something to run away from, as though we could, and that in many cases, change is a function of God's graciousness, not life's cruelty.'"(Bittersweet, Shauna Neiquist)

Understanding everything I felt, and continue to feel since removing myself and everything I own from Karamoja is taking time. But slowly by slowly, wadio wadio, I am gaining the courage to write again.

A Reflection on Attitude

2011-08-12T23:53:00.007-04:00

Ten things that must be better than Jesus, because when I don't have them my soul turns sour, I feel irritated or worse, I complain in my heart and with my speech despite the fact that I am a hell-deserving sinner who has been washed in Christ's blood, given all things good, and am headed for glory:

1. Good health

2. Having everyone I love on the same continent

3. Not being ignored

4. Unimpeded reading time

5. Always being told the truth

6. Not being interrupted in conversation

7. Being appreciated

8. Friends who are even-tempered and rational

9. Those I care about agreeing with me

10. Money enough to pay tuition

Twenty One

2011-08-05T23:12:00.007-04:00

Back in the United States, it is Zack's birthday. In the true style of celebration, we began the day by rising early in the morning and experiencing beautiful things. Here are a few of them...

I made him a special breakfast of eggs with steak, onion and sharp cheddar topped with fresh tomato salsa and basil.

We snacked on wild blackberries as we explored the woods surrounding his house.

And we collected fresh flowers from the dew drenched field beside his house. Our wedding shall be filled with wildflowers. Because we like them :)

The hardest part...

2011-08-04T07:27:00.000-04:00

...was letting go.

High Above the Waterfall

2011-07-30T23:29:00.000-04:00

We took one last holiday, clinging to the opportunity for respite and cool weather. Sipi Falls has been our quite place of retreat since the beginning and the winding drive up the mountains and foothills was well worth the two days we spent at Lacam Lodge.

Three main waterfalls grace the cliffs of Sipi, shooting out over the jagged drop and after falling nearly a hundred meters pounding into the rocky pools below. Lacam Lodge rest at the very top of this first fall. High above the waterfall, listening to the roar of water hitting rock below, we spent our final two days of holiday.

The nine of us hiked through banana groves and coffee fields, were soaked in the spray at of two other waterfalls, drank excessive amounts of Africa tea, played intense games of farkle and cards, read, visited and rested. Twas a beautiful escape from normality.

"Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me. By day the LORD directs his love, at night his song is with me— a prayer to the God of my life."
Psalm 42: 7-8

When Life Gives You Lemons...

2011-07-26T04:02:00.007-04:00

In Uganda, every variety of citrus fruit grows green.

Lemons, Oranges and Limes abound in the more tropical towns,however each fruity core is encased in a thick green skin. In Nakaale we have a prodigious lemon tree, but the lemons are a challenge to harvest. First, the trunk and limbs of Karamojong lemon trees are studded with sharp, barbed thorns. Secondly, the lemons--green as the leaves of the tree-- are rather difficult to spot from the ground.

The following is a Step by Step description of how to conquer our lemon tree make lemonade in Karamoja.

Step One: Find Spear. Take careful aim at the largest lemons hanging from the highest bough. Ready. Aim. Fire.

Step Two: When you have tried several times to dislocate a green lemon from its branch, seek the help of a Karimojong watchman. Not only will he be able to throw the spear properly, but he will be able to find lemons hanging at eye level so you needn't strive for the ones highest up in the tree.

Step Three: Collect Lemons off the ground. Take inside.

Step Four: Roll lemons, pressing the skin so that the inner citrus fruit is easier to juice.

Step Five: Juice lemons with lemon juicer. Strain seeds and pulp (if desired) from the juice.

Step Six: Add water, ice and sugar to taste. Drink and Enjoy.

As a thank you for helping the ignoramt wazungu find lemons on the tree, we caught our guard, Akol, before he left work and offered him a tall glass of the fresh lemonade.

"We drink this in America," we explained.

A grin spread across his face as he took a long sip. " Ahhhhhhhhhh!" He exclaimed, draining the glass. "Ebob Nooi!" Delicious!

We were, all of us, quite pleased. :)

On Hope

2011-07-22T02:07:00.006-04:00

My grandmother began cancer treating chemotherapy this week. Please remember her in your prayers. We earnestly pray for both healing and peace; such an experience is difficult for all of us, but particularly for my extended family to bear...where there is little hope in life there is much fear in death. They will forgive me for making a public request, but out of love, I ask that you pray for their salvation.

"I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry again. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But you haven’t believed in me even though you have seen me. However, those the Father has given me will come to me, and I will never reject them. For I have come down from heaven to do the will of God who sent me, not to do my own will. And this is the will of God, that I should not lose even one of all those he has given me, but that I should raise them up at the last day. For it is my Father’s will that all who see his Son and believe in him should have eternal life. I will raise them up at the last day."
John 6:35-40

A Nile Special

2011-07-20T09:30:00.000-04:00

It may, perhaps, seem somewhat extravagant to have taken another family holiday so soon after our week of Safari adventures. Our few days away, however, had one purpose and one purpose alone: White Water Rafting on the Nile River.

For those of you who have been patient and gracious enough to keep up with my blogging for many years now, you will remember my first experience rafting with Emily and Chrissie on my eighteenth birthday. This time Em and I were joined by our fiances and two younger siblings. What could be more exhilarating?

School Programs

2011-07-14T04:13:00.001-04:00

We walk to the school early each morning, carefully stepping around puddles and cow pies while dogging sheep as shepherd boys herd them up into the hills to graze. We are taking over the Nakaale School, so to speak, and we have been doing it all week. With so little teaching actually occurring in the Ugandan public school system, classes are easily disrupted and the teachers joyfully hand over their students to be taught by the missionaries for an hour or two each morning.

In America, one would call what we have been doing a VBS or Vacation Bible School. Here, we simply refer to it as a “program.” Bible stories, science lessons, health clinics and colouring sessions are all wrapped up in one morning’s worth of program.

I say “We” somewhat blushingly—Maria and I joined the crowd of teachers every day this week, but all we mostly helped with was crowd control and the passing out of crayons. Truthfully, it was the others—missionaries and visitors alike—who taught. Still, Maria and I went along, helping where we could, talking to the students and scolding the younger children when they misbehaved.

When we arrive, the children stand in lines, properly queued according to grade. One teacher shouts as they march in place, repeating phrases and shifting their feet like a proper military outfit. It is a performance for us; a small attempt to impress and make us think that the primary school is organized and efficient. But the assembly is mostly show, just like the pot of water boiling over the fire behind the school.

“It’s for morning porridge,” we are proudly told. The government gives food to every school so that the teachers can provide morning porridge (in addition to a midday meal) to all of the students. The children come, armed with their plastic bowls and buckets from home, ready to be fed. But rarely is porridge, or lunch, available. Most of the food portioned out for the children is sold by the teachers for a little extra cash and when visitors like us arrive in the morning, the porridge pot proudly boils. But its only ever water; a ruse.

This week, our five-day program is cut short. Though we arranged with the Headmistress to teach lessons Monday through Friday, they entire school shall be at a music complementation come Friday.

Next week there will be another week long School Program at the school of Alamacar. Hopefully, there shall be more students around all five days. Maria and I, however, shall be absent for the first three days. We are off to Jinja on a short family holiday.

Cheers.

A Safari in three parts: Part Three

2011-07-12T04:05:00.009-04:00

Once more, we wake before dawn.

We are at the farthest point in our journey and so we begin to retrace our steps. Back in the van, we rumble over the dirt road and out of the game park making sure not to hit the many baboons scampering across the tire tracks in front of us.

Halfway to Kampala, we veer off the pavement, returning to dirt. We stop at Ziwa Rhino sanctuary, strap on sandals and don gum boots, and begin to track the reserve’s six Rhinos on foot.

Lest you be under some false impression, let me assure you of this: there is nothing glamorous or exciting about tracking Rhinos on foot, at noon, under the hot African sun. And once you have seen one Rhino, there is no need to push yourself to see more. Alas.

We return to Kampala, dusty, windblown and slightly nauseous from the road, but glad to be out in the open air of the cool evening. Yet while the rest of my family takes the land rover out into the city for dinner, I am at the hospital. Fiance is ill. I think he may have malaria, but the test is negative. The British doctor tells me that he has never met anyone who has been to Karamoja and not gotten brucellosis. I choose not to argue with him, but frankly, no one on our mission has ever contracted that disease. The diagnosis is vague—“an acute gastro” coupled with influenza—but Zack feels better come morning and so we continue our journey south.

From Kampala we drive to Mbale. In Mbale we rest. The next morning we head north again and return to Karamoja, having been gone for six days, five of which were spent traveling.

The thing about road trips – I reflect later - is the perspective they lend, in a myriad ways: time to consider how lucky you are to see all this; time to think; time to enjoy being away and then the chance to feel pleased at getting home.

We saw a herd of ostriches again outside Namalu as we neared home. They stood tall, proudly lifting their feathers up to the wind, and gracefully running away form the vehicle as we sped past. No one bothered to so much as reach for a camera. *smiles*

A Safari in three parts: Part Two

2011-07-11T03:39:00.004-04:00

On a flat river boat without a name, we begin to churn away along up the Albert Nile toward Murchison Falls. The motor foams and lurches, spraying the cool water up onto the deck. It is 3:00pm and once more, we are on a game drive. While the morning drive over the dirt and into the bush, knocked us back and forth, bruising hips and hitting heads, the boat ride is smooth as we sail over the opaque water searching for wildlife along the river’s edge.

The sun is even brighter on the water, and we wear our sunglasses, staring thick edge of trees where the water meets land, willing animals to appear the moment we glide by. We see monkeys and birds; white herons and eagles; crocodiles sunning themselves on the bank and plenty of hippos. From a distance we catch sight of a large herd of elephants, the mother bulls gently leading their babies to the river for a drink.

We reach the falls and the climb onto rocks in the middle of the churning river to take pictures of the rushing water spraying the canyon into which it falls. “Hey Kate!” my little brother exclaims, proudly posing on a boulder. “Take a picture of me!”

So I do.

“This is where the author Ernest Hemingway crashed his plane while trying to fly around Murchison Falls,” the ranger on board explains, pointing to a small blue sign on shore, barely noticeable from the boat. The Hemingway lover inside me, squeaks, and I snap photos of the piece of his plane that they have mounted on a stick as a momentum. Hemingway was only injured in the crash. They camped onshore for a few nights before being rescued by Ugandans in canoes.

We complete the boat ride, docking just as evening falls, for though it is summer, the sun has set by 7:00pm, just as it does every other day of the year. It is hot. The wind from the cruising boat ride gone, we feel flushed, and hurrying to our campsite, we order cold bottles of water and beer. After deliciously cold showers and a dinner of rice and curried vegetables, we collapse within the canvas walls of our tents, exhausted. My fingers itch to write and for a while I try, scribbling in fluid ink the adventures of the day. But moths and mosquitoes flutter to the light of my flashlight, and the kerosene lamp make the inside of the canvas tent warmer and warmer. I fall asleep to the sound of warthogs rustling in the bushes outside and the peaceful sound of my sisters sleeping beside me.

A Safari in three parts: Part One

2011-07-10T01:50:00.011-04:00

On the edge of the Albert Nile, the dusky almost-light of rising dawn casts shadows in the clearing. Canvas tents speckle the dirt ground between trees, and the flames of the kerosene lanterns linger by each tent to keep away utter darkness, as well as the baboons and warthogs that bravely treat those of us on safari with unabashed curiosity. It is 6:00am. Across the clearing and throughout the tents, you can hear the sudden chirping and beeping of alarms clocks and watches as the tented campers are woken before sunrise.

We stumble in the shadows cast by the lanterns, slipping on worn trousers and long shirts as we prepare to spend the morning searching for game. Using flashlights and headlamps, we grab packed bags of chapatti and fruit before climb into the awaiting vehicles. we drive, but we do not drive long, for at the edge of the river waiting for the raft to ferry us across the Nile, we pause and watch the sun rise saffron and pink over the still silver water. A hippopotamus surfaces a few feet from the boats, snorting and blowing out water to announce its presence. The toursists, mostly from Europe and Israel, cluster with their cameras, eagerly capturing photos of the mostly submerged beast…but I cannot take my eyes off the sun. It is beautiful.

Once across the river, we engage the service of a game park ranger, who not only knows the usual locations of most of the animals, but also carries a loaded rifle—just in case the lions were not fully satisfied by their evening prowl, or the elephants offended by our presence. The roof of the van pops up and out in typical safari style, and we alternate between standing and letting the cold morning air rush over our upturned faces and sitting down to eat our packed breakfast.

“Theyah ah Cob deah,” the ranger explains pointing to the small deer filling the plains that stretch out before us. “And theyah ah the cape buffalo and the antelope…” we stare out the windows, as we rush past the wildlife that warily regards our presence with uncertainty.

A dozen girraffees stand by the side of the road snacking on leaves. We stop and stare, snapping photos and giggling as their long necks turn to regard us with appropriate disdain. Slowly, they amble away, farther into the bush and away from the road. A tall male giraffe remains close, unmoving, and I notice that his left hindleg in cut and swollen twice its normal size. He cannot move easily.

“Poachers,” the ranger explains, “He cut his leg in the snare of the poachers.”

We stop to let some elephants cross the road, hushing our squeals of excitement to be almost close enough to touch the noble grey beasts. A male with large tusks stares at us, and when he trumpets, signaling a charge, we quickly drive away.

We follow a lion. She seems unconcerned by our presence. Perhaps she is used to vehicles. Perhaps she is merely not hungry.

Stopping at another bank of the river, we get out of the car stretching our legs and watching swarms of dragon flies twist their way through the tall grass. Nearly a hundred hippos lie together in the cool water, lounging in the morning sunlight. We take pictures of ourselves and them…but mostly them.

The morning game drive comes to an end; we thank our guide and pause for lunch in the sticky heat of midafternoon. Then, we return to the river...

A Safari in three parts: Prologue.

2011-07-09T06:51:00.003-04:00

It takes two days to reach Kampala, and from Kampala another full day of driving North and then West to reach Murchison Falls National Park.It was new territory for all of us; a red marum road that we had not traversed before. Our guide assured us, "You'll enjoy it; its a very nice drive." The largest Game Reserve in Uganda, Murchison boasts not only the classic Savannah filled with wild animals, but also a powerful waterfall. Our two days and three nights on Safari were busily crammed with as much activity as a 24 hour day permits. Before we even reached our campsite, we stopped at the beautiful Murchison Falls to hike around the water. Hiking up rocky hills in the intense African heat of summer may not be my favourite thing to do immediately following a five hour car ride along dirt roads. But the beauty and power of the falls were worth instantly being soaked in our own sweat.

Inky Fingertips and Silence

2011-07-01T02:38:00.008-04:00

I was so certain that upon my arrival in Nakaale blog posts would begin to flow from my fingertips like ink from a fountain pen. But though I journal and travel, visiting villages that have both changed and unchanged drastically since my last visit, I have found it difficult to construct sensical prose from the many impressions and comparisons that have so overwhelmed my mind these past three weeks.

It's truly been three weeks already.

I've been to Namalu several times observing literacy and community develpement lessons, attended the church of our friend Pastor Zachary Emuron in that town and been welcomed into his home for a meal of goat and posho. He was beyond thrilled to learn that my fiance's name was also Zachary and Emuron now refers to Zack as his namesake. *smiles*

I have been to the Kopetatum and Atedewe for Bible Studies, walking several kilometres through the echoto (mud) and ducking through the low entrances in the thorn fences of the manyattas. The villages still look the same, though the paths and trails leading to them have altered many times in the past 18 months. The children still run around half clothed, grinning shrieking and stroking my white arms in fascination. They still hold my hands (three pairs grasp each of my arms) as I leave the village, and they still beg for my bracelet (for I am now only wearing one of my seven).

Now the try to pinch my engagement ring as well. A young girl of six with a bright smile and shaved head, stares at the diamond on my hand left hand and tells me its beautiful.

