Ugandan Trip Journal, April 28
Whew. Tired. Emotions. Feeling blessed. Feeling sad. Feeling the burdened for the hurting.
Flights went well, overall. We flew first to DC, where I got sick on the bumpy landing. Then from DC to Brussels, and then Brussels to Rwanda, and Rwanda to Uganda. We met the other two traveling families in Brussels, and had almost a couple of hours getting to know each other before boarding the plane. It's been such a blessing traveling with these two other couples, and having others to relate to who are undergoing the same swells of emotion. We flew the last three segments of our trip sitting behind an American woman moving to Uganda with her work for an NGO. She's lived in many parts of the world before; talking with her and seeing her carefree, flexible attitude toward world cultures was encouraging and enjoyable. From Brussels to Rwanda (eight + hours in the air), Scott and I finally got some much-needed rest... the kind where you just fall dead asleep, regardless of how kinked up your neck is from sleeping in the airplane seat.
And then, with nervous excitement, we three families disembarked, went so quickly and pleasantly through the visa process, and then waited for all of our luggage to arrive. By God's grace, all of our bags arrived in tact.
We moved towards the exit of the airport to find Rashid (the orphanage director) awaiting us with our children. Oh, the mix of emotions. I grabbed the camera as the other two families rushed for their children, knowing that they would probably like a few shots of their initial meeting. I am certain the photos were not ideal and that they truly did not capture the emotions, but at least there is a little record of the moment. And then Rashid looked up, and said, "W--'s family?" "Yes! That's us," we said as we rushed forward to our tiny waiting boy. I couldn't choke back the tears as I picked him up -- light as a feather -- and he clung to me. I'm sure he felt uncertain, overwhelmed, scared, but he let me love him, hold him as if my life depended on it. In that moment, it did.
I couldn't hold back the tears. My boy. The one I'd seen just a handful of pictures of since August. The one who God gave to us... chose for us... healed my back for, so that I could come to him. And as I finished those 36 hours of traveling -- SITing -- on the plane and then picking up my son without pain, I knew God had brought be to this place by His grace, by His miracle. And all those tears gushed in praise to my God, the One who gave these gifts... Who made it all possible.
We jammed our plethora of luggage, and ourselves, and our new children into Rashid's van, and headed through the darkened streets of Entebbe and Kampala to our guest house. Rashid gave us some instructions, we ate a very late dinner, and by 1:30 a.m., Scott and I headed for bed, with the knowledge that breakfast was at 7:30, so that we could leave for Rashid's church service at 8:15.
While Scott and I tried to make sense of our luggage, sweet little W-- lay in his bed, under his mosquito netting, trying restlessly, silently to get some sleep. How wrenching it is to watch a saddened child -- my saddened child -- knowing that I can't truly comfort him, because he does not yet trust me, and knowing that I am the reason for his sadness, him having been removed from everything he knew to come to me.
We slept well, awoke early to prepare for church. We breakfasted. Little W-- has been eating quite a lot; four servings for breakfast.
We bumped along the back roads for a hour and a half, blazing our way to Rashid's little congregation, and picking up a couple of his co-workers along the way. Rashid gave us a brief tour of the property, where the church, school, and farm reside. As Rashid explained, the offering is but a few dollars weekly, so he, as a pastor, must get creative for funding. That little property, with the school children helping, is growing coffee and green beans, and other crops to help pay for the expenses. Rashid's vision is to expand to a secondary school and health clinic, as well. What a sight, to behold a man with a vision for glorifying God in his community, with the passions God has bestowed upon him.
Melissa, one of the other adoptive moms, and I helped teach the Sunday school class for children. The sweet children stood while we talked, because there were not enough chairs, and the partially finished building has just mud floors. Twenty-plus kids, from ages three to twelve, the children waited patiently, listened attentively, answered questions kindly.
And I took a minute to tell them how they were part of my childhood dream to be in a classroom of African children, and how they blessed me.
I also got a few minutes to tell them of God's healing in my back, to bring me to that place where I could come to see them. How I long for Uganda to know the God who hears our prayers.
Oh, how many more things to pray for. Seeing them, their alive and alert eyes. Longing for God to bring them to salvation, use them as vessels for His glory.
Scott, too, was asked by Rashid to give a testimony with the whole congregation. He shared lovingly of God's healing in my back as part of our adoption journey. The congregants clap at each section where God gets the glory. What a poignant tradition.
And then for the wrenching... The part I wonder how to write about. How can words even describe, when my emotions do not fully comprehend?
We left that small, outdoor congregation that met among the shade of the coffee trees. And we went to where Rashid had told us we would go. To a "hospital", where one of the moms who gave her child to Rashid for adoption last year... was dying of AIDS. After bouncing around on back roads, and Rashid asking countless people for directions, we came to an unmarked shack.
Children played happily out front, smiling and waving to us. And there they were, just mere feet away... from immanent death.
