near death experiences

you know that there's something wrong with a car accident description when the term 'landed' is used.

so, here we are driving a recently purchased toyota MR2 along the winding roads of abbotsford when, well, the rubber left the road. MR2s are only two-passenger vehicles, and there were only two of us in the car at the time....me as the passenger beside someone who is still learning to test the limits of his three-week old car. the limits were broken that day. the beautiful thing about MR2s is that they sit low so that when, say a large rock is side-swiped at high speeds, there's no flipping involved. just some airtime as the impact sends the car twisting in the air, nose down. accidents are surreal moments in life when you know exactly what's going to happen, but can do nothing about it except hope that it ends well. and it did end well for us...the car faired a bit worse, but considering the possibilities....i'm okay with that.

There is a time for everything...

I love writing. I had to prepare a devotion for a youth leader's meeting the other night, and it gave me an opportunity to put together three elements: 1) the verse that has stuck in my head the past few weeks; 2) the fact that i kept coming back to Ecclesiastes while on a solo camping venture to figure my life out; and 3) Sunday morning's sermon on listening to the voice of the Shepherd:

Time is a funny thing. The past few weeks for me has brought up many questions about time. And about timing. Human timing, God’s timing – and the difference between the two. Often when we look back, it’s easy to figure out whether the decisions we make, the actions we take, and the paths we have walked line up with the path God has set for us. Only in hindsight do we truly know whether we have made the right decisions, taken the right actions and patterned our lives within the will of God. However, when we are in the midst of decision-making and action-taking, the question of God’s will is constantly before us. And the question has to be raised: “Am I listening to the voice of the Shepherd?”

I have a difficult time listening to the voice of the Shepherd. I know I should know what he sounds like…I know I should know the voice of my Shepherd, but this world is so full of voices that it’s often difficult to decipher the difference between what I want and what the world wants, from the voice of the one who cares the most for me. And it is most important during those times of decision-making that one needs to be tuned into the voice of the Shepherd, so as not to lose his whisper in the screams of the world.

It is in the silence of nature that I most easily hear that whisper. And it was in solitude that I heard the voice of my Shepherd. More than that, I felt the whisper in my soul. In my gut. And that whisper brought to me such peace in the decision I faced that when the doubts cross my mind (and they do), when the questions come (and they do) and when the frustrating task of having to trust God with an undetermined future is placed before me (constantly), I constantly need to remind myself that yes, I do hear the voice of my Shepherd.

Our task is simply to ask. And then listen. And we will all hear the voice of our Shepherd in the best way he knows we will hear him. And not only must we listen, but we must also obey. Solomon writes in Ecclesiastes 7:13, ‘Notice the way God does things; then fall into line. Don’t fight the ways of God, for who can straighten out what he has made crooked?’

Only the Shepherd knows where the grass is. Our duty is to follow him to it. Whether the path is straight or crooked, our duty is to fall into line. And only then can we feast.

the path i'm on...

Why is it that some people, by the time they're five years old, know exactly what they want to do with their life? Why am I 26 and still figuring it out? As of September, I'll be on a new adventure. Paid youth work didn't stick. It was good...it had it's moments, it's joys, it's frustrations...but ultimately, it didn't stick. It couldn't stick. I can do it and I can make it look good, but the work of youth ministry is not my passion. I have a passion for youth, I've determined that (ha! I do have a passion), but it's not something I want to get paid to do. I don't want it to be an obligation. I want to be involved with youth out of a desire of my heart, not out of a desire from my wallet. Frick. I hope that thought stays in my head. Frick again. What the heck do I do now? I'm pretty confident that I 'fell into line' [see previous post], but it leaves so many unanswered questions. I think that as much as there are people out there who have one objective goal for work, there are others of us who just don't know what to do because either the options are overwhelming, or what we most want to do will cost a fortune or will cost a lot of time. Or all three. Or the thing we want to do most of all is out of our reach because VIA Rail isn't hiring right now. ha. Frick x3.

down the crooked path we go....