"Alakara nooi," I thank her, thinking that she has never in her life touched anything worth quite so much money, and feeling rather guilty that I should own such an extravagant piece when her village is hungry. She tries to pull it off my hand when I am not looking, and I am thankful that it fits well enough that no amount of tugging can wrench it from my finger.

My sister and her brand new fiance arrived just over a week ago. Come Sunday our swollen family of nine will drive south and plan to spend a of week adventuring on a Safari to Murchison Falls game park. We are all eagerly anticipating that retreat and are oh-so-thankful to blessed with the opportunity. Til then are here. Working, serving, resting and praying to be useful.

On emotions

2011-06-29T04:17:00.001-04:00

“He had been wont to despise emotions: girls were emotional, girls were weak, emotions—tears—were weakness. But this morning, he was thinking that being a great brain in a tower, nothing but a brain, wouldn’t be much fun. No excitement, no dog to love, no joy in the blue sky—no feelings at all. But feelings—feelings are emotions! He was suddenly overwhelmed by the revelation that what makes life worth living is, precisely, the emotions. But then—this was awful!—maybe girls with their tears and laughter were getting more out of life. Shattering! He checked himself: showing one’s emotions was not the thing: having them was. Still, he was dizzy with the revelation. What is beauty but something that is responded to with emotion?”

-Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy p.18

Love

2011-06-26T04:14:00.000-04:00

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing."
1 Corinthians 13: 1-3

Baubles and Bangles

2011-06-20T02:05:00.002-04:00

I've worn a row of seven aluminum bracelets on my right wrist since our transition to Africa nearly seven years ago. They are a Karimojong cultural tradition these bangles; people trade them with their friends and wear dozens on their arms like a primitive version of Facebook. New bracelets are hard grey in colour, chiseled and sharply metallic. After wearing them day after day for years, they aluminium surface smooths into the shape of your forearm leaving remarkable tan lines and keeping the skin beneath a pasty white.

"Will you wear these Karamojong things when you become married?" A Ugandan friend asks me in church on Sunday, fingering the aluminum bands encasing my wrist and forearm.

"Perhaps not, " I admit, staring at the silver; one bracelet is merely a piece of barbed wire...a young girl in Nakaale village gave it to me during a bible study several years ago.

"Ah then you must remove them. The sun will make you look very funny if they remain."

She is referring to the tan lines I have not been able to get rid of for seven years.

Carefully bending each bangle back, she slips the bracelets off my wrist, revealing the translucent and somewhat hideous skin of mine beneath.

I let her remove all but one. While at Geneva, I never considered taking off such a part of me that was characteristically so African; I couldn't bear the thought of loosing some of my adopted culture. Perhaps now that I am home it seems less severe for a Ugandan to tell me to take off my jewlery...though I find it highly amusing that it is all for the sake of an even tan. :)

On the Road Again

2011-06-16T04:49:00.000-04:00

The road to Karamoja is long.

Kilometers of red marum slice through the underbrush, twisting around foothills dotted with withered acacia trees. Dad wished to be in Nakaale intime for the morning worship service and so though we had arrived in Mbale, exhausted and quite travel worn, well after dark, we left town before the sun rose, caravanning with the newly married Dr. Jim and his wife Jenny.

Leaving Mbale, we were not shaken – for our passage over tarmac was too smooth for that – yet I was stirred by the familiar sighs and sounds. Fires were being lit alongside the road as women awoke and began to fry Sunday morning chapatti.

Mileage hardly matters in our corner of Africa: state of the roads is the key here. We describe the length of a journey in hours taken, not kilometers covered. Pitted and post-rains and we could crawl along at a snail’s pace, newly graded and the whole experience is a swifter and much more comfortable one. Unfortunately Sunday’s roads fell into the former category.

The first time our car became stuck in the marum-turned-mud road, Zack and I only had to climb out into the ankle-deep muck in order to lighten the load just enough for the land cruiser’s tires to stop spinning and the steel beast to escape.

The second time we got stuck, Jim drove around us, doing a full 180 degree spin in the mud as the vehicle slipped and our cars met, face to face in the sludge. Still, though we were facing each other, Jim was able to pull us out and we continued on our way.

The third time we got stuck, there were already two heavy trucks and a bus caught on the side of road, tipped and sagging. Dexterously driving in between and around them stalled vehicles, Jim managed to pass the trucks, but his tire tracks in the red red road made the marum all the more slick, and one more our land cruiser’s tires began to spin.
We were stuck.
More stuck than before.
All cars were turned off, crowds gathered and we traipsed around the Cuiser, pointing, digging, shouting and somehow hoping that the mud would not continue to suck us further down than we already were. After fiercely negotiating a price, the only large truck that had yet to succumb to the mud pulled us free from the mire. Clods of greasy mid clung to our shoes as we climbed into the car once more, thankful to be free.
We chuckled. Church has long been over.

The large delay in our journey did, however, afford us the opportunity to catch sight of a dozen or more ostriches congregating near Monkey Bridge.

Those glimpses of rare game, unexpected even this far out now for the creep of humankind and the erosion of forests and morphing highways, are gifts. We considered ourselves lucky.

The Journey

2011-06-13T07:23:00.004-04:00

Nothing quite extends an 18 hour plane trip than a 24 hour layover. To be precise, the layover was 24 hours and 20 minutes, but after spending 12 hours on a flight from New York City to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates, Zack and I were ready to stretch our legs. Neither of us had ever been to Dubai and the tenacious tug of a new city ripe for exploration pulled at us as we left the airport Friday morning.

A shuttle drove us from the terminal to the hotel, so it wasn’t until after we’d checked into our separate rooms that we adventurously set about the city. Stepping through the glass doors of the air conditioned hotel, we punch in the gut by the humid breath of hot wind ripping across the Saudi Arabian peninsula. Such heat, I would hasten to argue, (the kind that knocks you backwards like when you open the oven while baking and are accosted by the blasting rush of warmth) is one of the least pleasing things to encounter after an exhausting flight. It may even be worse than snow, which I surprise myself at admitting considering our last experience in the UK when Em and I were caught in icy London with nothing but t-shirts and thin sweaters. On Friday, a little ice in Dubai would have been lovely.

Here are ten things that I learned about this fairly unknown city in the Middle East:

1. Visas to enter the UAE are free to US citizens, however, if you do not have proof of accommodations while in Dubai, the visa officials can make you purchase hotel reservation from the airport booth. These are far more expensive than booking online.

2. The capital of a primarily Muslim country, Dubai is filled with shops and stores that are open on Monday through Thursday. Though a portion of the city fully functions on Friday, many do not open on Fridays do to their religion. Plan accordingly.

3. Taxis are always air conditioned in Dubai. This makes them the prime mode of transportation when the outside temperature reached triple digits. :)

4. Taxis are also relatively inexpensive. A drive across town during heavy traffic can cost only 25 durhams (less than $10 US).

5. Dubai is not nearly as unknown as I thought. It boast Burj Kalifa, the tallest building in the world, which actually doesn’t appear to be as tall as you might imagine.

6. Dubai is also the home to the largest mall in the world complete with an indoor hockey rink, skate park, cinema, and water park. We counted three Starbucks and only managed to walk around a third of the total mall.

7. If you ever have a chance to visit Dubai, visit the Dubai Museum. For only 6 durhams ($3) you can enter the oldest Arabian fort in Dubai and visit the underground museum detailing the quotidian history of Islam displayed in the form of wax figures and life size scenes intensified by sound effects. Creepy? Slightly. Cool? Quite.

8. Night time in Dubai is not much cooler, but there are far more people out and about than there are during the day.

9. Foreign women are not condemned for not wearing headscarves or burquas; keep sleeves on but your head can remain uncovered.

10. Pack sunglasses. There is a reason it is so hot there

For only 24 hours, we packed quite a bit into our day and left Dubai feeling quite good about the amount of city we had seen. After a 4hour flight to Addis Ababa, and hour sitting on tarmac and wishing to step off the plan just so we could say we’ve been to Ethiopia, a short 2 hour ride landed us safely in Uganda. Exhausted, weary and oh-so-excited, we grabbed our luggage and made our way out of the airport and into the palm swaying breeze to where my parents were waiting.

Welcome back to Africa, memsahib.

Shifting Spaces

2011-06-08T21:40:00.003-04:00

We spent all day packing, he and I. Now, four bags have been precisely weighed and sit by the front door anticipating journey ahead of them.

But they are not nearly as excited as I.

Tomorrow, we fly to Uganda for two months.

I am going home.

out of the ordinary

2011-06-06T23:50:00.004-04:00

We escape from school. Clammering out of our dorms and racing away from the classrooms filled with used blue books and dull pencils, we enthusiastically burst out into the bright sunshine, ready whatever Summer has in store for us. I have learned that college makes you accustomed to sprinting... Short leaps and bursts of energy keep you alive from midterms to finals, between weekends and breaks. But once you leave, Summer--for all she promised you-- is never quite the glory you thought she would be. Change begets monotony and work turns from the academic to manual so that you almost have to cup your ears to the clamor of cacophony of the weeks of hopefulness that tell you that leaving school was an adventure.

This has been my experience.

But in the pockets of all that is usual, I have a found a graceful bit of distraction. This summer is sure to be extraordinary--I expect it to be so in both good and bad ways--but this period of patience before two months in Africa has proven a challenge to bear. That is, until a week ago...

Of the ten of who lived in Riachrdson House last year, one of us got married on the third, and so seven of traveled all the way to Kansas for the grand occasion.

It is blessed thing to be reunited with friends. We drove over 2,000 miles together, camping in State Parks and counting all the bovine that we saw in the Midwest...with only one almost-speeding-ticket, seven state lines were crossed, and five girls reconnected after a month of Summer. We returned to that community that we were once a part, an old and integral part, of that has not changed shape and so there are clear gaps we can wriggle comfortably back into.

They have not intentionally taught me this at college, but it is something that I have learned regradless...

Without friends, life would not be quite so bearable, and so I am thankful that God took us out of the ordinary Summer days and threw us into the middle-of-nowhere-Kansas to watch our dear friend marry. What a joyous diversion.

Road Trip Week

2011-05-31T12:44:00.003-04:00

I am presently powering up and packing for a road trip week with 4 of my Richardson girls! One of our housemates is getting married in Kansas this Friday and so we have a bit of a road trip ahead of us. T-driving, W-driving, Th-driving & chilling, Fr- Wedding!, Sa- driving, Su-driving. Huzzah for love and good friends!

Le Finestre

2011-05-27T23:59:00.004-04:00

The house was condemned.

Old and unlivable, it was being rebuilt slowly, as each supporting beam every piece of wall was replaced to make the vintage building livable once more.

We'd noticed the construction driving past the property several times, always admiring the piles of discarded windows laying in the dirt. As we drive by the house after a trip to the grocery story, Zack determinedly pulled into the lot and parking the car, approached the group of cigarette-smoking teenagers who stared at us from the front porch curiously. I watched in the rear view mirror as Zack pointed to the pile, the guys nodded and suddenly they had all laid down their hammers and nails to help us load the the old windows into the bed of our truck.

With a friendly wave, the boys returned to their reconstruction work, happy to be rid of their pile of junk, while Zack and I drove off, happy to have acquired such treasures for free.

After spending far too much time reading countless DIY wedding blogs, I came upon the idea of turning old windows and antique picture frames into chalkboards to use as signs for our wedding. Since the reception shall be at an old factory turned art studio, we have embraced our artistic and creative sides while planning our big day. Yet thus far all the antique stores and junk shops from Pennsylvania to New York had left us empty handed.

Eagerly, we unloaded the back of the truck, stacking the dusty frames in the garage carefully so as not to scratch the glass. Six single frames and 2 boxed windows laid before us on the cool cement. Thus our project began...

Early the next morning we began to work. First, we sanded the wooden frames, leaving enough of jade-coloured paint to give the windows a vintage garden feel. Second, we washed the glass and taped the the frames to separate them from the glass.

Third, we painted. One coat of white primer. Two coats. Dry. And a final two coats of blackboard paint. Just paint, dry, rub the surface with chalk and vwala! You have yourself a chalkboard sign.

Once we had completed painting the six single windows, we repeated the process with the boxed windows. I sanded. Zack taped and painted. And the end result made us giggle with happiness.

Since the glass was unpainted on the back of the frames, we had created a blackboard on one side of what had once been a mere window, and a dry erase board on the other. The goofy smiles in the photographs below say it all. Whether we use all of our new creations, on thing is certain...they are, indeed, quite fabulous. :)

olive oil and joy

2011-05-17T14:37:00.004-04:00

We lie in an awkward period of waiting. On June 9th Zack and I begin our journey to Uganda. 'Til then, we wait, occupying ourselves in what ways we can. I am at my future-in-laws house for the next week and a half and this morning was the first of this week that was not saturated with clouds and rain. Taking full advantage of the summer sunshine, we spontaneously created a masterful lunch on the grill. A little olive oil brings a lot of joy. And we are rather impressed with ourselves...

Matchbook Girl

2011-05-16T14:48:00.006-04:00

I was introduced to this lovely collection of prettiness by a friend recently. Forgive the silliness; I cannot resist! Enjoy Matchbook Magazine.

Imperfection

2011-05-15T14:02:00.002-04:00

Maybe, just maybe, its not about being perfect.

Today I awoke a little less broken than the day before. I imagine that all the sleep I've been getting in the week since school ended has helped.

How does one deal with the madness of living in the world? Its a question that I have been recycling lately. Reuse. Re-ask. Rethink. How does one work to keep oneself whole without falling into selfishness? It is a recycled question, continually thrown behind the shoulder of the discouraged thinker only to be caught immediately by the next curious and newly wide-eyed student.

The paradox of college is that if you aren't responsible, you fall by the wayside, letting grades plummet and sanity sink. College is supposed to teach independence, but along with that comes this attitude centered on your own needs and desires. Stepping out of the academic whirlpool each semester, I am struck by my lack of importance; I can be responsible, but I must constantly fight against the urge to consider my own needs as the utmost priority.

Perhaps this is also an effect of adulthood and not merely college. I don't know. The misty whirling and twirling of thought in my head has created too much of a muddle; I can no longer see straight. Or clearly.

Maybe, just maybe, all this post-semester sleep is helping.

a confession

2011-05-04T09:08:00.003-04:00

"I had become to myself a vast problem, and I questioned my soul 'Why are you sad and why are you very distressed?' But my soul did not know what reply to give...so my life was to me a horror."
(Augustine, Confessions)

^"12 Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. ¹³ Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, ¹⁴ I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."
(Philippians 3:12-21)

flawed desires

2011-04-11T16:50:00.004-04:00

I want he and I to have an apartment of our own. (Window boxes filled with red geraniums: optional).

I want to have a kitchen where I can create art with food and cook whatever I wish. (Tomatoes for dinner?)

I want to bake real bread. (Good bread).

I want to have a studio with large windows overlooking something picturesque or antique. (High ceilings and splattered wooden floors).

I want to paint in calm and quiet. (Preferably by the sea where the warm breeze floats through the cracked window panes, tangling the curtains).

I want to read books and spend time thinking about what they say instead of rushing and skimming in order to complete assignments. (I want to search tomes for meaning).

I am tired of people.

***

Today, it rained in Beaver Falls.

At least the snow has stopped falling.

I've spent too many afternoons walking back to my house in the rain, unprotected.

So today I bought a red a umbrella.

I carried it with me to dinner, prepared.

But it had stopped raining.

Days of Engagement

2011-03-31T19:19:00.005-04:00

This week I’ve been engaged for a month. Today its been 32 days.

Since we still have a year until we are to be wed, beginning a countdown might be a little extreme.

Still I cannot help but celebrate in my heart, notice the date and get a little giddy each time he whispers in my ear, "We are getting married!"

Oh love is a beautiful thing.

But on the topic of blessings, God has also provided in another way this week; the two girls and I who are living off campus next year have found an apartment! A one bedroom, blue-carpeted, upstairs apartment with big windows is all ours! I know I am getting married...But this has suddenly made me feel very grown-up. The lease has been signed and come May we can move in and decorate as we wish.

