Uganda #6: A short summary

We live in a world of contrasts, don’t we? You’ve got to hand it to the world; it’s definitely diverse. Have you ever thought about the variety of foods we can eat, or languages we can learn, or places we can live in, or songs we can sing? In this world, the lucky people can have a chance to experience so many different things. Maybe you don’t consider yourself lucky. My definition of ‘lucky’ or ‘blessed’ keeps getting messed with by God. Have you had a meal today? How about more than one (or will you have more than one by the end of it)? If you’re reading this you must have Internet access. Have you ever gotten to choose from a host of restaurants to eat at? When’s the last time you remember saying something like, “I just had that last week” or “That doesn’t sound good to me” or “I’m tired of eating that”? Was it within the last week? Month? There are so many simple things that I think we all take for granted. I do the same thing, even though I live in a poor town surrounded by suffering people who I can’t just brush aside.

Twenty-four hours ago I was still staying in my host sister Deborah’s room (think reaaallly tiny apartment with no bathroom) in Kampala, waiting to make my plane for Europe. Just yesterday I was bathing with cold water out of a basin in a concrete cut-out bathroom with no door. Just yesterday I hand washed the bedsheets I had used at Deborah’s, her towel and a few other things. It took me over an hour, then most of the afternoon for everything to dry. Just yesterday Deborah helped me make my way through the dirty, noisy streets of Kampala, dragging my suitcase behind her and telling me to watch out and carry my backpack in the front as robbery there is a big issue (I had my phone stolen right out of my pocket the other day – more on that story later). Just yesterday I was living the life of an African woman; nothing about my life was different than any of the other ladies in surrounding houses, except maybe that Deborah had insisted on cooking my food for me. And this afternoon, just a day later, as I type this I am sitting in Gatwick airport in London, waiting to catch a plane to Vienna. I just had my first chai latte in four months. Yes, it was good, and yes, I missed it, but should I have spent the $4.50 on it? That could have bought some things for my African family. It could have bought a lot of charcoal for cooking many meals, or a few days’ worth of meat for my family.

I don’t know if I can live in Western culture again. It would be REALLY difficult. I’m not saying I would tell God no if He asked me to move back, whether it be to the US or Europe or wherever. But I know how easily I can spoil myself and let myself spend unnecessary money and how quickly I can forget about the millions, probably billions of others around the world who will never get to experience any of what I’ve gotten to. I know it’s possible to be a Christian and to live in a materialistic, selfish world and be unmaterialistic and selfless. With God’s grace, I’ve seen it done. I myself haven’t done a fantastic job of it. I think God knew this and maybe thought it would be wiser to just throw me into a totally foreign culture that would force me to be grateful for what I’ve had handed to me in my life and give me a healthy dose of reality.

I wish I could adequately explain to you what God has been doing in me the past four months. I wish I could visibly show you the lines I’ve acquired on my face from all the laughing I’ve done, or show you the way my heart has molded to be more like these people’s, or the way I’ve fallen in love with a community. How can I describe to you the sunsets I’ve seen as I’m riding home on a boda or the star-filled skies I’ve gazed at in awe? How can I explain to you how it feels to be able to greet people in their own language, or to be welcomed in their village like I’m one of them, or be so loved by my neighbor’s baby daughter that she squeals with delight when she sees me?

I’ve only left yesterday but as a huge part of my heart stayed there, it’s hurting pretty badly right now. As much as I’m looking forward to spending time with Rhea, my brother, and Holly, this ache that reminds me of the family I left in Uganda will not disappear, and I will be anxiously counting the days until I can see them again. It feels wrong, it feels strange to be so far away from them, to only be able to hear their voices over a shaky Skype connection every so often. When I left Tororo a few days ago, my host mom said (translated by my sister into English for me, of course) that I should not see going to Europe as that I’m leaving Uganda, but that I’m going on a short trip and I will be returning home when I go back to Uganda. The concept she emphasized is that I’m coming back HOME. It has been months now since I’ve stopped referring to or thinking of the US as home, and begun thinking of Uganda as home. When explaining to people where I was going, I would say, “And I will be home at the end of July.”

When did my time in Uganda cease being a mission trip or something I was doing to help people or some sort of exotic adventure, and when did it become me simply living amongst a people as I slowly took on their characteristics? When did this stop being something I signed up for, and when did it become something that has wrapped its loving arms around my heart?