Notice the way God does things; then fall into line. Don't fight the ways of God, for who can straighten out what he has made crooked? Ecc. 7:13

an explanation will follow in due time ...

home again, home again. jiggidy jig.

well, kinda. i'm actually quite homeless at this point. i have until August 18 to find a place to live after my house-sitting experience is over. that gives me a couple of weeks to mull it over before getting down to it, i guess. me and my stupid procrastinating ways.

we got back late last night. all twenty one of us. here's a fun equation for you to try one day: 17 teenagers + 4 leaders + two-day road trip + 50 more teens + 7 day California mission trip + 2 more days of road trip = tiredness, exhaustion, good memories, tears and laughter. and frickin' good times. it took a while for that to sink in, but when it did, it did. Okay, that might not make sense. note the previous remarks about tirendess and exhaustion. it feels like my brain is on autopilot. it's felt this way for weeks. since Africa. I feel so far removed from Africa now, which really sucks. I understand why though. Life must go on. But it still sucks.

i have felt such a lack of motivation over the past few weeks. even in California it felt like i was just doing what i had to do. it's not that i didn't enjoy it, i just had a hard time getting into it. it could have been distractions, it could have been the deep ponderings of my mind as of late, it could have been post-Africa processing...heck. i don't know. i hate decisions. i've had to make one for months now and i can't bring myself to make it.

starbucks

While passing through the Starbucks today, I noticed the weekend edition of The Globe and Mail. Weird.

Updated

Back in Canada. If you've kept up with my blog...I just added a number of posts. Start down the page with Africa pt. 4 and work your way back to the top.

Africa pt. 6

Last Day
Currently: flying between Kampala, Uganda & London, England: 11:30am (Uganda Time)

The journey is over, the experience complete. The thoughts still brew. I have left a world of lack and have already re-entered 'normal' life. A personal TV screen stares back at me blankly, offering its multitudes of entertainment choices: drama, comedy, thriller, action. I choose not to watch it now, not because of what it represents following a three week third world experience, but because the movie I was watching bored me. And I was too far in to switch stations. So now I sit with the airplane radio caressing my ears with the sounds of The Verve. I have missed music. Already I have made a plan to listen to one of two U2 songs when I return home: 'One' or 'Where the Streets Have No Name". It's one of the first decisions I will make as I return to the driver seat of my car.

It's hard to say what kind of an impact these past three weeks will have made on me. I fear that I will remain unaffected. That I will drive along a pothole-less highway through the clean air of BC. That I will not notice the lack of children on the street, holding out their hands as I drive by. That I will return to a house that does not require a gate, or barbed wire, or bars, or a generator. That I will again drink water from the tap and even open my mouth in a warm shower. That I will play my radio and forget the beautiful, energetic, rhythmic sounds of the African Children's Choir who awed us with their version of 'Lean on Me'. These children, hand-picked out of a life of poverty to enjoy a top-rated education that wouldn't even get recognized in Canada...these children sang. They clapped. They danced. They sang.

"I just might have a problem that you'd understand..."

I try to understand their problems, but have only witnessed them.

I do not know what effect Africa will have as I return home. I return home thankful, though. Thankful for going. For seeing. For doing. I return home with a glimpse of a bigger world...just a slice of a bigger world. I return home wanting to see more.

Africa pt. 5

Sunday, July 2
Currently: Guest House Balcony, Kampala: 8am

I guess I can choose 1 of 3 options as to why I ended up in Fort Portal. 1) I'm a sucker who simply can't say no to desperation; 2) It was chance; 3) God. Maybe God knew I wouldn't say no, so He rigged it up that Mark would be in the same city on the other side of the world at the same time. And then He changed our plans. Neither Mark or I know why things went the way they did. I now sit here three days after returning to Kampala, trying to figure out God's purposes in all of this. I don't know. Fort Portal was an experience, though. After five hours of driving on what could possibly be the best road in Uganda, we arrived at the local government leader's office. Our mission for the trip: meet the leaders and check out the work that David and his wife Linda had been doing the villages through the organization. After engaging in some small talk with the government officials, we hopped in David's Toyota Corolla and headed to the villages. Roads do not exist, so we went offroading along the foot paths, traveling from house to house. The organization has been working on providing goats and pigs for the villagers for financial and physical assistance. Our first stop was Dorothy's place. She lived in a typical village house: small, 20' x 10', mud enclosed, tin-roofed building. The mud was cracking off the house, revealing it's supporting latchwork of bamboo sticks. Dorothy lived with two orphaned boys and an elderly lady. And Dorothy was crippled. Here the kids did not smile. All four of them sat on the back step of the house, waiting for the westerner to arrive. The westerner arrived, shook hands, attempted conversation and was quickly led away to check on the pigs. They were alive and well. And so, like the Canadian tourist I had just become, we walked away from the pigs, past the family to the car where we drove to the next project house. And at each house we stopped at, the westerner was told about the tragic situation of those living within its walls, and how more funds were needed to better their lives.