Perhaps something like this? *smiles* I can only dream...

Say You Will

2011-03-08T13:26:00.005-05:00

Lately, I’ve been telling this story repeatedly.

Everyone asks, “So whats the story? There IS a story, isn’t there? How did it happen?”

And as the hushed giggles and strong hugs envelope me, I begin the story once more...

On February 27, I thought we were going on a plain date.

Just dinner. A simple dinner that we were both anticipating, since we have been too busy to spend much time together over the past couple of weeks. He’d told me that he would pick me up at my house at 4:30, but at 4:15 my phone buzzed and punching the keys, I read a surprising text message.

“Wear something nice: heels.” he said, “I am wearing a tie. But you should bring other shoes too, because we’ll be walking.”

Apparently the dinner was not to be quite as simple as I thought.

At 4:30 sharp, I made my way down the stairs to the front door. There he stood…black vest, blue tie and three red roses.

“Lets get out of here,” I said after thanking him and gently lair the flowers on the table inside the door. “Come on!”

Pennsylvania is not particularly beautiful in February. But few places on earth are not lovely at sunset. The unseasonably warm wind rushed over my hand, as I dangled a few fingers out the window and listened to strangely romantic progression of songs humming through the car’s speakers. Dave Matthews, Frank Sinatra, Regina Spektor…Train? Though they were all our favourite love songs, but I told myself to think nothing of it.

The sky had turned the colour of melon as he parked the car and we stepped out to walk among the posh neighborhood up on a hill. The houses, and properties attached, in that part of Sewickly are both vast and grand and in the past we have driven around, looking at them just for fun.

Walking, talking and pointing to the mansions and grounds, we sauntered down the side walk, dressed to the nines and feeling like interlopers in territory not our own.

“Hey, let’s go down this alley!” he suddenly exclaimed, forcefully pulling me toward the side street that appeared to be private property.

“Are you sure we are allowed down here?” I asked skeptically, slightly turning back toward the road. A strange, dark Asian man lingered near the gate and from the corner of my eye, I saw him disappear behind the bushes and ivy.

How strange, I thought to myself.

“Look over this wall,” He said, hoisting me up to spy into the back yard of an impressive estate. When I turned back the Asian man was gone. Odd.

Returning to the main road, we continued to walk, passing more houses and a bit of woods before coming to a stone bridge overlooking a rippling creek. There was silence, save for the wind whistling through February’s bare branches. He put his arms around me and we watched the water fall from rock to rock to rock, cheerfully bubbling and flowing after finally being released from the snow and ice of the months prior.

This would be perfect, I thought to myself, so perfect…but don’t overthink things, Kate. This is just a simple date. A simple, ordinary date.

“I love you,” he whispered in my ear, repeating the phrase that has not lost any meaning in the two years since he first declared it to me.

“I love you too.”

He didn’t move; I remained still.

A kiss.

When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling before me, his knees deep in gravel and snow. Both my hands were held tightly in his left hand, for in his right, he held the ring.

“Will you marry me?”

Perhaps he said something more…perhaps I said something more than a mere “Yes!” But I cannot remember; the scene is blurred in my memory, lacking clarity because it was so soaked in emotion.

“Yes!”

The ring slid onto my finger. White gold and a single diamond, sealing his promise to me. I’d said yes, hadn’t I? I wasn’t sure. Had I said anything?

“Yes!” I replied to the long-awaited question, slipping my arms around his neck as he pulled me close to him, holding me tight.

Zack Ritchie and I are engaged now; we are going to be married.

In the excited mix of laughter and heart-splitting smiles, a figure caught my eye. An Asian man stood only a handful of feet from where we stood, zoomed camera pressed to his eye, snapping moments of our engagement on film.

“Jeremy is right there,” I said, pointing to Zack’s old roommate who had sheepishly lowered the camera and stood pretending to nonchalantly gaze at the trees and sky.

Zack’s smile could not have filled his face more fully, “What?”

“Jeremy!” I said laughing, “He’s been following us and taking pictures!”

“Maybe?”

But before I could either protest or further analyze his sneaky plan, he gave Jeremy something to photograph and swooped me up in his arms, kissing me silent.

“We are engaged now,” he said, grinning.

“That we are,” I promised, returning the smile.

After posing for many more pictures and receiving our first congratulations from the stalking photographer himself, Zack and I left the posh Sewickly hill and drove to an old house that had been converted into a restaurant. Entering the through the large wooden doors, we were ushered down a flight of wide stone steps to a secluded library with a lone rose-covered table set beside a glowing fire. That chef personally came to congratulate us, and then proceeded served us a six-course meal that he and Zack had designed and planned weeks prior.

We sat beside the fire for hours, eating food that overwhelmed our senses and laughing and the strangeness of it all.

We are getting married!

Fancy that.

On Wonder

2011-01-14T15:09:00.003-05:00

I rise.

It is Academic Convocation, and as the music swells and I observe our professors as they parade down the center aisle, bedecked in tassled hats and velvet robes.

Dr. F. is the celebrated and most-honoured speaker this morning. As his TA last semester, I know him better than many of the other Drs, cloaked in the black evidence of their academic accomplishments. He begins his speech philosophically, clearly articulating references and allusions as his words echo from microphone to floor to ceiling.

I smile.

In the first five minutes, I recognize every inside joke he makes with the faculty of the Humanities Dept, every allusion to Byron and unquoted reference to Aristotle. As he delves into the subject of Wisdom, explaining the necessity of wonder and awe, I smile, realizing for the very first time that perhaps I truly have learned something in the past three years.

Maybe I really am wiser than I was then.

I wonder, "Perhaps, I truly have grown..."

On this Pilgrim's Progress

2011-01-09T16:04:00.005-05:00

My favourite quote from John Bunyan's classic:

"...Suddenly, as I thought, I saw the Lord Jesus Christ look down from Heaven upon me, and saying, 'Believe in the Lord Jesus and thou shalt be saved.' But I replied, ' I am a great sinner--a very great sinner'; and He answered, 'My grace is sufficient for thee.'"

breaking silence

2011-01-06T17:56:00.002-05:00

Dominoes are experts in falling easily and starting a chain reaction. But how much more attention does a domino receive when it stands alone?

I wonder where we should be stopping the chain...where should I be standing?

I am breaking my silence after too many weeks of half-hearted thoughts to update this blog. I am caught somewhere in the middle of post-summer and ante-Uganda. I cannot promise too many posts over the next semester. But come June, I will return home for two months of nostalgic summer vacation and when that time comes I do promise to post regularly. In Karamoja I cannot help writing; in college I find it too much of a chore.

'Tis a strangely honorable oxymoron.

It bothers me that oxymoron. But I tell myself to sit still...to cease listening to the roar of the crowd.

Wait for the light whisper of the Holy One to push you in the right direction- and then run there, as hard as you can until you’re no longer at the mercy of inspiration. This first Christmas away from home, this long break between semesters without leaving the US has been stretching. But He has been so faithful.

I looking forward to this Spring semester. The dominoes are all in place. In a moment they will begin to tumble and I hope that my excitement is well-founded. Perhaps then I shall have the joyful inspirations about which to blog.

Ode to a Nightingale

2010-12-22T23:14:00.001-05:00

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease."

(John Keats)

to not shrink

2010-11-18T14:04:00.006-05:00

Somebody said to me this week, "You’re too quiet. You don't talk about Africa much."

And I didn't know what to say; I haven't yet quite figured out how to respond.

Because I am afraid that if I do...if I start start talking, I might revert to default: tediously Minding Gaps. To shrinking from honesty. I try to not shrink, but it is a challenge. I am afraid that if I start talking I will never stop.

And so I am quiet.

"Oh for goodness sake!" I hear, "Let go!"

But you see, thats the thing...I have let go. It is a daily process this letting go.

This is the first fall semester that I have not had the promise of Christmas in Uganda lighting up my horizon.

I am not complaining--I have been blessed with a place to stay over Christmas and an almost-family that comes about as close to the real thing as you can get.

But it is not Africa; It is not home.

And so I don't say anything. At all.

forced exploration

2010-11-13T19:47:00.004-05:00

We fancy ourselves explorers.

That is where we start our fumbling.

Its a random week in November. Its is neither finals week nor midterms, and yet we find ourselves overwhelmed, abandoned in a world full of fast moving trains and ladders of life that we will only get the chance to dust the bottom rung of. This is where we placed ourselves.

Education. We don't know nearly the information that we should. We can't remember all they've told us, yet we've learned so much. If only test scores and paper grades proved that...or do they?

Education: the trapped person's version of exploring.

Four of us studied in a diner till 2:30 am in preparation for our 9:00am exam on Friday.

Oh how we confuse our bodies...our poor brains are loaded with caffeine and our lungs are full of stale air from labs and libraries.

It's just been a funny week in November. On Tuesday, the chrysanthemums were dusted in the frozen powder of early morning frost as I rushed to my Linguistics test at 8 am. Today, Saturday, the balmy autumn air is a mere 60 degrees and students are playing frisbee out on the lawn as if it were spring.

Too many tests and too much strange weather has left us tripping, fumbling through the days of classes as if we were still children, rolling down muddy hills in pursuit of the next great adventure.

But we are a different sort of explorer now. We can do nothing but move forward, yet suddenly we find ourselves craving those standstill moments when seconds were hours.

And so like children we grumble when we fumble, sighing and stating, "Forced exploration is the worst."

not a moment to spare

2010-11-08T22:55:00.005-05:00

"There were moments when ones past came back to one, it will somethings when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention."
~Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Autumn

2010-10-28T22:00:00.002-04:00

On Understanding

2010-10-18T23:52:00.001-04:00

Blogs are curious things. I often wonder if my blog is a travel journal for others, a person journal for myself, or merely a showcase so that others can see what's going on in my life. I find it quite ironic to blog about blogging, but I cannot seem to help but muse about this strange habit I have formed. I have blogged for six years. I hope there is something worth reading in all these posts…

It is late as I write this and the headlight of cars rushing past the fogged window make shadows dance on the darkened walls of this sleeping house. I cannot write much more, but here is something on which I have been thinking all night:

We enter this world and we exit this world, for we cannot avoid our own existence. We live with the hopes that something will happen in between the start and finish of our lives…something that was good enough...something that left an imprint…that changed someone…that altered the course of another’s life. We hope that it is good enough for what comes after. I know what comes after, but some people are less certain. Not knowing makes the end of this whole existence business far more frightening than it need be.

I have not been content lately. I have been impatient, antsy and I have forgotten how to reside in the now without stretching out cold fingers and grasping for the future. No matter how far I reach I cannot pull myself out of the present. I must be patient

Surely we should all take some time to savor the current moments of our lives To rid ourselves of the things that shouldn't consume us and dismiss them. Continuing to learn the things that need to become part of our lives, perhaps we will begin to understand why we need them… why now is necessary. There I always merit in the present no matter how much I wish I was somewhere else.

And so I strive for contentment.

This blog post—this curious piece of cyberspace that I have claimed as my own—this single blog post is not travel journal for others (for I am not traveling). It is not a personal journal for myself ( I have one of those already, and being leather-bound, it is far more beautiful than this blogspot), nor is it a mere showcase so that others can see what's going on in my life.

It is nothing. Nothing of consequence. C.S. Lewis once wrote, "We do not write to be understood, but to understand." And that is what I am doing. I am writing to understand myself…and what on this earth I am doing.

the season of midterms and memory

2010-10-13T19:21:00.006-04:00

Outside, the air is cool and pulsing with light at the autumn sun sets in the west. The flaming maple tree guarding our house sheds leaves like dogs shed hair in the spring, and its dappled red and brown foliage falls to the ground...silently, as the cars rush past, breathing out fumes and spilled gravel onto the grass of our front yard.

It is fun to live in a house this year.

It is freeing to exist outside the dorms, away from the small rooms and communal bathrooms. Now, I live in a house with nine other girls. The semester is nearly half over, and I am ashamed that I never mentioned it before: Richardson House. Tis a beautiful place, filled with mirrors and window panes stained with colour. We have a kitchen too--a big kitchen--though mostly all I ever make in it is tea.

I was sitting in our living room with one of my housemates this afternoon, talking about Chilean miners and how we're afraid of the dark.

"Do you remember what we were doing this time last year?" she asks.

I don’t have to think, because, of course I remember. How could I forget?

I know this may sound insincere, but fall break was far more epic then.

"We had ten days off instead of four," I said smiling, "and you had Paris on your horizon."

"While you had Prague on yours," she replied.

How funny to think that that was a whole year ago.

How strange to admit that sometimes I pretend it was only yesterday.

Four of the ten of us living in Richardson were in Italy together, and oft times we distract ourselves from reality by remembering.

Though personally, I don’t think we remember often enough.

Geneva still uses us as her poster children for the Rome program. We advertise and let our pictures be plastered all over campus. A whole group of my friends is going to Rome in the spring.

"Just come again!" they exclaim, "Come with us! Please!"

As if I needed that much convincing.

A year ago, we were saddened that we would miss the seasonal shifting shades of leaves on the East Coast. In Italy, summer turns to winter so quickly, and though the leaves fall, they are all dull and monochromatic. That was why when I peeked through the curtain of my couchette and watched the early-morning light illuminate the sylvan hills as my train shot through the Austrian alps, I caught my breathe when I saw the colours changing before my eyes. Wine red, sunflower yellow, and every shade in between.

The sight was beautiful.

I love fall.

As I type this, I sit on the third story of Richardson House, gazing out the small window panes beside my desk, and looking down at the balding tree in our front yard. Soon the maple will be bare. But until then our side walk is alive with colour. And the crunching of leaves beneath our shod feet is enough to make any college student feel happy.

Even if it is the week before fall break…and we are overwhelmed with midterms.

Snapshots of Richardson House

2010-10-10T10:24:00.003-04:00

Sometimes they seem so little...

the things that keep our souls alive.

Windows and Light.

Pied Beauty

2010-09-30T21:34:00.000-04:00

PIED BEAUTY

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

on reading poems

2010-09-28T21:26:00.008-04:00

In the the thick grey haze of the drizzling late afternoon, eight students skipped their 3:30 class and drove to poetry reading at a state college. They sat quietly in the small square room, appreciating the low red chairs and trying to hold back the coughs and sniffs that would give evidence of their colds and interrupt the poet's speech. When she had read all she meant to a round of applause filled the room, and all those lovers of literature gathered around the table where the poet sat, signing copies of her published works with an inky flourish.

She waived the $12 fee and gave all eight of them free copies of her books. As the slick pen inscribed well-wishes on each title page, they thanked her and then returned outdoors into the grey rain. The slight sprinkles of water blew over them dappling their faces like dew. Back through the murky haze they drove, back to Geneva, back to the College on a Hill.

"Did you know that W. D. Snodgrass was a Geneva student before he was drafted?" someone asked,

no reply.

"Well, he was. Thats his house right there across the street from campus. They are thinking of buying it and turning it into a a poetry building for Writing majors...Maybe then Geneva can have its own poetry readings."

Now wouln't that be nice? *smiles*

on feeling invisible

2010-09-24T23:34:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I am surprised when people feel things that I hardened myself to many years ago.

Poverty.

War.

Famine.

I am not saying that have lost my compassion. But I don’t cry when I see photographs of naked children whose dust covered bellies are swollen with hunger.

Perhaps I should.

It is easy to forget the nameless and the faceless, but I know their names. And their images are burned into my memory.

It is Justice week at school, whatever that may mean.

Certainly, it is good to make middle-class American aware of injustices around the world, and I applaud everyone who was passionate enough to organize this week’s events at Geneva. But a week is not enough. It is not enough to spend a week in contemplation of poverty and then fell as if you fulfilled your compassion quota for the year.

I am hard pressed not to skeptical.

Last night, a group of people from the Invisible Children organization traveled all the way from San Diego to speak and show their film to the students of my college.

According to their mission statement as posted on their website, “Invisible Children uses film, creativity, and social action to end the use of child soldiers in Joseph Kony’s rebel war and restore Northern Uganda to peace and prosperity"

Uganda. It is rare that I talk about it to students.