Rashid took us inside. He spoke to M-- and the man keeping her company. This "hospital", more like a one-room clinic, with a few shelves of pathetic medical provisions was partitioned-off to squeeze a partial bed behind a screen. And there, in the stuffy, cramped room, we met the woman. Dying of AIDS. Dying from a disease that is now essentially curable in our country. She was probably just days from death's door.
And we greeted her.
What words do you use for a woman about to die?
And I was overwhelmed with knowing that only God could do something. This God who healed something as seemingly insignificant as my back pain could heal her, if He chose to. And oh, how I wanted to pray.
And then Rashid looked up, and said, "Who would like to pray for M--?"
"Pray? Oh, I would!" I heard myself answer.
I poured out my heart to sweet Jesus, resting my hand on M--'s foot, as Rashid translated, so that M-- could understand what was being plead on her behalf. "Oh, Jesus, we long that You would heal." And I went on. Then I was so choked by my tears, by desire for this woman's life, and I asked someone else to go on. Melissa's husband, Mike, stepped up to continue.
How weak my faith felt, as we walked away. I long for this woman's healing. Jesus can heal her, if He chooses. But was my faith strong enough to believe that He would?
We had another two hours struggling along in the back roads on the way back to the guest house for me to wrestle with that, praying again, for more faith. Praying for the woman I do not know, but who is now the symbol to me of the millions of people in Africa dying of AIDs.
For the rest of that trip, W-- patiently tried to teach me the names of animals and vehicles in Luganda. What a joy to our van full, as in one quiet moment, we heard him say so clearly, "Hey! A motorcar!" And as I tried to repeat his Luganda words, I think he realized I was trying to learn his language, and he became an attentive teacher. He taught me words for cow, goat, bicycle, motorcycle, car, horn... I surely don't remember them all, and I think I quite butcher them, but for now, he's learning that I'm willing.. and that I'm trying.
We had moments of sheer joy with him, as he came to us with arms up so willingly, laughing with us every time the guest house cow moos. But we had moments of sheer sadness, as we'd play with him, and he'd suddenly stop to realize we were not his comfort, his familiarity. And he would break down in choked sobs, trying so hard not to cry, but feeling such desperation to feel at home. He's press his little palms upon his eyes, trying to force away the tears.
Bed time was the same, as well, with him seeing his bed as the complete representation of all that was cold and unfamiliar. He did, at last, fall asleep in my arms twice, but only after the forcing away of gut-wrenching tears.
And so here I write, my tired husband sleeping on one side, my newest son, sleeping across the room. God has blessed us beyond measure. I've seen His hand so lovingly upon our journey thus far. I look forward to resting in His peace as I pray for M-- as I drift off to sleep. Oh, that You would heal her, Lord.
Flights went well, overall. We flew first to DC, where I got sick on the bumpy landing. Then from DC to Brussels, and then Brussels to Rwanda, and Rwanda to Uganda. We met the other two traveling families in Brussels, and had almost a couple of hours getting to know each other before boarding the plane. It's been such a blessing traveling with these two other couples, and having others to relate to who are undergoing the same swells of emotion. We flew the last three segments of our trip sitting behind an American woman moving to Uganda with her work for an NGO. She's lived in many parts of the world before; talking with her and seeing her carefree, flexible attitude toward world cultures was encouraging and enjoyable. From Brussels to Rwanda (eight + hours in the air), Scott and I finally got some much-needed rest... the kind where you just fall dead asleep, regardless of how kinked up your neck is from sleeping in the airplane seat.
And then, with nervous excitement, we three families disembarked, went so quickly and pleasantly through the visa process, and then waited for all of our luggage to arrive. By God's grace, all of our bags arrived in tact.
We moved towards the exit of the airport to find Rashid (the orphanage director) awaiting us with our children. Oh, the mix of emotions. I grabbed the camera as the other two families rushed for their children, knowing that they would probably like a few shots of their initial meeting. I am certain the photos were not ideal and that they truly did not capture the emotions, but at least there is a little record of the moment. And then Rashid looked up, and said, "W--'s family?" "Yes! That's us," we said as we rushed forward to our tiny waiting boy. I couldn't choke back the tears as I picked him up -- light as a feather -- and he clung to me. I'm sure he felt uncertain, overwhelmed, scared, but he let me love him, hold him as if my life depended on it. In that moment, it did.
I couldn't hold back the tears. My boy. The one I'd seen just a handful of pictures of since August. The one who God gave to us... chose for us... healed my back for, so that I could come to him. And as I finished those 36 hours of traveling -- SITing -- on the plane and then picking up my son without pain, I knew God had brought be to this place by His grace, by His miracle. And all those tears gushed in praise to my God, the One who gave these gifts... Who made it all possible.
We jammed our plethora of luggage, and ourselves, and our new children into Rashid's van, and headed through the darkened streets of Entebbe and Kampala to our guest house. Rashid gave us some instructions, we ate a very late dinner, and by 1:30 a.m., Scott and I headed for bed, with the knowledge that breakfast was at 7:30, so that we could leave for Rashid's church service at 8:15.