I, the westerner, appeared to have dollar bills dancing around my head. I had become the sole target of a fundraiser, representing the material wealth that is North America to the material poverty that is Africa.

Midday, we stopped for lunch at a local house, where I was treated to the new tastes of millet (sp?) and chicken gizzard. My stomach held firm. Following a few more house visits and fund requests, we came to another project. Along a dusty Ugandan road was a small brick-making operation by some of the youth of the village. Here, before funds were even available, a young man by the name of Robert had organized a mini operation. And through a little ingenuity, an elderly man had built a water system and mud stomping machine to help in the process. It was my highlight of the day. Here were people putting their minds to work without financial assistance. Of course, the fund request came, but it game me an opportunity to understand a concept brought up at the conference -- the best resource is the mind. Ingenuity, practicality...thought had gone into this operation. It was here that I saw hope for Africa. A young man and an elderly man had put their minds to work to give them purpose. Asking for an opportunity to speak, I commended the two for putting their minds to work, for working together, for not waiting for the funds. And to the crowd that was gathered, I daringly advised them that their minds and their hearts is where to start progress, not with outside funds. I pray those words do not fall on deaf ears.

With that said, the crowds dispersed and we headed for our home in Fort Portal. We stayed with Charles, a youth pastor in the local Anglican church, and his wife. It was a joy to stay with this couple, he an amazing man of God. ...hard to describe. The next day we visited the local market where everything from soap to cows were being sold. It is here that the tradesman, the crafters, entrepreneurs and farmers gather to buy and sell, eeking out a living on their hard labours. Following the spectacle, David and Linda dropped me off outside of the Anglican church to walk home while they visited a family. As I walked back to the house, I noticed a small cemetery behind the church. About 12 gravestones covered the small plot, dating from as far back as 1906. One grave was for the first black Bishop in North, East and South Africa. As I left the graveyard, I seemed to have walked onto a scene from a movie. Walking past the church, I heard the sound of a small choir resonating from inside its walls. Curious, I removed my hat and walked into the tail end of a time of fellowship. As the service ended, the people joined in song as they greeted eachother and left the sanctuary. I spent some time with the dean, who greeted me, and returned home with Perez, a local, and Sandra, a friend of the family and missionary from Colorado. Some of the neighbourhood kids were playing in the front yard as we returned. While they played, and while we talked, I picked up a girl about 2 years old and held her in my arms. She was as content as could be, so I wasn't too keen on letting her go. After a while, we went inside where Sandra and Charles showed some of the pictures of their work, and the children left for their own homes. At 9pm, we had bread and tea. An hour later, we had supper. We ate our meal under the glow of an oil lamp as the rolling brownouts had left Fort Portal in the dark. By 11pm, supper was over and it was time for a shower. Running water is not existent there, so my shower consisted of a bucket of water, a washcloth and soap.

The following day consisted of more visiting, more fund requests, more chicken gizzard, and a party in my...er, Ginger & Mark's honour. There were speeches, there were dramas, there was dancing and there were songs dedicated to Ginger and Mark. The villagers had prepared so long for their arrival that it just made sense to sing their songs as practiced. None of us had planned a last minute change. It was a privilege to observe the event as it played out, to speak on behalf of Ginger and Mark, and to receive gifts on their behalf. I'm glad the hen was for David. The final drama gave a clear and disheartening picture of how the villagers viewed their own situation. While tsks of acknowledgment echoed beside my years, I watched as a poor father confronted the fact that his daughter had become pregnant..a direct result of his inability to provide for her education. This, followed by the monologue of the mother as she confronts the beast, whose name is 'Poverty'.