At least not deeply.

Because, you see, I mention Karamoja all the time…I make no point in hiding the fact that I consider myself from somewhere else.

But beneath the part of me that has been hardened, there is a deep well of thoughts and emotions and experiences that I cannot share with other people.

They don’t know anything.

They have not been there.

And even the ones who have visited were not there long enough.

I was not there long enough.

I went to this campus-wide showing of Invisible Children’s film last night, because I wanted to remember..I wanted those volunteers from San Diego to inform my college about everything I had wished them to understand about Uganda, but had never been brave enough to tell. I squeezed between friends in the crowd of people to watch the projected film about the LRA and Joseph Kony. Most of the people there had no idea who Joseph Kony was; They’d never heard of him. They had never seen real people spit into the dust cursing that name, hatred filling eyes. They were only there for extra credit. Watching a movie is easy extra credit for those who don’t really care about their grades anyway.

After hushing and hissing, the lights dimmed, a man spoke, his t-shirt matching those on display for sale in the back, and the film began.

I thought it was going to be about Uganda, but it wasn’t.

It was about a group of kids who went to Uganda. It was about the Americans.

(Forgive me if I sound hypocritical…)

When it was finished, I left the building in a gray cloud of disappointment.

I am exhausted by incomplete images that aid organizations paint for wealthy American audiences.

I am weighed down by the incompleteness of any ministry without the Gospel message.

Tea anyone?

2010-09-10T18:36:00.004-04:00

An unexpected red note in my mailbox. The declaration that a package was awaiting me in the mail room. A square brown paper package tied with no strings. I hurried back to my room, opening the splendid thing with excited fingers and my house-key.

Unexpected gifts from friends are wonderful. And the cup is delightfully elegant. Thank you, Chrissie. :) Tea anyone?

on writing poems

2010-09-05T18:33:00.003-04:00

This semester, I have a poem due every Tuesday for my poetry class. I have written poetry before, but never on demand. I cannot just sit down and write a poem. I need the proper inspiration...

So last night I sat down and stubbornly told myself that I could not get up until I had written a poem. I wrote four very badly composed sets of verses before leaving my desk in a huff of frustration.

Strangely enough, though not quite surprisingly, they were all about Africa.

Basilico

2010-08-27T17:15:00.002-04:00

From where we stood in the center of the farmer’s market, the strong scent of sun-ripened vegetables and pretty flowers permeated the early morning air. It was the beginning of summer and one of those first Saturdays when the market was open. The clean white and blue tents were set up in the center of town, filled with the first produce from of the season. Beating down on our heads through the clear, clean air, the sun was already hot, though it was still early in the morning, and we were glad that we had dressed for the heat. Swishing skirts and tank tops made us feel fresh and summery as we meandered through the tents, tasting every free sample we could find.

“Aren’t these bouquets of wild flowers lovely?”

“They are wonderful, aren’t they? Smell them!”

“Oh, I wish I had a grandmother nearby, or someone who I could randomly buy them for.” We chuckled. If only…

We bought no flowers, only straws full of flavoured honey, that we paid a quarter for each, and then sucked on as we continued our walk, looking like children with candy hanging from our mouths. I bought a basil plant. Four healthy stalks--a quarter each--and I carried them home proudly, planting the fragrant beauties in a clay pot and caring for it like it was my child. *chuckles*

That was three months ago.

It was one of the few romantically pleasant events that I thought might be worthy to blog about. But I didn’t. If the exact market had been in Italy, I’d have written an essay on it, describing in detail each vendors goods and they food that we tasted. But this is Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Hardly Campo di Fiori. And so I didn’t bother to write…because walking through a farmer’s market with a friend hardly seemed worth mentioning. It was a very normal Saturday.

From where we sat on high stools beside the café window, we watched people walk along the downtown sidewalks, meandering through the city as we had through the market three months ago. Today, we had a final lunch together, for the summer is over.

“How will your basil plant survive while you are at school?” she asked me, teasingly.

I chuckled and dramatically sighed in response.

Now, all that remain of my basil plant is four yellowed looking stems with brownish green leaves peeking from its body like shy faces, afraid of being torn off by a cooks hand. The woody remains of what once was a delicate plant.

Apparently, I do not have much of a green thumb. *smiles*

The summer is over.

Tomorrow morning I return to Geneva, a fact proven by the pile of my belonging sitting under the carport outside. Two boxes, two suitcases, a milk crate filled with beloved classics (as well as not-so-beloved textbooks) and a laundry basket full of odd ends. I am excited to return to school. *smiles*

On this last night of summer vacation, before I pack up the van and begin my junior year of college, my sister and I are making dinner. And I think the poor basil plant has seen its last day. A little pasta, garlic, parmesan in our capable hands and we shall feast.

It wont quite be like Italy, but it shall certainly be lovely. *smiles*

Word Vomit

2010-08-15T18:02:00.003-04:00

Word Vomit.

I recently stumbled upon a blog whose author often describes her musings with this descriptive phrase. In fact, she uses it nearly every entry.

Word Vomit.

The spilling of your heart and the revealing of your soul.

Stark. Bare. Exposed.

The uncontrollable spewing of thought on page as your fingers frantically attempt to keep pace with your mind. Sometimes you vomit the words beautifully--all those thoughts appear sensationally composed--yet other times, the vomit is nothing more than literary confusion, and all appears nonsensical.

For my own part, I have called this Verbal Diarrhea in the past... however, I suppose "Word Vomit" is a phrase somewhat easier to stomach.

Twenty-six days ago my family arrived in the US, fresh from Uganda and full of excitement for the Forty-two days ahead of them. Days filled with family, friends, and enough memory making to sustain us all for the next year apart. It will be a full year this time...for Em and I. For everyone else the separation will last seven-hundred-and-thirty days. Two years.

Human emotions are strange. You can be sad in the middle of sublime joy just because you know that all the happiness must soon end. It all must end. In sixteen days it shall. Shoot.

And so for the past 3. 7 weeks I have neglected this blog entirely. I have neglected writing almost entirely. For when you have so few days to fill with so much, you are more inclined to leave word vomit for another time.

I know that if I tried writing all that I think and feel, this blog would begin to resemble my journal. Between leather bound covers, cream-coloured pages are filled with nonsensical verbal diarrhea.

The spilling of my heart and the revealing of my soul.

Stark. Bare. Exposed.

Too much for one girl to comprehend, much less the patient readers of rambling weblog.

Ridiculous Word Vomit.

On This Common Ground

2010-07-30T19:39:00.000-04:00

Sometimes its hard to find my ground.

My family has been in the United States for ten days now, and with these last few days spent together visiting my mum's family in Maine, I am faced with my own mirages...old memories that have been resurrected alongside old habits that must be remembered.

It is my hope that Emily and I, along with a few dear friends, will be able to spend our summer away from Geneva in Karamoja...as much of the summer as we can manage. I am already planning that return, and as excitement grows, I must reassure myself that that is still an entire year away. Much can happen in year. *smiles*

But until then...I shall wait expectantly. And cherish these few weeks that my family will be in America. Particularly this week, for Monday I return to work where I shall pretend to be the practical adult I do not entirely wish to be. *half smile*

tea leaves

2010-07-29T18:32:00.004-04:00

I am a tea lover.

I love tea.

Today while walking through the mall, Dad and I noticed a small specialty tea shop. Black, Japanese tea pots and flowered English teacups were artfully displayed on the glass shelves lining the store's front windows, and outside the entrance stood a cart with complimentary samples of their newest fragrant blend. How could we refuse? Not one to pass up anything free, much less good tea, I skipped over to the pleasant stand and poured myself a small plastic cup of the White Jasmine Dragon Green Tea and Red Rooibus concoction that had been slightly sweetened with honey.

It was delicious.

The most delicately flavourful tea that I have ever dared sip.

Dad could not have agreed more. Even he--who admits to being more of a coffee connoisseur than a tea fanatic--found this particular blend beyond delightful.

"I think we should get some," He declared smiling, "Would you like some?"

I nodded happily.

Yet we left empty handed.

I am a tea lover.

But when tea costs nearly $5.00 an ounce ($74.00 a pound), then I do not love tea quite enough.

I do not love it nearly that much. :)

mirages

2010-07-27T21:42:00.000-04:00

“In winter there is nobody, nothing. If you see a human figure, or a boat on the water, you grab binoculars.

But in summer everything fills. The day itself widens and stretches almost around the clock; these are very high latitudes, higher than Labrador's. You want to run all night. Summer people move into the houses that had stood empty, unseen, and unnoticed all winter…The bay fills up with moored boats and the waters beyond fill with pleasure craft, hundreds of cruisers and sailboats and speedboats. The wind dies and stays dead, and these fierce waters, which in winter feel the strongest windstorms in the country, become suddenly like a resort lake, some tame dammed reservoir, the plaything of any man-jack with a motor and a hull. Surely this is mirage. The heat is on, and the light is on, and someone is pouring drinks. On the beach we dip freshly dug clams from their shells. We play catch or sail a dinghy or holler; we have sand in our hair, calluses on our feet, hot brown skin on our arms.

This is the life of the senses, the life of pleasures. It is mirage on the half shell. It vanishes like any fun, and the empty winds resume.”

~ Annie Dillard, Mirages

Completely Counted Down

2010-07-20T15:51:00.000-04:00

They are here!

Some Music Needs Air

2010-07-12T08:06:00.000-04:00

"To have never taken a solitary road trip across country? I mean everybody's got to take a road trip, at least once in their lives. Just you and some music."
[Claire from the film Elizabethtown]

We have a favourite movie, she and I. We first saw Elizabethtown during finals week our first semester. From then on we have watched it whenever we have needed to escape. With my Karamoja blankets and some chocolate, we curl up and drift away to the sound of Elizabethtown's incredible soundtrack and watch the somewhat strange story that many have labeled less than mediocre but which we have found quite endearing.

"We should go on a road trip like that."
"Ok. When?"
"This summer?"

Today we are off. One truck, many camping supplies, one airmatress, a carboard box filled with food, much chocolate, 2 ipods filled with a plethora of playlists, 2 journals, a handful of books, 1 map ,1 GPS, 7 days, 5 states and one grand adventure await us.
Here we go. :)

"Some music *needs* air. Roll down your window."
[Claire from the film Elizabethtown]

Beyond Three Cups of Tea

2010-07-10T09:40:00.003-04:00

“When the scalding bowls of butter tea steamed in their hands, Haj Ali spoke. “If you want to thrive in Balistan, you must respect our ways,” Haj Ali said blowing on his bowl. “The first time you share tea with a Balti, you are a stranger. The second time you take tea you are an honoured guest. The third time you share a cup of tea you become family, and for our family, we are prepared to do anything, even die,” he said laying his hand warmly on Mortenson’s own. “Doctor Greg, you must take time to share three cups of tea. We may be uneducated. But we are not stupid. We have lived and survived here for a long time.”

Closing the somewhat worn paperback with a thoughtfully triumphant snap, I sit and ponder the book I have just finished reading: Three Cups of Tea, written by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. According to the subtitle printed in slender black letters beneath the label “New York Times Best Seller” on the cover, the book is about “One man’s mission to promote peace…one school at a time.”

Mortenson—the book’s leading character—is a mountain climber turned humanitarian, who devotes his life to building schools for women in Muslim countries like Pakistan and Afganistan. The story is well written, the journey intense, the characters naturally flawed, the mission noble, and the worldview understandably subpar.

The authors continue with the lesson of Hajo Ali, saying,

“That day, Hajo Ali taught me the most important lesson I have ever learned in my life,” Mortenson says. “We Americans think that you have to accomplish everything quickly. We’re a country of thirty-minute power lunches and two- minute football drills. Our leaders thought that their ‘shock and awe’ campaign could end war in Iraq before it even started. Haj Ali taught me to share three cups of tea, to slow down and make building relationships as important as building projects. He taught me that I had more to learn from the people I work with than I could ever hope to teach them.”

The feelings that this book filled me with remind me of another book I read several years ago entitled Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, A Man Who Would Cure the World, by Tracy Kidder. Unlike Mortenson, Farmer is a Epidemiologist working day and night in the hospitals in Haiti. Yet, while both the men’s dreams are expressed in profoundly different ways, they have each have overcome incredible odds when it comes to bringing peace and hope to sections of the word so riddled by chaos and disease. Both men are striving to fight ignorance and cheat death. And their mission is noble. But I cannot help but know that all their work, their years and years of harsh labour and financial headaches, are all for naught.

I do not believe it is right for me to claim that their missions are all pointless nor would I ever say that they should not have even started their work in the first place. After having lived in a third world country, I understand what it is like to put your hand on the very pulse of human misery and feel incapable of doing anything but devoting your life to healing the rawness of theirs. But any Aid, any healing, any education, or medication, or schools, or hospitals, or food are all for naught if your help is not combined with the promise of eternal life.

I know that I sound like a missionary kid right now.

But missions is the only was to promote peace in the world slowly sinking beneath shifting stars. To quote a journalist whose 2008 article entitled “As an atheist, I truly believe Africa needs God,” writes, “Missionaries, not aid money, are the solution to Africa's biggest problem - the crushing passivity of the people's mindset.” LINK

Men like Mortenson and Farmer devote their lives, their hearts and millions of donated dollars to prolonging and enriching the lives of those they consider less fortunate than themselves. But whether they will admit it or not, no mere human is capable of cheating death. All the children and parents they save will die eventually. If not by TB or the Taliban, then old age will snatch them away in their sleep.

We all die eventually.

And then what?

It is all meaningless if we are not heavenly minded. To truly make a difference and heal to gashes of poverty and affliction that so plague small countries, we must strive to me more heavenly minded. We must go beyond sharing three cups of tea.

once upon a time

2010-07-05T23:03:00.003-04:00

The lamentable, dust-covered fans in the warehouse do little to draw the humidity from the feverish air that so stifles us from 8-5 each day. "There is no such thing as an inconvenience," I tell myself, "This could be some grand element to a yet unknown adventure."

And so despite the sweat, thirst and pulsing of blood in our temples, we plod on.

Today Em and created a game to entertain our minds as our hands performed the staccato bagging, packing, folding, taping, labeling that has become our normal place of work in the large warehouse.

We call the game Memory.

She began.

"Once upon a time there was this family of missionaries and they were on furlough in California and they went to Santa Cruz with an old man who bought them ice cream and inside the ice cream parlor the guy with long hair behind the counter who looked like CV was singing counting crows songs at the top of his lungs even while he dished us our ice cream."

I chuckle at the memory and Emily smiles. My turn.

"Once upon a time this family was in the mountains in Nevada and they stopped at this gas station played in the snow barefoot."

"Once upon a time this family on this island called Zanzibar and they went on a spice tour of the island where they drank too much coconut milk and were creaped out by their tour guide who learned Eenglish, French and Spanish by watching Portugese.

'This is the henna plant,' he told us, fingering the tea-like leaves with his ring encrusted hand, 'If you drink the tea from these leaves it will kill the baby inside of you. You call it abortion.' He glanced at the girls in the family, 'just remember this, yes?' the family did not like their guide and left."

"Once upon a time these two sisters were in Ensenada, Mexico and they were about to eat fish tacos but then their leader made them sing this song in Spanish and soon everyone was singing and a man came in off the street to accompany them with an accordion. But it was someones birthday so they accordion man played happy birthday but the sisters didn't know how to sing it in Spanish so they just listened.

Those were amazing fish tacos!"

"Do you remember that time...I mean *cough*, Once upon a time this family was in Windsor, England for 12 hours and they went to this pub in a crooked building and ate lunch in the dingeon next to a dusty suit of armour and the meat and potatoes looked like lasagna. It was January and so cold, but they only had sweatshirts."

"Once upon a time this family was giving a presentation at the church and all the girls in the church were swooning over the little boy in the family. He was wearing a pink shirt because it was his first Sunday in America and it was the only shirt he had that wasn't aeten away by battery acid. The girls at church told him he should be a male model and he was embarrassed because he was only 11. But his sister saved him in the end."

"Do you remember that time you were arrested?"