Maybe it happened sometime in between boarding a plane and creating a friendship. Maybe it happened sometime in between paying my family rent and washing my brother’s clothes. Maybe it happened sometime in between watching a culture from a distance and then eventually having everyone, including me, forgetting that I’m white.

I can’t tell you the way I want to how my time here has impacted me. I cannot explain why I am more comfortable squatting in a pit latrine (think outhouse) than I am with the automatic toilets in this London airport. The flip flops I’m currently wearing have dirt caked on them from the last time I wore them in Uganda. I don’t want to wash them. I don’t want to wash the dirt out of my shoes any more than I want to wash my African family’s love from my memory.

The night before I left, we all sat in a circle after dinner and Bishop, my host dad, asked everyone to say something to me before I went. Some of the boys were shy, some were eloquent, some were funny. What mama had to say made me tear up. What Bishop had to say made me thankful and undeserving and humbled me beyond belief. I sat there wondering what I had done to deserve being made so welcome in a stranger’s home. The beautiful thing about being children of God is that we’re all in the same family. From Amsterdam or Anaheim, from New York or Nairobi, we are all the same under the banner of God’s love. And living with these amazing people for the past four months has given me such a clear view of that. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

I promised you I’d tell you the stolen phone story. Deb and I were walking through downtown Kampala a few days ago picking up some things for dinner. All I had in my pocket was my cell phone; Deb was carrying the rest of my things in her purse. I didn’t even think to be worried about thieves; call it naïve with a dash of ignorance, sprinkled with defiance. Anyway, Deb was holding my hand while we were walking, and out of nowhere two men walked straight at us, making me let go of Deborah’s hand. The way they came at us was completely obvious and certainly not an accident. But before I could do anything, one of the men had put his hand in my pocket and taken my cell phone. A second later I realized it and told Deb. She immediately turned to the man (who because of the crowds hadn’t managed to run off yet) and said, “You give us back that phone!” and the man kind of gave her the look a small child would give if he’d been caught, and promptly gave her back the phone! Can you believe it? I didn’t know what to think! But I thought, it’s typical of God to let something ridiculous and wonderful like that happen. Fred and I started counting and we witnessed like 10 miracles the day we travelled between Tororo and Kampala. We had walked the dirt road between my house and the main road and finally were going to catch a boda to take us into town. Then who comes driving up but a family friend who goes to Fred’s church, who gave us a ride into town. When we were on the road, we saw two very bad accidents involving semis and they could have easily either involved us or affected our travel time, of which neither happened. I lost track of everything God provided and did that day but, by the end of the day we were at 10. It was pretty fantastic.

I think I’ve decided to finally write a short blog for once (I know I know, some of you are very excited!) but I want to touch on one more subject before I conclude. Some of you are already aware of this and some have no idea. Well, Cathi Geisler is in her first relationship. What? Yes. Crazy! I know. I am dating Fred, who is my host family’s nephew and someone I’ve mentioned a few times in my writings. The whole story is long and involved but suffice it to say we started dating at the end of May and things are good and in full swing now. Half the time I don’t understand why he’s wanting to pursue me or why he wants to stick around but I am learning to accept that it is true and really enjoy our relationship. Everything is new still but for those who I’ve talked to you know that the cultural view (and by extension Fred’s view) of relationships and marriage is quite different than the Western view. I met what was basically Fred’s entire family about a week and a half ago and as far as they’re concerned, I’m Fred’s future wife. Could I be, though? Honestly, yes. It is very possible. I have said for a long time that I would love to marry the first person I date. I have never seen the point in kissing a bunch of frogs… ie having a series of relationships and the only end result is that you “grew from it” or “learned what you didn’t want in a spouse”. I’m not saying those can’t be good side benefits from relationships that just didn’t work out, but… I have never wanted that or seen the need for it. I’ve prayed for a while that if God could allow my first relationship to be my only one, I would find that beautiful and wonderful and it would certainly save me from a lot of drama and heartbreak (which we find in life anyway). So, I think all I will add is please pray for us. There is of course different kinds of pressure from people, and a host of differences between our cultures, and smaller things like some languages barriers or different perceptions of things. But God is good, and He is bigger than me and bigger than Fred and He can truly do whatever He wants with us. But I will tell you I am pretty deliriously happy most of the time, and Fred is an incredible man. I have in the past dreamed of marrying an African man, I just never truly saw it as a viable option. My God is creative.

I love you all and thanks for keeping up with me. Catch you next time! :)