It now leaves me with the question: will a people who see themselves as poor ever recognize the riches they have in their mind and their heart?

The drama was meant to break my heart over the state of their poverty. It didn't. What breaks my heart is that they see me as their only solution. Western money will not solve the poverty of Africa. This I have heard from the church leaders of Africa. This I have come to know from my experiences in Fort Portal. How can a fatalistic people ever see past their material poverty? By recognizing that the root of the poverty is in their minds. To quote Darrow Miller in "Discipling Nations", the mindset I have seen in Fort Portal is this: " 'I am poor. I will always be poor, and there is nothing I can do about it.' (fatalism) Or, as many say today, 'I am poor because others made me poor. They are going to have to solve my problem. I cannot' ".

So now, today -- Sunday -- this leaves me with the question: what do I, as a North American white Christian male do about the poverty in Africa? How can I support them without supporting their mindset of poverty and need for Western money? How does an entire nation come to recognize the wealth in their minds? In Uganda, I have observed this: a country desperately trying to become 'Westernized' by culture, by wealth, and by religion. I see a country not economically or infrastructurally capable of obtaining this goal...and in fact, I fear them achieving it. The western world has lost our path...and we are leading the rest of the world astray. I saw more joy in Uganda than I have ever seen in Canada.

I see in Africa a people who have so much unrecognized, unacknowledged potential, only being told by the parent what it should do, how it should do it, and then given an allowance to do only what the parent wants and thinks is best for the child. And while these discussions take place, I have seen in Northern Uganda a people at war with itself. But it was there, in Kitgum, at the FHI base that I saw hope for Africa. A people determined to not be wiped out. A people determined to see change, to see lives transformed -- not by money, because money would have no use there -- but by recognizing one's own potential to create change. By recognizing that a healthy spiritual life is not the end all and be all. It's where one starts the process of renewing the mind, the heart, the soul and strength. There is hope for Africa. Pray for it.

Africa pt. 4

Day 11
Currently: Hotel Room, Kampala: 10:30pm

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a bit cynical towards the church. And anyone who knows me well knows that I have no answer to the question: What are you passionate about? I have been asked that time and time again over the past couple years and have never been able to provide an answer. Sometime last night, either in those vague thoughts that cross your mind right before you fall asleep, or in those thoughts that pop into your head at 2am during the few minutes you find yourself awake, a realization dawned. As I have been given time to think about it while fully awake today, I've discovered that this realization has potential. And a formula: Positive Cynicism = Passion. Negative cynicism allow me to sit back and criticize where as positive cynicism forces me to get up and do something. I'll have to test this formula back in Canada.

Day ? -- Saturday, June 24
Currently: Hotel Roof, Kampala: 10am

One can see pretty far from the roof of a hotel. I'm watching a hotel employee cart a wheelbarrow full of garbage into the bushes beyond the neighbouring parking lot. No surprise...garbage in Kampala is like people in Pidibe -- who cares where it ends up, as long as its out of sight.

Day ? -- Sunday, June 25
Currently: Hotel Balcony, Kampala: 12pm

Well, I've lost track of the days. I guess that's what happens when you don't keep up with a journal. We’ve been at the hotel for a week now and have gone through 18 sessions dealing with culture and Biblical Worldview. And tomorrow will begin our week of training. It's a rare treat to get away from here though, as we live at and are taught here. But we did hit a local Chinese restaurant the other night to experience new flavours. Rice, potatoes, mashed bananas (matoké), tough beef, boiled eggs and chicken have been our staples for the past week -- breakfast, lunch and dinner. But we're alive. Mark's suppose to fly in from Ontario tonight, so we're hoping to have a mini superfriend reunion in Kampala, Uganda tomorrow. It's a small world.