"You mean that one time that girl was arrested!"

"Oh yeah...Once upon a time in London..."

"Once upon a time this family lives in Uganda and they had a gardener. He was supposed to plant melon but instead planted 300 tomato plants. That family was eating tomatoes forever!"

"I used to go and sit among the tomato plant to hide from the visitors."

"Did you really?"

"Yeah, they were quite tall..."

"Once upon a time this family visited this women in San Jose who owned 300 clocks. She also had a large bush of Rosemary in her garden and the family was so excited about it, but the woman said that it wasnt edible. She was an old woman. Very old."

"Once upon a time this family was in San Francisco and they met this one guy..."

We both laugh. Because some stories don't even need to be recounted to bring joy.

Just a slight hint of memory and our imaginations go wild.

*smiles*

countdown

2010-06-26T11:25:00.002-04:00

When work was scarce in the warehouse, I drew this grid and taped it to my packing station. *smiles* Each day I cross off a square, and when none are left it means that my family shall be here. Splendid.

dusk

2010-06-24T00:24:00.006-04:00

Sometimes dusk is so calm that it doesn't fit with the chaos of the day. Too many shocking thoughts and hushed memories that send your world into a spinning collision of chaos and carefully guarded secrets.

People always rave about the sunset; When contemplating beauty it's the first thing that comes to their minds.

But I have always preferred dusk...those quite peaceful moments of tranquility when the sky blushes lavender and rose 'till the darkness fades all embarrassment away. The brilliance of the sunset has dipped below the horizon and all that is left is stillness. A breath before the plunge into darkness. When night comes, I remember an old Persian proverb that declares, "When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." But until then I glory in twilight. Dusk.

We are never far from choices that change all we have known.

Each decision we make alters our existence in a way we cannot understand. Perhaps we wish we understood it, perhaps we don't. Sometimes we just want to forget.

But we'll drown if we live in the sea of "what-ifs."

There are moments, days, when the pressure feels enough to crush us, to demolish all that is inside

But we have to continue fighting. Oh God, we must fight. We must cry out to Him, because it is the scariest thing in the world is to realize that you cannot win alone no one can fight your battles for you...Except Him.

There is nothing like being alone in a crowded room.

Too many people. Too many faces. Too much time has passed to keep this all familiar.

I drank three cups of tea while writing and re-writing then re-writing and writing this piece. Three cups of tea and a hundred thoughts later there is only one phrase that keeps repeating itself over and over again in my mind: Don't stop believing.

We are never far from the things that haunt us, but if we cling to them then there is no hope of letting them go. Sometimes we can only understand our confusion after we give up trying to fully comprehend it. It takes courage to glory in peace...courage to fight when no one is watching you...courage let go of a doubt that has kept you weighed down for so long.

You rant, "Nothing to do, nowhere to go, sheer sided so that I cannot escape."Your horizons seem blocked and unchanging. Rattling. Rattled.

But its only dusk. And if you cannot find peace in it's serenity, just wait a little while, and soon, shooting out from the darkness that so cloaks and kills your soul...you'll see stars.

then what?

2010-06-15T20:27:00.002-04:00

"Say you have seen something. You have seen an ordinary bit of what is real, the infinite fabric of time that eternity shoots through, and time's soft-skinned people working and dying under slowly shifting stars...Then what?"

[Annie Dillard]

"A Memorium on a Sunny Day" aka "Zack is Gone"

2010-06-05T10:22:00.002-04:00

It was a somewhat sunny Memorial Day when Aaron, guitar in hand, came out by the pool where i was sitting, tossed me a blank notebook and said, "Kate, we're gonna write a song."

The following is what we came up with...

"Strawberries on a sunny day,

We jumped in the water just to play.

Rigging the nets for volleyball,

Laughing and splashing through it all,

Couldn’t help but think of you,

Cuz now you’re gone and there’s no what to do.

No what to do!

No what to do!

I’m running around with my chest bare,

Wishing you were here not there,

The longboard is all scuffed up,

Because you left and you’re my luck,

We can swim now, thanks to you!

But you’re still gone and there’s no what to do.

No what to do!

No what to do!

So I feel that in this bridge,

We should tlk about you and all the things that you did!

‘Bout how when you’re gone there’s OJ in the fridge!

Come back soon so we can live.

So I sat down with my guitar,

A bottle of beer but no cigar,

My hammocks hanging all alone,

Keeps falling down now yours is gone.

I’m thinkin’ of ways to sing to you,

Cuz you’re still gone and there’s no what to do!

No what to do!

No what to do."

on shuffling

2010-05-31T22:33:00.004-04:00

Turns out life isn't like the movies.

In the movies, there are always brave heroes, grand getaways, and obstacles avoided in brilliant trickery of the last second. In the movies, the adversary is always defeated.

But life is not like the movies.

I had just dropped the girls off at a friends house, and I was driving back when it struck.

Sunlight.

It was dusk and the summer sun was setting over the Pennsylvania tree tops, illuminating the swarms of evening bugs that hover over the tall grass at twilight. The chorus of insects singing in the trees…Pine branches swaying like a line of dancers standing tall in the wind...The reflection of the sun in the puddles of rain water that still fill the potholes along the road.

In the movies, driving off into the sunset is the symbol of a happily-ever-after ending.

In real life, driving off into the sunset can mean just about anything.

Last night, the sunset prompted me to muse about something much more meaningful than happy endings. And after all my thinking, something occurred to me and the truth of it all shone like the rays of light in my rear-view mirror.

I have found myself far too concerned what my relationships with others look like. I want to be the best friend. the most thoughtful. the most caring. the most considerate. I had been using the preposition I so many times that I’d begun to forget what it meant to shape my relationships with other people around more than just me and them.

I have been shuffling and drifting for far too long.

Our relationships with other people is not the point of this life. Instead, the point of this life is our relationship with God. This is not to say that the relationships we have with people here on earth are pointless or that they should not be upheld and respected, but they should not be our priority. God is the priority. When we are focusing on our relationship with Him, our relationships with others gain a different dynamic, and they begin to reflect God's forgiveness, love, and gentleness.

God's attributes are nothing like anything we shall ever understand. His love is forgiving even when people try to tell you that you are something you are not…when they don’t appreciate you when you're breaking your back for them…or not acknowledging you even after you sacrificed something for them.

To love like God is not to fight when you think yourself unfairly considered, rather, it is to continue loving in humility and meekness despite anything else. And somehow, when we submit to our hearts to God, these things begin to come to the surface. For a fiery soul like mine, it is something hard to submit, or to let a hurt go when it runs deep. But it is what we are all called to do because we are children of the risen king!

At times the battle seems insurmountable. Across the tree-line the enemy’s army is growing, and we are losing soldiers. The odds are laughing in our faces.

Yet, as we strain and push and try so hard to bring peace into our relationships with others, we cease striving to gain that lasting peace with Him who made us.

Such truth is never communicated in the movies.

The setting of the sun does not mean that we shall live happily-ever-after, but that another day has passed and tomorrow we shall face the same challenges we faced today and yesterday. This is not to say that happy endings never occur, but rather that they just come in packages we don’t recognize and at a time we least expect them…and they shall never come, if we forget to focus on the source of the light that fills our vision as the sun sets over grassy fields and fills our minds with wonder.

(memory)

2010-05-18T21:50:00.006-04:00

Her small voice echoes in my head.

How incongruous.

How can such a small sound be loaded with such weight?

Her voice would not be so loud were we speaking face to face.

Sipping tea under the neem trees just like we used to...the branches sway and unsway in the hot wind of summer. 365 days of summer. We sat and we talked and drank like the English did, only stopping to chase the dogs away or give the workers more instructions. We felt like memsahibs in those days. Rather reluctant memsahibs, for we had done nothing more than been born white.

We can't speak face to face anymore.

Nolonger. No more tea and glucose biscuits passed under the shade of the swaying branches. The neem berries fell on our heads in those days. Great wet balls of fruity seeds fell from the sky. They startled us and made us spill our tea. Milky brown liquid dripping from surprised fingers and staining skirts.

Americans don't drink tea in the social way they should. They also do not know what tangawizi is. That is their tragedy.

Its like finding a needle in stack of straw; only when you are not searching for it will you find it.

Suddenly.

Without warning.

The smell of wood smoke and cow grease filled the air as we drank. Chai? Ejok.

She is whispering to me across many miles. Her voice is carried a great distance and I cannot shut my ear to the sound. The sound is heavy; laden with all that she is.

Memory is merciless.

Itemokin

2010-05-09T19:40:00.002-04:00

Itemokin.

In Karamojong it means, "it is finished."

In Italian they say, "Finito!"

Either way, this semester is finished. And that is all I have to say about it.

Back in Wiliamsport, Emily and I are crashing as the summer hits us full force. She turned eighteen yesterday, and we celebrated in a semi-coherent manner. We'd just climbed into bed and hit the lights when midnight struck. May 8th. I jumped upon her dark form,

"Happy Birthday, sister child! One thing I was taught in Italy is that it is essential that you be properly squished for the first minute of your birthday." :)

She may have replied, but it was muffled by all the pillows and blankets that had fallen on her poor face on impact.

Half an hour later, I was almost asleep when she whispered into the darkness,

"Does that mean I get my present NOW!?"

Actually, it was more of hushed shriek than a whisper. *smiles*

The light was switched back on, and while the rest of the house slumbered we whispered and giggled in a very exhausted manner, as she tore the wrapping paper off the set of BBC DVDs I'd purchased for her.

Today, have spent the afternoon drinking Good Earth tea and watching the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Its strange to suddenly have no work to do.

Not that we're complaining.

We rather enjoy it.

So here is to Birthdays, sisters, BBC and tea. Lovely. :)

An Ode to Hunger

2010-04-27T20:48:00.010-04:00

There comes to us at times a desire so great, that even class cannot keep us from texting. It is only in cases most severe that we allow ourselves this small sin, times when information must be communicated as a matter of life or death.

We are very good texters, monumentally so, making sure that all punctuation and grammar are perfected and there is no not a trace of uncultured ignorance in our electronic letters to each other. The very sight of, "y r u l8" makes us feel faint, and sends shivers of dread down our spines.

We are English majors. Enough said.

(Though not very good ones, considering that we sometimes text in class.)

Today I was in the library.

She was in Researched Writing class.

The following is what we came up with:

Bonnie: "I sit in class and mumble,

To my neighbor quite a grumble,

That this morning's been a bumble,

And my stomach wants some food."

Kate: "While in the Library I wait,

For your class is running late,

This fierce grumbling, I hate,

As my stomach screams for food."

Bonnie: "But patience is a virtue,

And I calmly try to urge you,

So you'll wait before I purge you,

Of the hunger for some food."

Kate: "I know I must be patient, dear,

But truly can your ears not hear?

My stomachs terribly loud, I fear,

Empty and in need of food."

Square One

2010-04-24T02:23:00.005-04:00

Today is April 23, 2010.

Three short days ago, my little sister turned 16. I called her on the phone and we talked for nearly thirty minutes, listening to the delayed echoes reminding us of the many miles between us. It was good to hear her voice, to hear her squeal over her birthday gifts, and exclaim over the latest excitement of killing a monitor lizard in the backyard.

But it wasn't the same. I wasn't really there.

For thirty short minutes, I only pretended, and then suddenly, as often happens, the line went dead, and the trans-Atlantic connection was lost.

Today is a Friday night: a simple evening to close the academic week and allow me to take a breath before the rise of the Saturday sun and the overwhelming feeling that I need to accomplish as much as possible before another week begins, sweeping me away to tumble like sand in the surf.

My thoughts have been like the tide lately. Pulling me out; pushing me in. Out then in. In. Out.

I find myself falling into melancholy states of anguish, knowing what lies before me and wishing my future were comprised of something else. One minute I am determined that everything will be alright, certain that the tension and drama are all in my head…but in the very next moment I am fallen, dreading all the emotions that I know will sweep me away before I’ve had a chance to take a deep breath.

Breathe in and out. Out and In.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

As a naturally timid individual, I've never been one to search for open doors and walk through them with anything less than a direct invitation. But I've been pushing myself this semester.

Pushing myself to grow up, and learning to search for opportunities before they pass my passive self right by.

I figured out what I though I wanted. I tried to cross the thresholds, but at every doorway, access was denied. It hard for me not to take rejection personally, and now that all the alternative doors have been shut to me, I must face the reality of what I was running from.

For I know I was running for all the wrong reasons.

Back at square one, I sit and wonder if God s trying to tell me something.

I know he is trying to teach something.

I know exactly what I need to be taught.

But now I am left unknowing. Uncertain. Unsure. Unaware of what the future holds, in a blessedly ignorant way that forces me to trust in His plans and not my own intentions.

Its a lesson I am willing to be taught...I think.

Its a Friday night, or rather a Saturday morning, by now.

April 24, 2010.

I sit alone in my room writing in my journal, letting the black ink leak through my fingers like liquid thought, bold against the cream coloured pages of the worn book laying on the desk in front of me. I write the way one does when one is frustrated and exhausted. Words spill forth in a way they only can at 2:42 in the morning.

I flip a page and suddenly I pause. Hand poised, held high. Ready to thrust thought on page. Ready to force my fears to be tangible. I stop and stare.

In the lower right corner of the right-hand page, five lines have already been filled, the thick penciled script anything but my own.

Reading, I whisper the words aloud to myself in the darkness,

"Dear Katie,

I LOVE YOU. ALOT.

Love, Maria

December 16, 2009"

That was four months ago. Was it really only four months ago? Did she really turn 16 four days ago now? Was I really not there?

Why.

Its more of a statement than a question, because I know the answer already. God is good and he is able. I am confused and full of sin. I'd be a fool to trust myself in anything.

And so, mid-word, mid- sentence, mid- thought, I lay down my pen and stop writing. Enough of this frustration. Enough of this pain.

The morning is wiser than the evening.

And He is wiser than I.

Happy Birthday, Maria. Alakara nooi.

waiting for godot.

2010-04-19T18:55:00.002-04:00

“Was I sleeping while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? To-morrow when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of the night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, and that he spoke to us?

Probably.

But in all that what truth will there be?

Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the whole the grave-digger puts on his forcepts. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries.

But habit is a great deadener.

At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is says, 'He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep…'”

(Vladimir, Waiting for Godot, Act II)

Somewhere in the Middle

2010-04-16T10:06:00.012-04:00

Its like a horrible game of tug-of-war.

Pulling. Gripping. Tearing. Staggering.

Holding on and hoping that despite your lack of strength it will all be worthwhile.

You wonder at what point to you will transition from feeling hurt and learning from it.

The ticking of the clock grows so loud you can barley hear your own thoughts; all you can do is wait.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, you hide behind the tissue paper shield of what was. The paper tears as you embrace that beautiful frailty. A thousand holes in your safe facade.

Finally you let go.

You realize that you need to stop pulling. stop gripping. stop tearing. stop staggering. You need stop fighting against the scabs that are trying to heal you.

If you don't, you shall never stop bleeding.

I am realizing that one of the greatest gifts in life is when a break-down becomes a break-through.

But you have to stay away from the rope. For its far too tempting to step backwards and being to tug once more. It is much too easy to pray for a hurricane. Let the waves tear me from this paper shelter and rip apart my state of mind.

Sunshine of the Spotless Kind

2010-04-14T17:27:00.007-04:00

Late afternoon sunlight + My favourite chair =

Sleep: the tempting alternative to homework.

HvZ

2010-04-12T20:45:00.003-04:00

Something has taken over my school.

Green bandannas.

Nerf Guns.

Whispers and Missions.

Rules and Socks.

I never thought that these words would ever leave my lips, but I blame the zombies. *chuckles*

HVZ: Humans versus Zombies is nationwide college event lasting this week only and already the madness has overwhelmed Geneva. To read more about the green bandannas, nerf guns, socks and what have you, click on this link.