While Scott and I tried to make sense of our luggage, sweet little W-- lay in his bed, under his mosquito netting, trying restlessly, silently to get some sleep. How wrenching it is to watch a saddened child -- my saddened child -- knowing that I can't truly comfort him, because he does not yet trust me, and knowing that I am the reason for his sadness, him having been removed from everything he knew to come to me.
We slept well, awoke early to prepare for church. We breakfasted. Little W-- has been eating quite a lot; four servings for breakfast.
We bumped along the back roads for a hour and a half, blazing our way to Rashid's little congregation, and picking up a couple of his co-workers along the way. Rashid gave us a brief tour of the property, where the church, school, and farm reside. As Rashid explained, the offering is but a few dollars weekly, so he, as a pastor, must get creative for funding. That little property, with the school children helping, is growing coffee and green beans, and other crops to help pay for the expenses. Rashid's vision is to expand to a secondary school and health clinic, as well. What a sight, to behold a man with a vision for glorifying God in his community, with the passions God has bestowed upon him.
Melissa, one of the other adoptive moms, and I helped teach the Sunday school class for children. The sweet children stood while we talked, because there were not enough chairs, and the partially finished building has just mud floors. Twenty-plus kids, from ages three to twelve, the children waited patiently, listened attentively, answered questions kindly.
And I took a minute to tell them how they were part of my childhood dream to be in a classroom of African children, and how they blessed me.
I also got a few minutes to tell them of God's healing in my back, to bring me to that place where I could come to see them. How I long for Uganda to know the God who hears our prayers.
Oh, how many more things to pray for. Seeing them, their alive and alert eyes. Longing for God to bring them to salvation, use them as vessels for His glory.
Scott, too, was asked by Rashid to give a testimony with the whole congregation. He shared lovingly of God's healing in my back as part of our adoption journey. The congregants clap at each section where God gets the glory. What a poignant tradition.
And then for the wrenching... The part I wonder how to write about. How can words even describe, when my emotions do not fully comprehend?
We left that small, outdoor congregation that met among the shade of the coffee trees. And we went to where Rashid had told us we would go. To a "hospital", where one of the moms who gave her child to Rashid for adoption last year... was dying of AIDS. After bouncing around on back roads, and Rashid asking countless people for directions, we came to an unmarked shack.
Children played happily out front, smiling and waving to us. And there they were, just mere feet away... from immanent death.
Rashid took us inside. He spoke to M-- and the man keeping her company. This "hospital", more like a one-room clinic, with a few shelves of pathetic medical provisions was partitioned-off to squeeze a partial bed behind a screen. And there, in the stuffy, cramped room, we met the woman. Dying of AIDS. Dying from a disease that is now essentially curable in our country. She was probably just days from death's door.
And we greeted her.
What words do you use for a woman about to die?
And I was overwhelmed with knowing that only God could do something. This God who healed something as seemingly insignificant as my back pain could heal her, if He chose to. And oh, how I wanted to pray.
And then Rashid looked up, and said, "Who would like to pray for M--?"
"Pray? Oh, I would!" I heard myself answer.
I poured out my heart to sweet Jesus, resting my hand on M--'s foot, as Rashid translated, so that M-- could understand what was being plead on her behalf. "Oh, Jesus, we long that You would heal." And I went on. Then I was so choked by my tears, by desire for this woman's life, and I asked someone else to go on. Melissa's husband, Mike, stepped up to continue.
How weak my faith felt, as we walked away. I long for this woman's healing. Jesus can heal her, if He chooses. But was my faith strong enough to believe that He would?
We had another two hours struggling along in the back roads on the way back to the guest house for me to wrestle with that, praying again, for more faith. Praying for the woman I do not know, but who is now the symbol to me of the millions of people in Africa dying of AIDs.
For the rest of that trip, W-- patiently tried to teach me the names of animals and vehicles in Luganda. What a joy to our van full, as in one quiet moment, we heard him say so clearly, "Hey! A motorcar!" And as I tried to repeat his Luganda words, I think he realized I was trying to learn his language, and he became an attentive teacher. He taught me words for cow, goat, bicycle, motorcycle, car, horn... I surely don't remember them all, and I think I quite butcher them, but for now, he's learning that I'm willing.. and that I'm trying.
We had moments of sheer joy with him, as he came to us with arms up so willingly, laughing with us every time the guest house cow moos. But we had moments of sheer sadness, as we'd play with him, and he'd suddenly stop to realize we were not his comfort, his familiarity. And he would break down in choked sobs, trying so hard not to cry, but feeling such desperation to feel at home. He's press his little palms upon his eyes, trying to force away the tears.
Bed time was the same, as well, with him seeing his bed as the complete representation of all that was cold and unfamiliar. He did, at last, fall asleep in my arms twice, but only after the forcing away of gut-wrenching tears.
And so here I write, my tired husband sleeping on one side, my newest son, sleeping across the room. God has blessed us beyond measure. I've seen His hand so lovingly upon our journey thus far. I look forward to resting in His peace as I pray for M-- as I drift off to sleep. Oh, that You would heal her, Lord.
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