The conference is host to about 8 countries, all African except the US and Canada. It hasn't quite sunk in that I sit among church and youth leaders from some of the most tumultuous countries in the world. Sudan, Congo, Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Ethiopia and Rwanda are all represented here. To sit beside and listen to a guy my age tell me that twelve years ago in his country, the majority of his family of nine were killed by the Hutus in the genocide of Rwanda is really a profound thing. To hear how his surviving sister died two years later, but that he now has friends who he considers to be his sisters & brothers is an amazing thing. And to hear him say he is happy is a miracle. True happiness comes from the heart. I will never ever fully understand. I can read books, I can watch movies, but I will never understand.

Wednesday, June 28
Currently: Youth Pastor's Home, Fort Portal: 10am

There's been a bit of a change of plans here in Uganda. As I finished writing the last sentence on Sunday, there was a knock on my door. Someone was here to see me. It turned out to be David, the contact Mark was to meet up with here in Kampala. David was in a pickle. Mark had to cancel his plans to come to Uganda at the last minute, leaving a panicked David with a program set up, but nobody to join him. Mark's intentions were to come with a friend to see the work accomplished through their support of a local NGO. And so now I find myself in Fort Portal, 5 hours west of Kampala, filling in for Mark and his friend for a few days.

Africa pt. 3a

Saturday, July 1
Currently: Internet Cafe, Kampala: 4pm

I'll update more in a few days when I get back to Canada...computer and internet access has been limited over the past while, and I had a last minute change of plans that sent me five hours west of Kampala for a few days. I'll fill you all in in a couple days...back to Canada July 3rd.

Africa pt. 3

Day 6

Currently: Hotel Room, Kitgum: 11pm

Too much seen today. Too much to know how to process. It was a busy day as we visited two IDP Camps as well as the night commuters of Kitgum. A quick history as I understand it will help explain:

There has been a war going on in Northern Uganda for the past 20 years between the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) and the Ugandan Military. Eighty percent of the LRA consists of children who have been captured and forced to join. The children are trained by force and threat to kill, maim, rape and terrorize their friends, family, and neighbours. They are the Acholi people. The LRA consists of Acholi, and the majority of the Northern Ugandans are Acholi. In 2002, the Ugandan Military was given permission from Sudan to enter its country to seek out and defeat the LRA who had been hiding just inside Sudan’s border with their leader, Joseph Kony. When the attempt failed, the LRA increased in brutality, killing more in that period than in it’s entire existence. Kids were forced to kill their own people. As a result of the increased violence, many Acholi families fled to the bigger cities for protection, where they camped. The government of Uganda stepped in and established Internally Displaced Peoples (IDP) Camps for the protection of those fleeing the violence, and eventually forced all the villagers into the IDPs, where they remain. Out of fear, many children now walk to Kitgum and other major cities at night for the protection from the LRA that a busy city brings. They are called night commuters. There is much more to the conflict in Northern Uganda, but this is enough to understand.

The first IDP we visited held 16,000 people. Humans. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, daughters, sons – from babies to as old as they can survive in these conditions. Huts barely 6 feet in diameter spread across the camp, 2 feet apart from eachother, 1 house per family. Kids holding kids. Shoeless, bloated stomachs, runny noses. It seemed unreal to me. I was walking through a sponsor-a-child commercial. That is exactly how it felt…except here I saw smiles. Kids always smile. It’s the teenage mothers, holding their young child, telling their stories of abduction, torture, forced marriages, rape, forced marches and escape who don’t smile. Words cannot describe, pictures cannot speak a thousand words.

The next camp in Pidibe held 41,000. A majority of the huts lacked their thatched roof due to a massive fire in February. Here we hear more stories and see more suffering, all the while passing through row upon row of houses covered in plastic tarps labeled ‘Unicef’.

The houses here are not homes.

Driving from camp to camp, complete with a military escort, we caught glimpses of life as it had once been. Crops, streets, fringed with people walking, carrying their means of finances on their heads. And homes. The homes of those in the camp dotted the plains, overgrown, empty, abandoned. The huts had not thatch, the brick houses slowly crumbled to piles. Some homes had been obviously burned, possibly the result of an LRA attack. Just one of many attacks that led to the IDP camps and the displacement of hundreds of thousands.