Talking about the existence of zombies is not really my thing, and therefore the idea of impersonating one hold no appeal to me. Perhaps I am a bore, but at least I am somewhat certain of my own sanity. *smiles*

Nevertheless, to all of you who are have taken over Geneva and run rampant around our campus, I do not begrudge your joy of shooting people with nerf guns. (excuse me...I mean zombies) Thanks for looking ridiculous in your green bandannas and providing thorough amusement for those of us too chicken to participate in anything crazy. *grins*

here or there

2010-04-04T21:14:00.000-04:00

1 Corinthians 15:16-20

For if the dead are not raised, not even Christ has been raised; and if Christ has not been raised, your faith is worthless; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. If we have hoped in Christ in this life only, we are of all men most to be pitied. But now Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who are asleep.

It is Easter Sunday, night has fallen like a warm dark veil around the house, and outside the crickets have been solemnly singing for sometime. This is the second Easter I have spent in upstate New York; It is the second Easter I have spent away from home.

My cell phone buzzed, vibrating and singing sweetly in French as, I stood at the kitchen sink rinsing plates and empty coffee cups. We were cleaning up after Easter dinner; the ham, potatoes, asparagus and pie were all being wrapped up and stored as leftovers. So many leftovers. Quickly, I turned off the water, dried my hands, and reached into the pocket of my jeans.

Was it?

It was.

Area code 256 means only one thing: Uganda.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kate. Its Mom."

I smiled. God is good to give us these moments.

The McBride family is visiting my family from Tanzania for the holiday. It is the first time they have ever been to Karamoja. Emily and I are most jealous we are not there to enjoy these days with them. "On Wednesday," Mom said, "We are all going white water rafting on the Nile. I hope I'm not too old."

"Of course you aren't, "I chuckled in reply, "Thats so exciting! You will have great fun. I want to go again some day."

We talked quietly. Recounting to each other all that has occurred in the month since we've spoken. There was a raid in Akyam the first night the McBrides were in Nakaale, and gunshots filled the night. Two goats barreled down aisle of church this morning as Dad preached a message on the Resurrection, thoroughly distracting the congregation. For Easter in Nakaale is anything but ordinary...

This morning I saw no goats. I attended church in a white steepled church filled with potted Easter lilies. Standing in the lobby after the service, I spoke with a friendly and welcoming woman,

"This is the first Easter he's not been with us," she explained thinking over her son's decision to remain at school for the holiday. "I knew it would happen...one of these days. One day I wont get him every Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. It has to happen some time, doesn't it?"

It does.

But I hadn't really thought about the fact that I was missing the holiday with my family until she mentioned it. Then mom called and I couldn't STOP thinking about it. But Christ has risen indeed whether I am here or there and there is no use contemplating on all that was, and forgetting all that is. With that in mind, I am thankful. But I also have a greater respect for my parents...they must make do with a single annual visit, and most of the holidays we spend apart; this past Thanksgiving we were stretched across three continents, and over Easter even Em and I were in different states.

So thank God for the Resurrection--with or without goats or white lilies, He is risen indeed.

And that is all we need for now...

"Easter is not a time for groping through dusty, musty tomes or tombs to disprove spontaneous generation or even to prove life eternal. It is a day to fan the ashes of dead hope, a day to banish doubts and seek the slopes where the sun is rising, to revel in the faith which transports us out of ourselves and the dead past into the vast and inviting unknown." ~Author unknown

the madness of march

2010-03-28T13:32:00.001-04:00

People come and go; it is a continuous cycle.

Emily and I, along with two other of our MK friends, were asked to present and lead Adult Sunday school at the PCA church we have been attending while at school. March has been a month focused on missions for their congregation, and they asked us to share a missionary kids perspective on what it is like to live on the mission field. "Describe to us the non-ministry stuff," they said to us. "Tell us what culture shock is life. Inform us of the nitty gritty details that missionaries will never mention in newsletters."

And so we did.

The auditorium was filled with many more people than I had anticipated, and as the four of us stood up to speak, my knees were shaking.

Yet, God is good, and our time of talking was wonderful. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't want discussion to end, because I was talking about something I love. Moreover, they sincerely wanted to listen. It is encouraging to see people who are truly interested in what its like to be a missionary. They wanted to know how it affects those who serve, and what they can do to help us. It was a blessing to be asked to do that.

And as the revolving door of the Nakaale mission swings steadily, this week and these days mark the last for Kris and Craig in Karamoja. After 5 years of living in Uganda, they are packing their things and returning to Montana.

"Craig gave me an Ostrich egg," Maria declared to me on the phone several weeks ago, as we were discussing the sad departure of our teammates and the long process of cleaning out their home. "He also gave Josh an old jump rope, which Josh tied to a chair and pulled me and Joyce around the house with. I haven't seen Joyce laugh that hard in so long!" I smiled.

Yet despite the presents, Craig and Kris, your presence shall be missed. Even by those of us who have already left. Our version of Karamoja shall never be the same without you. :)

thawing

2010-03-22T23:49:00.006-04:00

It is a dark and storming night as we walk out of the building, our shopping bags swinging to hit the back of our knees with every stride. We walk forward, careless of anything else we should be doing, not thinking of life at school. We hope that all the drama in our minds won't muddy the clear night with circulating thoughts. We hope the clouds in the sky will give us a good dousing of much needed rain. A little washing of our souls tonight.

We deposit the groceries in the back of the car as the sheet-lightning ignites the sky like a flash of a camera in a dark room. The clouds and the cars are illuminated in the lavender blackness of the night. We walk across the parking lot together, peels of laughter mixing with the wind as we eat from the pack of mint oreos just bought. The air is heady with the sweet smell of melting earth. We are all becoming a little less frozen.

He says he wants to buy fish and so we are searching for the proper glass bowl. We look and find nothing, and so he decides that he, in fact, doesn't want a fish after all. We walk back through the parking lot, lavender light lighting up our shadows as we walk beneath the cloudy sky. There is no thunder. There is no sound. Only our laughter and the wind breathing through the shopping carts like a kazoo. We begin to climb back into the car but I stop. Black and white. Dark and light. The sheets of electricity fill the sky and my hair stands on end.

"This is what I love about Spring," someone says.

"This is what I love about God," someone replies.

We pause for a moment and watch, the muddled air full of far too much for me to comprehend, and I cannot help but think that my rhetoric paper due tomorrow is of absolutely no consequence. We watch. We listen. We leave. We sigh. We pray. We dream. We return. We work. We write. We study. We hear the sounds of thunder echoing across the vale with a tremendous rumble.

Never have I felt so weighed down by winter, and therefore never have I so welcomed spring.

As I sit at my desk, the night air is driven through my window in gusts by the wind of the storm.

A single drop slips down the windowpane.

And it has begun to rain.

Holding On to what Remains of Metal & Wood

2010-03-21T13:56:00.005-04:00

A year ago there were posters cluttering the dorms and doors of Geneva. Green swirls and black letters advertised that a concert was to be held on campus in the month of March. The non-observant person that I am, I paid no attention to the posters; I didn't recognize any of the artists listed and therefore gave the colourful advertisements no more than a passing glance.

And yet somehow I went to the concert. Four of my guy friends and me squeezed into the back row of the crowded room at the lights dimmed and music began to play. The two opening acts were quite good; The real deal was incredible. A tall bald guy walked out on stage and began to sing. We all fell a little bit in love with Tyrone Wells that night...just enough to be huge fans but not enough to do anything more than stutter when we meet him later that night.

Thats what happens when we meet famous people; we stutter.

Two weeks after the concert on campus I owned both of his albums. Two weeks after that we'd memorized all the songs. One might call us obsessed...I'd just call us fans. Fans of 6 foot 4 inch bald white guy named Tyrone who sings and yodels. Did I mention that he yodeled? Yeah. :)

While I was in Italy, they saw him again in Pittsburgh.

On the 4th of March we downloaded his new album off of i-tunes 20 minutes after it has been released. It was 12:20 am on a Tuesday.

Last week while in Florida several of us saw him in Orlando. He was playing in a club and we had tickets. They x-ed our hands with sharpies, declaring to the world that we were underage, but we didn't really care. We were there to hear Tyrone. That was all.

When all was said and done, he had left the stage and we had clapped our hands till they hurt. Then we stood in line to meet him. I was determined not to stutter. We told him that we loved his work (just like everyone else has said) we told him that we were huge fans (just like everyone else) and we told him that we would see him in 9 days when he came to our school again.

"Where do you go to school?" he asked

"Geneva College, " we replied, "Its in western Pennsylvania."

"Oh right, right. Thats awesome."

"Would you mind signing my arm?" Emily asked nervously, holding out her right limb to his outstretched sharpie. He chuckled.

"Of course."

"This is my lucky arm," she said, "Switchfoot signed this arm."

"Oh thats really cool! I love Switchfoot. Jon Foreman is the man!"

We left the club in Orlando high on music and excitement.

"We love you Tyrone Wells!" we shouted to the cool night air.

"Do you think its bad that we knew all the words to the songs on the album he released less than a week ago?"

"How is that bad?"

"You're right. never mind." We laughed at ourselves. So maybe we are a bit obsessed...

Nine days later he came to Geneva. That was three days ago.

I was able to get a spot in a Q&A session with him before the concert. It was intended for student journalists and other PR people. Those who were writing articles about him and needed a few questions answered. I just sat back and listened. I listened to what he had to say.

Perhaps the reason I love Tyrone Wells so much is because he has a fantastic voice, plays the guitar and writes meaningful lyrics. Perhaps its because he is such a dynamic performer and makes us laugh at every show. Perhaps we just love him because he's tall and has a shaved head.Actually, we love him for all of those reasons. But in addition, what makes me so fond of this random musician is that he possesses not only talent, but integrity. He is Christian songwriter singing to a non-Christian world, and he recognizes the truly terrifying thing fame can be. I respect anyone who prays that he will not receive fame if it takes his focus away from his faith.

After the interview, I hurried to where we had saved ourselves seats for the concert. The lights dimmed, the crowds quieted and the music began.

So thank you, Tyrone for a fantastic concert! We cheered and we yelled and we couldn't stop smiling. When all was said and done, we didn't want him to stop singing... :)

He was signing autographs when after the show, but we waited till the crowds had mostly left.

Emily approached him.

"Hey its the kids form Orlando!"

"Yeah, would you mind signing my arm again?"

He laughed, highly amused at her eagerness. And he did sign it. Three words in sharpie on her arm.

"Tyrone Wells Again."

Its nice when a famous musicians have senses of humour. :)

sun after rain

2010-03-16T22:11:00.003-04:00

"Cloud, if as thou dost melt,and with thy train

Of drops make soft the Earth, my eyes could weep

O'er my hard heart,that's bound up and asleep;

Perhaps at last,

Some such showers past,

My God would give a sunshine after rain."

(Henry Vaughn)

40 Cloves

2010-03-11T11:15:00.013-05:00

"I have this dead bird in my freezer and was thinking of making that 40 Clove Chicken that I've heard rumors about." She said to us before we arrived.

"Well, are we talking 40 cloves of cloves or garlic here?" we asked.
"Garlic you silly girls! Haven't you ever heard of this infamous recipe? I'm shocked!"
"A thousand apologies. We may be college students, but apparently we are still quite ignorant," we retorted, chuckling to ourselves and anticipating the weekend.

When we lived in Karamoja we cooked togather all the time. It was never anything as grand as 40 clove chicken, (I doubt we ever had that much garlic at the mission at one time,) but it always seemed gourmet to us. It also always took 10 times as much time to make as it ought to. Not that we ever truly minded.

It was Saturday morning, and we'd been there for a night already. We'd talked about Karamoja over dinner--all four of us--and yet we talked about the Nakaale that we'd lived intogether three years ago. Its not the same place now. Everything is different. But for that dinner we talked about it as if everything was still exactly as it had been when cooked together on saturdays to feed a corwd thats nolonger the same. I hope its healthy to overindulge in occasionally reliving such memories.

On Saturday morning we pulled out the chicken.

"Do you remember that time we made tortillas on two jikos out by the huts?"
We laughed.
"Do you remember how the coals kept dying and Emily and Rachel lay on their bellies in the dirt blowing for hours just so the dough would cook?"
"It certainly was hours, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, I think it grew dark before we were finished."
"We had too keep to shooing the dogs and cats away from the cooked ones as well. Nothing like cat hair to make a tortilla particularly appetizing."

Step One.

We rubbed the dead bird with salt and pepper and spices.
"Are we sure Julia Child knows what she's doing?"
"Of course she does! She's Julia Child."
"Okay. Lets name our chicken. "
"Name him?"
"Yes, name him. Lets call him Enrique."
"Why Enrique?!"
"Why not Enrique?"

And thus the poor chicken was both seasoned and christened.

Step Two.

We had to truss the chicken. But we had no string.
"Ed, do you have an string?" She asked.
"Only plastic string, and it'll melt in the oven."

So we drive to th egrocery store. We drove to three grocery stores, buying wine and lemons and more garlic and everything else we might have forgotten, but found no string.

"Maryland is against trussing chickens apparently!"
"Well, here is some garden twine. That will work, won't it?"

So we returned to the house, stuffed Enrique with cut lemons and garlic, then properly tied and trussed the poor seasoned beast.

"Do you remeber one of the first times we tried to make paneer tikka, and we didn't know you had to fry it before you added it to the sauce?"
Again, we laughed.
"Oh yeah, the paneer all disintigrated and the suace looked positively vomititious!"
"Oh come now, it wasn't THAT bad."
"It was certainly lumpy."
"Yeah, well do you remember all our failed attempts at naan?"
"Oh goodness, yes. Some of it was harder than cardboard..."

Step Three.

We didn't think we had enough garlic.
"The recipe called for three bulbs, but how can that be forty cloves?"
While broth and white wine were boiling in a saucepan, we pulled apart the cloves of garlic and counted. 1, 2, 3, 5, 10, 24, 32...41.
"How on earth did she know?"
"She's Julia Child. Apparently, she knows everything."

Step Four.

Pouring the boiled broth full of 40 cloves around Enrique, his trussed legs tied like a helpless innocent awaiting execution, we commented on how much the glass dish looked like a coffin.
"Don't be so morbid; its just a chicken. Remember when we had to kill and pluck the chickens ourselves?"
"Well technically, we didn't have to do the actual killing. Craig did that for us."
"Well we still had to butcher them once they were dead. Stupid feathers..."

"We're you all there that summer we built the roterserie spit out of scrap rebar and tried to cook a chicken in the hut?"
"No, we were back in the States for vacation then."
"Thats right. Still, the scrawny bird took hours to cook, and the hut was so full of smoke that our eyes were read and crying by the end of it all. I dont even remember how it tasted..."

Step Five.

Carefully, we slide our 40 clove chicken into the oven.

As we waited, we prepared the rest of dinner: yucca root which we'd bought at the grocery store just because we never had before, squash and zuccini, and risotto with prosciutto.

We googled "how to cook yucca root."
"Hey, did you guys know that Yucca is just another word for Casava?"
"What?!"
"We bought casava in America."
"How maddeningly dissapointing. "

We closed the internet browser. We know how to cook casava.

Step six.

We checked the temperature of the bird. The garlic was browning nicely in the bottom of the pan, and as we opened the over door a cloud of steam wafted into our eyes, and made us blink.

"Do you have a meat thermometer for the chicken?"
"Isn't there that little white plastic thing in it that pops out when its done?"
"Oh is that what thats for? I pulled it out because I thought it was rubbish."

Step Seven.

The bird was nearly cooked. The Risotto and Yucca were done. We set the table, chatting.
"Were you there that Christmas when we made that asian cake for christmas with Chrissie?"
"No, i dont think so."
"Oh, well it was nutty meringue layers with chocolate-butter icing, and whipped cream. Layers and layers and layer of them, topped with shaved chocolate. It was divine! Although it literally took us six hours to make"
"Wow!"
"Yeah, except the propane ran our half way through cooking the meringues and they stuck to the wax paper like you wouldn't believe. We couldn't get it all off, and we weren't going to start again because we'd finely chopped all these almonds till they were powder (obviously we had no food processor or mixer) and we could mix them into the merange. There were no almonds left. They'd come from America."
"So what did you do?"
"We made the cake with the wax paper still stuck to meringue and didn't tell anyone. But how can you not notice that you are eating wax paper?"

