Two Weeks Down.

Quote of the day:

“So, let go, let go

Just get in

Oh, it's so amazing here

It's all right

'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown.”

-Let Go, by Frou Frou

The Masala Chai Betty makes is strong. From what I can tell, she's dumped in about half a container of ginger (in order to cure a throat that is paining, she says) and other tea spices; it burns as it goes down. This stuff is good.

It's nearly 3:30 PM now, and I'm enjoying Boxing Day like most other Ugandans: by doing next to nothing. This has been a point of amusement just because I’ve always wondered what the “holiday” was even about...I'd never seen it mentioned except for in tiny letters on a calendar. But oh, it is definitely celebrated in Uganda. Here, it translates to the day that everyone lounges about, nursing their hangovers acquired from partying too hard on Christmas. And it’s a little funny, because it really is quieter today. Normally one notices the not-so-muted noise of Jinja blow in with the breeze through the windows. The only real thing I'm hearing right now is Kimbi (Bettys little son). He's having some sort of wild tantrum, which isn't entirely unusual. Fifty percent of the time Kimbi is like any other loveable, rambunctious two year old. The other fifty he's a terror. Currently, his riled, raucous wailing is probably bothering every neighbor within three hundred feet of our house. I love him all the same. And he's about the cutest little guy I've ever seen, which admittedly helps stay my irritation when he acts like he is today.

Two weeks ago yesterday I arrived in Jinja, Uganda. My apologies for not updating on life here sooner. The adjustment process has taken its serious time, and I was sick for about a week up until a couple days ago. I'm still pretty fatigued, but the brunt of my issue is over. I'm still not sure what the cause was, but I'm suspecting it had something to do with taking doxycycline. I've abandoned the pills. No one else in the house are on them, since we all sleep under mosquito nets anyway, and according to studies done in the area, mosquitoes infected with malaria only bite between the hours of midnight and 4 AM. Fascinating, I know.

I'm not completely sure where to start my explanation of life here so far. The effect Uganda has had on me runs too deep; conventional language does not possess the kinds of words that would adequately paint a picture of the wonder that is this place. But in the weeks and months to come, I'll relay as best I can the stories of these people, in this land, and process through on page what I'm seeing, learning, and reconciling to my previous perceptions of what life is--or for that matter, what it should be.

The jagged, eroding roads of red earth and potholed asphalt that crisscross these countrysides seem to me to be metaphors--metaphors for a genuine and absolute beauty that exists within the deep brokenness that hangs over everything here. Uganda is a world of complicated dichotomies—it’s wonderful and also terrible, frightening while wholly awe-inspiring, full of grief but also healing. Life that is twisted and dark and painful is contrasted by the work of a God who has been redeeming, renewing, and restoring a creation in shambles back to Himself. To be sure, it is like this everywhere on the planet—but nowhere have I seen it more blatantly displayed than here.

So right now, I’m scratching my head and wondering what to do with all of this. In two week’s time I’ve experienced so much that I’m altogether overwhelmed by it.

I have seen a young girl slowly wasting away from the preventable (and highly treatable) disease malaria. She was sitting on a dirty towel in the dark corner of her family’s hut. The malaria, having spread to her brain, contorted her body in an unnatural way, and her facial features were confused and tired. They say that once malaria reaches the brain, it’s irreversible. They say that it’s only a matter of time until it takes her completely.

The other night, while driving down a main street in Kampala, I heard the tortured cries of a woman coming from a building we passed. There were people crowded around its door, trying to witness the scene inside. Some empty police cars were sitting close by, lights flashing. I didn’t see what really happened. But I can picture the cold blue steel of the building and the ominous dark of the space behind its doorway. And every day since, I’ve been haunted by the sound of the woman’s voice, her desperate shrieking that carried far above the din of the city in its movement and traffic.

Those experiences and more that I’ve had lead me to frustration, anger, and unending questions. If this is all there is, what am I even doing here? Does me being here make any difference in the grand scheme of things? How am I supposed to react in the face of such poverty? Injustice? How do I respond? And moreover…God—what is all this for?

What the hell…?

But then, I think of Betty. Achiro Betty--who has overcome a lifetime of dire circumstances, of pain and death and suffering—to testify to the immeasurable grace and provision and unending faithfulness of our Creator. One of her favorite things to do is find people who are broken and hopeless and bring them comfort and encouragement. She’s been through everything and now chooses to walk in it with other people so that they know they’re not alone. She is quick to laugh and smile, free with her love, and speaks of Jesus as a tender friend. We have conversations regarding the Lord often. I could listen to her for hours. The thing about Betty is, I’ve only learned part of her story so far; I know there’s a lot left to tell. I know that it speaks of more hardship and broken memories. But every day, in spite of all this, I get to watch as she rises to choose HOPE instead of falling victim to despair. She’s an absolutely incredible girl. I love her dearly.

Also, there’s Andrew. Andrew loves music. Andrew has a grin that brightens my day every time I see him. Andrew is helping me to learn Luganda while I’m here, and the other day we started our lessons. I had a few different ideas for him as to what I’d like to start with. I suggested he teach me how to barter at the market, or maybe how to ask for the time, or how to tell a Ugandan man that I wasn’t actually interested in being his third wife. At this, a funny expression came over his face, and he looked at me as an exasperated schoolteacher might a troublesome fourth grader. Then, without speaking, he started writing vowels and the rest of the alphabet in my notebook. Then he had me pronounce them out loud. I had to laugh. It turns out that Andrew is actually a fairly great teacher. Except he’s going to school with the intent of one day being a news reporter, which by all accounts is a pretty great ambition. What I didn’t yet mention about Andrew, though, is that he is recently an orphan. Over the past few years he’s lost his mother and father, and then his sister, to AIDS. Finally, just a couple months ago, his grandmother passed away. Andrew spends a lot of time with us at our house, because he doesn’t like to be alone at his little place in Walukuba. He’s told me that their familys landlord informed him that he had to buy the house he was living in should he wish to stay there. So he has a little less than five years to come up with five million Ugandan shillings (about 2,600 dollars). Someone has already donated part of the money, so he figures he has about four million (2,000) to come up with, but has no idea how he’s going to do it. Still, Andrew keeps on laughing. He comes to Suubi meetings and he offers his help with whatever needs to be done. He’s a great friend to us at the house, and his commitment to serving people is awesome.

There are more stories I encounter daily that remind me that despite the darkness, there is so much light here and it is both radiant and glorious. The women of Suubi, for example, are living those kinds of stories. Many Ugandans are. I’m going to have to call those things to mind often--remember intentionally what the Lord has done and is always doing here. I still have questions. I really want those answers. And I think in time, some of those questions will have definite resolutions, but many more won’t. So a big lesson is coming to be okay with that, too. I am learning to receive grace in its various forms and love more deeply. All the while, the catalyst to all this growth is the permeating pain I am crashing into, over and over again.

The line of that song is so true. There is, in fact, beauty in the breakdown.