And yet, there is hope for the camps. While we were in Pidibe, several leaders within its churches were being trained at the FHI base so that they can return with the ability to recognize the signs of depression and psychological challenges faced by the girls who have given birth to the child of a rebel while in captivity. These girls will in turn get the counseling and life skills training they need. It’s hope. It’s a start. It’s something.

We returned to the Food for the Hungry (FHI) base to join the trainees in an African tradition of sorts. With a campfire blazing, we joined in music, dance, jumping, clapping, drumming and sweating before enjoying the cooked meat of a couple of goats we saw walking around the day before. Then, as the stars came out above us and lightning lit up the clouds far in the south, we enjoyed stories told, songs sung, skits performed and some traditional singing by the trainees of Pidibe, the Acholi people.

We then left to observe another Acholi tradition of a completely different sort – the night commuters. Kitgum plays nightly host to over 9,000 children. Children. Children who walk miles for the relative safety of a shelter, only to return home in the morning to carry out daily life. They are the night commuters. I asked Justin, a 17 year old boy who has spent the last 5 years walking every night back and forth, “What would make you happy?” His simple answer is all the Acholi people want.

“For there to be peace.”

These are some of the experiences…the feelings stay here.

Day 7

Currently: at the computer, day 9

Friday was our last day in Kitgum. We spent the morning with the trainees at FHI before being given an hour to process. To reflect. To answer the question: what is it that God would have me take from Kitgum. An hour later, it came down to a deeper question for me: Why do I need God? I returned to Kampala with that question in my mind, and there it still sits. I do know how to find the answer, though. That’s where the hard part comes in.

Day 8

Currently: in the sun, Hotel in Kampala: 5pm

It’s a lazy day here in Kampala…a day of rest. It’s kind of nice to have a day of nothingness. Doug, Macklin and Peter have gone white water rafting on the Nile while the rest of us stayed back at the hotel. So, three Setter’s games and one chess game later, here I sit with the sun beating down on my back. As much as this would have been my only chance to raft the rapids of the Nile River, I figure such an experience can be had anywhere. It’s not the rafting I think I am missing out on as much as seeing the Nile. Mind you, I’m not too keen on swallowing it after being thrown overboard in a whirlpool. I like lazy days.

Sometimes it feels like we’ve been here for months, sometimes for days. So much has happened since we’ve come to Uganda. So much seen, heard, felt, experienced. I wish we had more time in Kitgum. It feels like we only saw the tip of the iceberg. I feel like I’m just beginning to understand the magnitude of what is happening in Northern Uganda. As we flew back down to Kampala yesterday I couldn’t help but wonder if the houses we were flying over were abandoned…they’re owners huddled in a hut in an IDP camp, longing to return home. I would have liked to spend more time with the people there, to hear more stories, to ask more questions to…understand. Understand…I had to search for that word, but I still don’t think it’s what I mean. It’s more than that. I want more than to hear their stories. I want to care for them. It’s important to hear the stories, but I think that’s where I get the impression that it’s just the tip of the iceberg. It was too fast. Twelve people listening to the horror stories of a young girl does not seem like enough, and I think our whole team would agree.

Africa pt. 2

Day 4

Currently: in my room @ the guest house: 5pm

More touring today. We visited a number of churches today to get a glimpse of how the DNA conferences have impacted the mission of these churches in Kampala. This will be the same conference we go to next week. Amazing to hear how the churches have begun to impact their community simply by recognizing the mission God has placed on the churches. To them, it’s become more than just preaching, but living, caring, loving. I look forward to the conferences to get a glimpse of how Canada’s churches can be impacted in the same way. Touring has gotten easier to do, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because we’re in a van with tinted windows. Maybe it’s because it’s simply gotten easier. I’ve learned to wave and smile as we drive by and to enjoy being waved and smiled at in return. That uneasiness returns when it comes to photographing…I find that I need to take pictures discreetly as often as I can. If you’re in the right place, the instant you pull your camera out you will quickly find yourself surrounded by kids all eager to have their picture taken. And I feel a tinge of guilt as the shutter snaps. It’s a bit of an irony. I know part of the reason I am here is to see life as it is in another country…in the third world. In Uganda. But I don’t want to be seen by the people here as just that. I’ve seen enough pictures of smiling black African children. I don’t need to be taking them. So when us ‘whites’ pull into a parking lot and are quickly discovered by children, I feel a tinge of disgust when the cameras come out and kids are told to give a thumbs up so someone can get a perfect picture.