Step Eight.

As we removed the chicken from the oven, the kitchen was filled with a warm tangy aroma, and after untrussing him, we set Enrique on a platter.

"Take a picture of us with our chicken, won't you, Ed!"

So he did and then we sat down to eat.

It was a Saturday evening, and we were all sitting around the dinner table, food dished and plates full. We began to eat.
"It doesn't really taste like garlic, does it?"
"No not really."
"How can it not taste like garlic; there were forty stinkin cloves?"
"Maybe we did something wrong."
"Maybe its not supposed to be very garlicky...I mean it still tastes good."
"Why would it be called 40 clove Chicken if it wasn't supposed to taste like garlic?!"
"I dont know! Ask Julia Child."
"Too bad she's dead."

"At least we'll have another 'Remeber that one time..' story to tell." Someone pointed out trying to be positive.
"Yeah, remember that one time we made 40 clove chicken and it just tasted like chicken? At least the risotto was good."
"And don't forget the yucca-casava."
"How could we forget that?"

It was a short weekend, but Emily and I had a marvelous time visiting Ed and Amy in their new east coast home. Perhaps next time are together, we shall try adding more garlic to our chicken. Or perhaps we'll venture off and try something entirely different. After all, we've never tried Boeuf à la Bourguignonne before... :)

flying south

2010-03-05T00:44:00.006-05:00

We are a little brain dead and a very tired. Half a semester down and two months to go...

It is Spring Break and Em and I are heading south. Perhaps after a week in Florida with Nana, we'll have recovered our sanity. *smiles*

(unremarkable)

2010-02-28T21:59:00.004-05:00

Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin, and they end, with no lasting memories made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life.

Today, February 28th, was a Sunday, and such a day as this.

I woke up to see a freshly fallen carpet of snow coating the earth outside. Bonnie and I drove to across the river to visit and RP church that we had never been before. We sang psalms and wrote sermon notes in our matching spiral bound journals.

We ate lunch in the dining hall amid the hubbub of Sunday schooled students. Sunday meals are always better than the other six days of the week, but they are never quite good.

We returned to our apartment. I wrote letters. We drank tea. Boys came over and the USA/ Canada hockey game was watched in our living room. Blaring sound and baritone yells drowned out the silence of our normally quiet Sunday afternoon room.

One large pepperoni pizza, a box of chocolate mint cookies and several hours later, Canada had won the gold medal. The crescendo that had so overwhelmed us, had died down...and our room was quiet and calm once again.

People don't realize this, but companionship is underrated.

The people you spend the most unremarkable and least noteworthy days with, are actually the ones you make the most memories with. And the days that you would forget, did you not write them down, must somehow impact the course of your life. Even if it merely means appreciating what you have.

For no apparent reason...whatsoever.

The Yellow Door

2010-02-20T10:37:00.001-05:00

If you keep quiet for too long, suddenly you don’t know where to begin.

People always preach on the value of silence, but after weeks of not blogging I've come to a point where I am not quite sure what to say.

Carefully, I change the layout of my blog. Shifting shadows and switching colours, I upload new pictures, hoping that the perhaps if it all looks fresh and new, words will come.

But they don't.

I'm sitting, staring at the blank page before me, thinking of the Czech Republic, because while I was there I took a photograph a yellow door beside the train tracks. A lonely beauty unnoticed in a small post-communist town. When I look the photograph, all I can think about it flying through the countryside on a train.

Fast and far away.

These past few weeks have been a challenge to shuffle through, but for all my confusion and sleepless eyes, I am learning things, and thats the point of college, right? Learning so much...

Still, my mind if everywhere but in the classroom. Anywhere but in the notebooks, chairs and blackboard of the school.

My thoughts are not only boxed and sectioned, but they are jammed packed. The envelopes are bulging, the file cabinets are unable to shut, and loose papers seem to be sticking to every surface that is open.

Too bad you can't escape your mind...or your imagination.

Jeremiah 1:4-10

2010-02-14T23:43:00.002-05:00

The Lord gave me this message:

“I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb.
Before you were born I set you apart
and appointed you as my prophet to the nations.”

“O Sovereign Lord,” I said, “I can’t speak for you! I’m too young!”

The Lord replied, “Don’t say, ‘I’m too young,’ for you must go wherever I send you and say whatever I tell you. And don’t be afraid of the people, for I will be with you and will protect you. I, the Lord, have spoken!” Then the Lord reached out and touched my mouth and said,

“Look, I have put my words in your mouth!
Today I appoint you to stand up
against nations and kingdoms.
Some you must uproot and tear down,
destroy and overthrow.
Others you must build up
and plant.”

inch by inch

2010-02-10T17:12:00.004-05:00

Working late hours, barely sleeping and inching our way toward the weekend, we clawed our way through last week.

This week, we're not going anywhere.

Literally.

We hit a little pocket of grace in the form of enough snow to cancel classes for two days here in Beaver Falls. The wind howls past our large apartment window and the snow blows off pine trees clouding our vision. It is cold, and no one can move, because Pennsylvania is not used to such snow.

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of our hands...and maybe our sanity will begin to return. And if not...perhaps we shall take a break from all seriousness and adventure out into the cloudy air to make angels out of snow. :)

the confusion of being content

2010-01-24T20:30:00.002-05:00

“By the grace of God, I am what I am, and his grace towards me is not in vain.”

(1 Corinthians 15:10)

There’s so much in life that makes little to nearly no sense, and it is my strong belief—despite the fact that in some ways it goes against everything that beats inside of me—that we have to be okay with the confusion.

We must be able to live day to day unable to answer questions that plague us. We are to investigate where our hearts lead, and for the sake of our own sanity, stop when our breath cuts off short.

We have to accept this perpetual state of not knowing.

It’s funny to consider where we are now and compare it to where we thought we would be. It’s strange to realize that nothing ever goes according to our plans. And yet somehow everything always works out in the end.

This “growing up” business is also complicated. For we never know that it is actually happening until someone else mentions it and then we realize that, yes, in fact, we have changed in that regard, and we realize it actually was a good thing. God is continually working in us, through us…pushing us, stretching us and forming us into the individuals he intends for us to be.

Not who we thought we would be…

But who we are meant to be.

And how we got from here to there might forever remain a mystery.

Yet we have to be okay with that confusion.

I remember sitting on the porch in our house in Nakaale, three years ago. We were sitting in the dark, because back then there was no electricity out there. Mom and I were talking, and everyone else was asleep. The stars were brightly shining out over the savannah and the dry wind blew swirls in the sand on the other side of the screens. The conversation, now, is a vague memory, but I clearly remember one thing I said. I told her that I never wanted to attend Geneva College. I had good reasons (or so I thought), and I was kind about my rejection of this school, but I assured her that I truly had no intention of attending Geneva.

Three years ago I had no intention of moving to Pennsylvania.

Instead, I wanted to remain living overseas. Perhaps in Haiti. If I had leave Africa, I thought, I wanted to least be somewhere similar, and Haiti seemed like a logical choice. There is an OP mission there, and after reading a book about an epidemiologist working in Haiti, I was all fired up with passion for the place. Scribbling notes about life in the Caribbean, I thought and I prayed and I planned.

And God said no. Even before I had a chance to take my dreams and turn them into more than mere musings, He said no. And that was ok.

Then Geneva opened its door, and somehow I stepped over the threshold.

The funny thing is, sometimes I wake up and still wonder how I got here. Why on earth I am living in a place called Beaver Falls, spending my days either in class of scouring online newspapers for news about Uganda and the outside world. Haiti even. Sometimes I don’t even have to scour…the news appears front page, smack dab before my eyes, as if God is saying to me, “I know the plans I have for you. I know the plans I have for them. Have faith.”

And it is those mornings when I wake remembering His words, that I can stare into the streaming light coming through my bedroom window and realize that I am content with where I am.

And thus we’ve come full circle, for some things just don’t make sense.

Trying to figure out why things change or how you became who you are today...That is what makes absolutely no sense.

Yet I am content. Contentedness is one of God's greatest blessings. To reach a realization of your own depravity and still find peace. To know that "God works all things for the good of those who love Him.” Even though I don’t know everything that will happen, or even what is happening now. And maybe that means I’ve grown up a little.

on originality

2010-01-23T14:40:00.000-05:00

"Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it." (C.S. Lewis)

Sometimes

2010-01-18T06:34:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I just have to wonder...

Sometimes it takes too much time to put forth the effort to record and remember...

Sometimes I wonder at the utter meaninglessness of it all...

Sometimes I wish for nothing but a broken heal and eye keen on wandering...

Sometimes I wish for life...

Sometimes I wish for death...eternal sleep in a land far from horror filled dreams...

Sometimes I wish for everything...

Sometimes I wish for nothing...

Sometimes my wishes are fulfilled...

Sometimes I forget...the sweet stillness of passivity takes over...

Sometimes I am left only to dream...

Sometimes my hand is unable to write...ink leaks through my finger tips but no words form on the page...

Sometimes I am hard pressed to be eloquent...

Sometimes I am too tired to care.

The School of Athens

2010-01-13T23:28:00.004-05:00

Its our third day of classes for the spring semester and we are in Lecture. The class is large and the room full of people, yet four of us are sitting close, staggered in the seating, but together nonetheless. The professor is discussing philospohy though this is not a philosophy class.

Socrates. Plato. Aristotle.

The power point slide changes, and there it is. An image of Rafael's School of Athens. The professor is dissecting the painting, but the four of us are paying no attention. Craning our necks and smiling and winking, we look at each other. We pass notes to each other written in rough Italian.

For we have been to the Vatican Museum and stood in the former Pope's quarters. We touched Raphael's painting with our own hands, and we cannot stop smiling, remembering where we were so few months ago.

The rest of the class is lost on us. And I remember nothing else.

staple it together and call it fair weather

2010-01-11T16:24:00.006-05:00

We had to leave Africa, Em and I.

And so we did.

We flew from Entebbe to London together.
It was a Tuesday night.

From the tropics to winter in England. Pulling our thin sweaters close and huddling to keep warm as we walked through the slush from our ploane to the bus that would carry us to the terminal, we shivered. Lets us not stay here long, we thought. America will be cold too, but at least there we shall have coats.

We waited for our flight to Philly, but it was delayed.
We boarded our flight to Philly, but it never left.

British Airways was precariously perched on the edge of a nightmare, but they did not know it yet. Naively, Em and I hadn't slept for a two days already, and we were eager for nothing more than sweet dreams.

Flights were cancelled. Chaos ensued. Thousands of people flooded the terminal, and lines longer than I have ever before seen were suddenly formed and that was when the adventure began.
There was snow, you see. And in England they are unused to such a thing.

After getting a code with which to rebook our flight and hotel room voucher, it took Em and I over six hours to get through British customs. six hours in one slow moving line. It was midnight by the time we'd taken a bus and walk through more snow to get to the hotel.

The hotel was chaos. Phones ringing off the hooks and crowds of people seeking shelter. We were given a small corner room with no heat and no hot water, and we began trying to rebook our flight. There was no sleeping that night. No rebooking of a flight either. The lines were constantly busy...too many people were just like us. Desperate.

Slowly we trod back to the bus stop the next morning, as the greyness of London evaporated in the early morning light of a surprisingly cloudless day. We arrived at the Terminal and could not believe our eyes. More lines. More chaos. More queues. People said that there were no available flights for a week. Everything was full.

We nearly cried.
But we didn't.

We stood in one line for an hour, but it was the wrong one and they sent us somewhere else.
We stood in another line for a while until we realized that it actually led nowhere at all.
We stood in another line and as the hours ticked by left Em to hold our place in queue while I returned to the line which had already rejected us in the hopes that it would answer a few questions.

Two hours later I approached the man at the desk. I told him that i didn't know if someone else had been able to rebook a flight for me and asked him to check to see if they had.
He did.

Emily had joined me by then. I'd been gone too long. When he told us that we were already booked to fly to New York that afternoon.
We cried.
Right there.

I apologized to the man. Mumbled something about not having slept in 63 hours. But he understood. He was frazzled himself; he'd been working since 2 am.

And so Em and I left London that day. Though BA 117 to JFK was delayed 4 hours it still brought us back to the US. None of our luggage arrived. After seeing the sheer madness of Heathrow, Em and I expected nothing less.

Friends of friends picked us up in New York City and we drove through Manhattan at midnight. The Williamses met us in Jersey and reunited we returned to PA at 4 am on a Friday.

The luggagge is still missing and Em and I came back to school without our books.
Classes began today. Its good to see friends again and be back at Geneva. Its good to see my Romans too. We all think its strange to be back at Geneva.

And right now I can think of nothing I'd rather do than what I am doing now; sipping a hot cup of milky red rooibus tea and watching the snow fall outside the window of my apartment.

It's been four months of adventure...I am ready for a calmer semester.

changing

2010-01-02T07:41:00.001-05:00

You write in order to change the world…. The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way people look at reality, then you can change it.” -James Baldwin

Acedia and Me

2010-01-01T01:57:00.005-05:00

We are emerging, blinking, into the light. Groping our way out of the dark, tentatively confident following what has become a daily trend of loosing power.

I have tried not to be languishing idle for most of the week.

I have to try to pin my softly malleable Karamoja days down. Define within them some sense of direction, a purpose. Things I want to do before I leave, for I don’t know when I’ll next return. A year at least. These days seems to slip between my fingers and escape beyond my reach like the slippery yolks of freshly cracked eggs. Soon they will be passes and I shall have nothing to show for them.

What shall I do today? I ask myself when I rise.

It is easier when there is no electricity. The house comes lurching to soundless standstill so that the luring prompts of anything electronic are muted as power leaches from the vehicles that transport them into our muffled far-away isolation. The absence of power is a push in the right direction. A push outside the house and prodding pull out of the lazy acedia I have fallen into. Its Christmas break…must I truly do anything?

But Christmas break is nearly over, and I refuse to begin a new year so lazily. Em and I have a grand total of four days left in Africa and we are determined to suck out all the marrow of this life. Enough to sustain us until we return.

We had a grand New Years Eve celebration with the Myhre's who stopped over in Karamoja on their way to Kenya to drop off their sons at boarding school for the new term. My new term begins in 11 days. 11 days and I shall be in America once more. And in this peculiar soft-centered hiatus between here and there, I pause, and cannot believe I left Italy exactly three weeks ago. I am going through a form of Rome withdrawal already. A yearning for what was. An unquenchable thirst.

I want to tack Time down. To fasten it firmly where I can keep an eye on it. And yet I am too tired to worry about liquid days, fluid hours, a deluge of weeks that are submerged by months. I must take this year one day at a time, and I hope that just like the last five years year it will begin and end in Africa.P perhaps in some strange way that is my new years resolution.

Happy 2010. :)

"So teach us to number our days

that we may get a heart of wisdom.
Return, O Lord! How long?
Have pity on your servants!
Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
and for as many years as we have seen evil.
Let your work be shown to your servants,
and your glorious power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
and establish the work of our hands upon us;
yes, establish the work of our hands!"

[Psalm 90:12-17]

Ewogua

2009-12-31T07:12:00.002-05:00

And gravity and depravity have once again taken their toll.

With all these thoughts and ideas of international aid filling my head, my heart was wrenched back down to earth by the gravity of our shared depravity and Karamoja’s need for so much more…

The World Food Program came to Nakaale.

The Karamojong call it Ewogua. Relief.

We call it chaos.

Relief and TWFP have not been to Nakaale in many months because there was an issue with one of the soldiers guarding the trucks getting shot during the last distribution many months ago. The culprit was chased, beaten bloody, and then taken to the hospital in Tokora, where he healed and then escaped before the police could do anything. Since then TWFP has hesitated in returning to this place, and the villagers have blamed their hunger on the absence of aid.

Tuesday afternoon, Dad and I walked down to observe the chaos of relief, Ur had rained the night before (its rained ever day since Christmas) and the thick greasy mud clung to the soles of our shoes in heavy clumps as we crossed the culvert and walked past the clinic to where the road was blocked off by the sheer number of men and women around TWFP trucks.