I want to know these children.

So as the pictures were being taken, I walked down the fence separating the parking lot from the street and sidewalk. It didn’t take long to be spotted by a young boy on the other side, and he walked over to me. Soon, he was joined by others. I love that Ugandans speak English. As an old, withered, crippled woman sat begging beside the street, I talked to these children. I find I have become indifferent to the reports I have heard abut the plight of children in Africa. I have heard over and over that they are orphans, and I found myself this morning wondering if what I hear is as true as they say, or if they are stories told simply to pull at heartstrings. I found myself this morning wanting to know the truth…to hear it for myself, not to hear it from a voiceover on an AIDS video or a sponsor-a-child commercial. And so it came to be today that I met David, and four of his friends on the street in Kampala. As perfect pictures were being taken further down the fence, I found out that David, who is 13 and his friends, who are 9-13 hold their hands out for food. I found out that they do not know their father. The nine year old girl is a true orphan…both parents dead. When I asked where they slept at night, they all pointed to a building across the street. But when the word they said didn’t connect with where I saw them pointing, I shifted my eyes from across the street to the middle of it. While two infants sat bare-bottom on the dusty street of Kampala, five feet away from who I imagine to be their sister waving her hand to passing cars, occasionally reaching out for a donation, I asked the kids, “Where do you sleep?” Turning around, with their fingers in the air they replied, “Roundabout”. And there, surrounded by swarms of cars and vans was their bed – a dirt and grass roundabout in the middle of the city.

“Do people in Canada live here?” asked the nine year old girl, pointing to the street.
“Yes, but they are usually much older – not many kids do.”
“If they do, they are picked up and taken away to live somewhere else?”
“Usually,” was my answer. Pause “What do you think of that?” I asked.
“I think people from there should come here and pick us up.”

It was a moment in which I couldn’t say anything…and I felt like I couldn’t do anything. And even now, I’m not sure what emotions I’m feeling. So, I removed my hand from David’s constant grasp…and waved goodbye.

Grabbing my camera from the van, I managed a picture of the infant on the street before being surrounded by smiling kids, thumbs in the air. Faking a shot, I returned to the van where the others joined, and we drove away. Whether in Canada or Kampala…life must go on. There is much more to see.

Day 5

Currently: at the computer: 7:30am

Been awake since 4:30. Obviously not the only one, as the moment I walked downstairs an hour later there was a Settler’s board set up and three of the team waiting for a fourth player. Perfect. Hm. Now, after yesterday…it’s weird to think that we sat at the table with our coffee, far removed from yesterday’s experience. Today is the day we head to Northern Uganda, to Kitgum. We will be visiting Internally-Displaced-Peoples Camps as well as missions set up for children who have escaped the Lord’s Resistance Army. Easy enough to type…not sure what it’ll really be like until we’re there. It’s gonna be a long, hard three days.

Africa pt. 1

Day 1

Currently: Flying over the Hudson Bay: 9:45 pm (BC Time)

Not quite sure what to think at this point. I’ve met five of our team: Dave, Macklin (an English chap), Jason (?), Jeff, and Doug (old roommate). Had some interesting conversations so far. It seems I am in the presence of greatness. Macklin has the highest respect for Dave, a ‘humble man, who truly deserves an award from Canada for the work he does’. I have been told straight out that this trip will change me…this in the midst of discussions on business, finances, and other matters beyond my depth of comprehension. The sun is just barely skirting the horizon in the deepest shade of red I have ever seen the sun in. As we soar atop the world, I suspect the sun may not even set before night falls in London. After a bit of thought and reflection on, among other things, a phone conversation with my brother…I’ve decided to focus on praying for three things during this trip: 1) Eyes to see what God wants me to see; 2) Ears to hear what God wants me to hear; 3) Wisdom to do what God wants me to do.

Day 2 or 3 (not sure)

Currently: About to land in Entebbe, Uganda: 7:00pm (BC Time), 5:00am Uganda Time.

It’s technically been 24 hours since this trip started, but I’ve lost 10 hours of my life with the time change. I’ll catch them on the way back to Canada. Our layover in London proved expensive. Doug and I took off to see the city, since neither of us had ever been. $150 Canadian later, we managed a train ride, a local beer from a local pub, complete with the best plate of nachos ever had by man, and a whirlwind walking tour of a small section of London – which included a stop at a park where the locals sunbathed in the thick grass like it was a beach. Between their expensive way of life and their peculiar habits, I may never understand the Brits.

Day 3

I’ve discovered it’s Monday, so that officially makes this Day 3.

Currently: in my room at a guest house in Kampala: 10:30am (Uganada Time)

I’m pretty sure the local rooster’s internal clock is as screwed up as mine, since it started it’s morning crowing at 10am. Our group is now up to 10, with the London addition of Peter, Paul, Marg and Robyn. And Jason’s name is now Simon. We drove for an hour and a half from the airport in Entebbe to the capital, Kampala. I felt like a rich, white tourist. The scenery is beautiful – the poverty obvious. Somehow I didn’t expect to see the shacks, the garbage, the dirty streams of water flowing between houses quite yet. Not so close to a capital city, at least. Mexico x100. By the time we were on the road, about 6:30am, there were tons of people out – standing, walking, scootering, biking, sweeping, selling. Many of the kids in school uniforms…a number of young men in military uniforms, some with a gun strapped to their back. And they all stared as we drove by, looking out the large windows of our bus – 10 white folk and 4 black. I felt like they looked at us as though we were on a tour of a zoo, safely protected from the animals in our ‘tour bus’. I hope that’s not what we are to them…but it was the sense I got as we drove by. Then again, maybe that’s what I am. We go on a tour this afternoon…I’d rather not go if that is how I am seen. I’d rather get to know the people, not drive past them. It’s nearing the end of the rainy season. Today’s rain just started.

Ontario.

Home. Is it? I'm not sure. Right now I'm sitting at a desk behind which I once sat at every Monday through Saturday for four years @ Pics Plus. It's the long weekend so I figured it would be safe to work one day and not have to worry about how to use these new machines. Work accomplished so far: 5 pages faxed; 64 pages photocopies; 1 price quote; 2 print jobs, 1 laminate. Phew. So far so good. All that with 8 customers. I don't much mind customer service. A chipper 'Good morning' seems to go a long way with some people. There's always the oddballs (the 'Katz's', the 'Red Baron's' and the 'Crazy Purse Lady's'), but they seem to be so few and far between that their purpose in being customers seems to be more that they can be talked about for years on end than for the pain in the butts that they are in the moment. It's funny. While stores come and go along this stretch of Grimsby's Main Street, it still seems that things stay the same here. Same faces, same stories, same music, same news. Maybe I've become somewhat accustomed to constant change. I go home to a new house, a change in job schedule, a change in life schedule...kinda been the way my life's been the past few years since my first jaunt to BC. Come September though, I'll jump into a regular rythmn. 40 hour work weeks, steady apartment, no school. A routine. Routine is what caused me to think about heading west in the first place and it seems that after 3 years I may have found a routine out there. Yeesh.

It'll be a challening routine though. The routine of youth work is to try not to get stuck in a routine with youth. Or they get bored. It's always gotta be exciting it seems...little do they realize that life isn't always exciting. Sometimes I think we're playing a trick on them. But how fun would it be to just do the mundane, ordinary life thing? Exactly. So we make them think that life should be one excitement after the next and hope that they come to grips with the ordinary later on in life. Man.

And then some routines never leave you. I turn the lamintor on in the same way...shut it down in the same way. I key in sales the way I've done for four years and collect change in the same order. And people still call for their ink cartridges. Routine is a part of life I guess.