The women sat in congregations on the ground, eyeing each other carefully while the men milled among the mass, holding spears and sticks. Every man held something, be it a tree branch or a discarded length of rebar. “It is only for threatening,” Sam told someone later, “just in case…”

We met Lokwii on the outskirts of the mob and he told us that things were pretty quiet thus far. The WFP workers were still unloading the sacks of grain and piling them in great white heaps in the field nearby. The only drama yet was that for unknown reasons a woman had had four of her fingers bitten (off?) in a scuffle. “No soldiers are here for guarding today,” Lokwii said, “Last time in Kakamongole a soldier shot a woman and killed her. TWFP is trying to manage without using the army this time. But you know, soon they will need them. Just wait. The soldiers will be called. And they will come.”

Children followed Dad and I as we entered the thickness of the crowd, smiling ad laughing, pointing to my blonde hair and his grey beard…touching my white skin when I looked in the other direction. They were true village children…those whose homes were hidden or the hills or across the river. They’d ventured out for Ewogua, and unlike the children of Nakaale were not accustomed to seeing wazungu. Boys in torn shirts sold bags of Sunny Gin to the crowd for a cheap price. There is nothing better than hard alcohol in the empty stomachs of a desperate throng already on edge.

There were hundreds of people crowding the road.

Waiting.

We met many people who we knew along the way, and we stopped to talk to them, pausing and taking time to watch and wait. Most of our workers were there; they’d all been allowed to work half day and the instant noon struck, our compound was empty. Kosmas was running as he left. “My wife, she is there, and I am fearing that she will become hurt.”

I stood by one of the trucks talking to Joyce, when the first fight broke out. Sticks and fists were flying. I recognized some of the men in the center of the fray. A woman stood off the the side, her right hand bandages and her fingers bloody. “Perhaps she is the one,” I thought.

The fight was broken up, but then suddenly with no warning at all, the chaos began in earnest…the scene before us unfolds…

A man in a grey t-shirt steals some grain and begins to run. The crowd is livid and quickly follows him. The rush of stomping bare feet and loud cried. A stampede of souls too angry to think rationally. They dash past us and we are caught up in the dust they leave behind.

“It is better if you are not here,” Joyce tells me, “There will be much fighting. Go.”

And so we go.

We walk back down the road toward the clinic, our backs turned on TWFP trucks and the hungry mass before them. Glancing back, I see the driver of the truck hunched over in the cab, doors locked and cell phone pressed urgently to his ear. The soldiers are being called to come.

A woman a few paces in front of us begins to wail. The shrill notes and shrieking that I have only before heard at village funerals. Blood curdling screams and hands waving in the air. A man stands, picking himself up from the dust. She is holding his arm, and I catch my breath. This is what comes from “relief.”

The man was a relative of the person who bit the fingers of the woman. In the rush after the thief, her relative, angered and bent on revenge, spotted this man and hit him on the head with a club. He hit his twice. Two gashes that happened to meet at one end. A “V” for Vendetta.

Blood poured forth from the wounds, covering half his face in a thick stream of red. War paint for one who hadn’t been fighting. His shirt was already soaking, and his screaming wife removed it and gave it to her young son who was following close behind, crying loudly at the sight of his father’s face. Dark rivults and wide channels of red already streamed down the man’s chest and his trousers were speckled like all the Jackson Polluck paintings I saw while in Europe.

We urged him to go to the clinic and together we walked that direction.

But as soon as the man arrived at the clinic, he left.

“Why is he leaving?” I asked

“Because if he gets cleaned up before her goes to the police they will not believe him. He must file a report first. Then we can help him.”

“And where is the nearest police station?”

“Namalu. He says he will borrow a bicycle. But he will still not make it all the way to Namalu.”

We all knew that the adrenaline required to pump the pedals of a bike would only make his heart beat faster and more blood leave the wounds on his head. Already his pace was slowing…

Leaving the clinic, we met with Lokwii on the road once more,

“the army has been sent for,” he said.

We nodded.

So be it.

And so they came. But the chaos of relief was only prolonged when TWFP realized that they did not have enough food too feed all the people gathered. “Tomorrow,” they told the Karimojong, “Tomorrow we will give you food.” And while the trucks returned to town for more supplies, men were posted to guard the 30,000 kilos of maize already piled in the field. We were all certain that the food would be completely gone before daylight dawned. Raided in the middle of the night. But rain poured incessantly all night long and the maize was still there the next morning when TWFP returned with 16,000 pounds of more relief. Ewogua.

Again all of our workers were gone, and the Wrights invited us over for tea and we sat on their blue roof, watching the chaos from a distance. Binoculars and zoomed camera lenses pressed to our squinting eyes. The air was full of humidity form the rain and the roads and paths were filled with the quick steps of nervous people.

We watched. We watched both the “helping” and the hurt.

The food was distributed. Ambushes were set up everywhere. When relief comes, it is more difficult to transport your relief home than it is to actually receive it from TWFP. They say five people were shot in the process but only one woman died; the others escaped. They also say that the soldiers were selling sacks to anyone who had enough money. Even those who had no need of food. They say the bloodied man collapsed three times on his way to Namalu. He managed to file a complaint with the police, but he never returned to the clinic.

This is what happens when helping hurts.

And thus gravity and depravity have once again taken their toll.

For we live in a fallen world, and we are totally depraved.

When Helping Hurts

2009-12-31T07:09:00.002-05:00

I’ve been reading a book called When Helping Hurts by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert, both are professors at Covenant College in the US. The book is an economic and sociological work focused on poverty alleviation in both third world countries and the western world. It’s not a book one can read quickly. Normally a fast reader, even I read only a handful of pages at a time. Pausing to think and ponder, I sit and mull over the words that the authors have together written.

It’s a brilliant book.

So far.

I’ve not yet finished

But as far as I can tell, it appears to essentially be a culmination of all my own observations and feelings regarding missions and aid organizations. Thoughts that I have pondered and yet still not fully understood. The paradox of giving when helping really hurt. Wanting to show compassion and yet not quite knowing how… I’d advise anyone interested in missions or poverty alleviation to read this book.

One of the major premises of When Helping Hurts is that “until we embrace our mutual brokenness, our work with low income people is likely to do far more harm than good” (64). According to the authors, one key problem with Aid Organizations, particularly in Africa, is that they treat the symptoms of the “disease” and not the “disease” itself.

It reminds me of a New York Times article written two years ago entitled, “As an atheist, I truly believe Africa needs God”. (See here.) Though the two do not deliberately coincide, the book expatiates upon the principles addressed within the article. Yet When Helping Hurts is not merely a discussion on how giving material aid is nothing if not combined with missions, but also that missions is not complete if we do not also make efforts to assist those among whom we live. Moreover, that the ways we might think to help alleviate poverty can in reality only make matters worse. “HOW we work and for whom we work really matters,” (79).

The complicated truth in response to deceptively simply questions...

Snake Break

2009-12-30T00:07:00.000-05:00

written and submitted by Maria Tricarico

It was a darkly sinister and ugly Wednesday night. Outside, the wind shrieked, sounding scarily human as it tore through the skeletal trees. We huddled inside, clutching each other, as our tormented minds transformed the sounds of the hurricane like weather into visions of ghosts searching for innocent prey (such as us) to haunt with its ice-cold fingers of death.

No.

Actually, it was just a normal Wednesday night which means Bible Study at our house. Every week, the whole station comes to out house and we sing some hymns and Dad leads a bible study. We were just in our third of fourth chorus of some Christmas song, when all the dogs outside began to howl and bark in a very unmusical frenzy. We immediately assumed that it was our singing which had stimulated this racket, but when our beloved canines refused to stop even after we had finished our song, we began to doubt our assumption.

Mom had, it seemed, slipped from the room during the last verse and gone to investigate the mad howling. We could hear her calling “Mariko! Longok! EMUN!!!” Those of us excitable ones immediately jumped up and dashed out to the porch with torches and headlamps for what Dad would call a “snake break”.

“Where is it?” we asked

“Over by the dogs.” Mom replied. “Don’t go outside without shoes, we need to find the guards.” So what did we do? We grabbed the closest shoes we could find and scrambled out the door. Once outside, however, we found ourselves more cautious, seeing as we had yet to locate the reptile. So we stood in a group on our stoop, shining our torches about like searchlights, looking for the infiltrator.

We saw it, sliding smoothly through the yellowed grass and thorny weeds we like to call our lawn. Our three dogs surrounded it. They had by then stopped their manic howling and contented themselves to nosing the serpent cautiously in turns. When it was Foxy’s turn, she, being the one with the brains, decided to sniff its head. In response, the snake threw back its head, raising it half a foot from the ground and revealed its cobra-ness to us. The brilliant dog was not fazed.

We called the dog. We whistled. We clapped. But we feared to throw stones, lest we alarm the cobra into action before we were properly equipped to defeat it. Our voices turned into a jumbled chorus of “Foxy! Foxy! Here girl! Ah Longok! Kinyerakinai! Emun! Come here foxy. Mariko! Loumo! Adokoro!...EMUN!!! Foxy, you stupid dog…get out of the way!!” The snake darted its head forward, while still slithering silently back and forth and Foxy had at least enough sense to leap away from the barred fangs.

At last, we could hear Longok running up behind us. Silently, he dashed to the front of our little crowd of spectators and raised his bow, aiming at the head of the snake. I have no doubt that, had he let fly his dart, he would not have missed, but Longok did not seem to share my confidence. He kept the arrow aimed for about a minute and a half before dropping it, racing forward and smashing the end of his bow upon the serpents head. The cobra reeled. Longok struck again. He shouted something in a hurried voice and Mariko came running, with at least five slashers in his arms along with his own bow and an excess of arrows. All of this, save the slasher, Mariko dropped upon seeing the snake and began attacking it with said weapon. Within a few seconds its beautiful, sleek, reptilian head had been transformed into a bloody mutilated lump of scales.

All of us cowardly wazungu burst into applause. And with renewed courage, we raced across the bloodied battlefield with triumphant war cries of, “Ah, Longok! Alakara nooi!” We hastened to inspect the body of the infiltrator. The tail still slithered silently on its own, so we didn’t dare touch it. With a ten foot pole, we, like dentists, examined its teeth. With the end of a slasher, we rolled it over so as too see its markings. Dark greenish grey with pale yellow stripes. Now, finally it had ceased its slithering and Jim lifted it by its tail till the head only just brushed the ground. It was a couple inches taller than Jim. We again applauded. Three cheers for our eskari! (guards) Oh yeah, and the dogs too.

A Dialougue on Fatness

2009-12-28T00:47:00.000-05:00

Lucy: Maria, someone told me that in America you do not like to be called fat. Is it true?

Maria: Yes, it is true. Those Americans do not like to be called fat.

Lucy: But you know from here, when someone says, "oh Lucy, you are fat!" I say, "Ah thank you!" but if they "Ah Lucy, you have become thin," then maybe they thing that I look sick. Why dont you like to be called fat?

Maria: I dont know. Maybe because they do not like to be called fat because when you are fat you look lazy.

Lucy: Is it true? But fatness is not really bad becuase God has given you that fatness so how can you not like it?

Maria: I'm not sure. But you should really never call an American fat.

Lucy: Oh yes. I once told a mzungu who was coming from America rhar she was coming very fat and I thought she was to cry. Yes. Never call those ones fat.

Its a Wonderful Life

2009-12-27T03:02:00.001-05:00

When the morning light had begun to peak through our mosquito nets and the greyness of the early morning sunlight first permeated our room, Emily dove through the netting barrier between her bed and mine and landed with a thud between Maria and I.

That was when I woke up.

We lay there for some time, the three of us, whispering and giggling and doxing in and out of consciousness. The boys were already up and full of energy. Or rather Joshua was full of energy. But how could he not be? It was Christmas morning, and the wrapped packages stowed carefully under the tree were beckoning.

It has become tradition that as a family we T’s draw names from a hat months before December, and we only buy one Christmas gift for the person whom we have drawn. It seemed extravagant that we should each receive six gifts from six people when living in such a place as this. A tree, good food, and one gift appears excessive enough already. There is a gap between our two cultures during this holiday, and we must mind it.

“Hurry! We need to open presents now!” Josh exclaimed when the girls and I finally made an appearance in the kitchen. Water was whistling on the stove, warms smells wafted from the oven, and a bowl full of frozen mangoes sat on the counter, ready to be hacked at with a knife. Blessings indeed.

“We don’t need to open presents YET,” I teased my youngest brother, “we have all morning…”

“Yes, but if we don’t start NOW then we wont have time to eat breakfast!”

“Hmm…he has a point,” Emily pointed out, pouring herself a cuppa tea, “ Perhaps we should just open presents tomorrow so that we will have enough time to eat breakfast today.”

“You know, that probably would the wisest thing,” James commented.

“Yes,” agreed Maria, “Good plan. Hows that sound, Josh?”

“NO! We have to open presents today! Its Christmas!”

Setting freshly cut papaya on the counter, I turned to Josh, “ You know, maybe no one got you a present this year. What if there was a mistake and no one picked your name?”

“No! that’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I know I got Jenny, and she isn’t in our family. Are you sure anyone picked you? Maybe they replaced Jenny for your name.”

“Jenny isn’t your person.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

We laughed.

Our stockings were stuffed and we sat in the living room. Splurging on power, we turned the lights on the Christmas tree and stuck a CD in the TV and the sweet melodies of Christmas time began to play.

Lights. Music. Action.

The power cut out, for it had been a cloudy day the day before. We shrugged off the power loss and carried on.

Our stockings were unstuffed and smiling and chatting, we moved back into the kitchen to eat breakfast before anyone would allow Josh to dive beneath the Christmas tree and search to see if anyone had actually given him a gift. The morning was so grey and cool and the candles lit on the table made the kitchen appear warm and inviting as we feasted on warm food and frozen mangoes.

“Please tell me who your person is for real!” Josh pleaded with me.

We continued to tease him.

“Only a few more minutes.”

“Please!”

Emily couldn’t take it any longer. We were all laughing and merrily teasing when she suddenly burst out, “Okay! I have James!”

We all stared, shocked. She had just revealed her secret. THE secret.

Even she was surprised at herself and his her face in her hands as a laughter once again erupted around the table.

“Okay! I have Emily!” James shouted

“I have Josh!” I admitted

“Mom” said Maria

“and I have Kate,” revealed Mom from where she stood at the stove putting on more water to boil. We paused. Onely one name had yet to be revealed and only one person had yet to say anything.
Both were Dad.

We all turned to him confused.

“Wait a minute,” he paused, “was everyone being honest about the person they have?”

For a moment, I panicked. I’d spoken truthfully. I really did have poor Josh. Had everyone else been joking?

“I really do have Emily,” James admitted.

“And I really do have James,” Emily stated.

“Then we have a small problem, I think,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair, a twinkle in his eye, “because I have James.”

There was a sudden moment of silence before the realization of catastrophe. The breath before the plunge.

“What?!”

“Then James gets two presents?!”

“But how did that—”

“But what about—”

“Emily!”

We all spoke at once and then turned to face Em where she sat at the end of the table, open mouthed.

She’d begun to laugh.

I’d begun to laugh.

We’d all begun to laugh, and as we tried to speak through our uncontrollably gales of laughter, tears streamed down our cheeks. I cant remember the last time I laughed so hard.

“Oh no!”

“Poor Dad.”

“But how on earth—”

“Are you sure?”

“James—”

“Emily!”

My stomach ached from laughing and we were all making such noise that, as they told us later, the Eldeens could hear us through the courtyard and were fairly convinced that someone was dying.

Nevertheless, my father is such a good sport. To him, the laughter was worth ten Christmas presents. Emily gave him the gift she had mistakenly bought for James, and in the end, he enjoyed it immensely, regardless of its intended recipient. We are still not quite sure how it happened. Either Emily misremembered her person, or Dad wrote James’s name twice when he was labeling the slips of paper. The former seems far more likely.

Either way, neither of them shall ever live this Christmas down.