It's All Relative

This is why when someone asks if I know so-and-so in Africa, the answer is probably no. The map comes from a fascinating blog on visualizing data called information is beautiful.

Bananas

The Asian market has plantains on sale, nice juicy ripe ones. I bought 2 the other day and grilled them. One of the kids and I ate them both before anyone else got a taste.

Back to the market to buy a dozen of the giant cooking bananas. That was yesterday.

We ate them all.

6 went on the grill. The rest went in the fryer to go with eggplant sauce and potatoes for dinner. All went in our tummies.

What is it about food? Plantains were a staple for us during our years in Africa. I don't think I've cooked them since, but as soon as I started cooking with these, the kids started telling me stories of memories they have from Africa. The smell, the taste, the texture ... I'm not sure what it was, but those bananas awakened a long dormant piece of our family. It's fun to let the memories flow.

Strangers in a Strange Land

Can you imagine being displaced from your home, being driven from the land and the country and the family you love to a new country? Angelique doesn't have to imagine it--she's living it. Far from the people she loves, in a country where no one speaks her language, she can't even find the ingredients to cook the foods she loves and has to settle for the blander fare of Uganda.

She and I made an instant connection the first time I visited her home, both of us thrilled to find we shared a language and were able to speak and pray together in French. Both of us strangers in a strange land who found a connection in our foreign-ness. At church the next day, when the whole congregation split into groups to pray together, she was left sitting in middle of the room, alone. Edwin nudged me to go pray with her, so I did again.

The topic of prayer was "what has God done in your life to show you his goodness?" A tough question for her, I thought, since I already knew part of her story, about her health problems that kept her in the hospital for months and about how her daughter that came to care for her died on Christmas Day.

She didn't hesitate, though, to share the goodness of God. "He's healed me," she said. "Before, I was so sick, needing care and medicine all the time. Now, it is like I am healed. I can take care of my family again."

We spent a day with her and, as we left, she hugged me and begged me not to come back and see her, perhaps to move to the Congo and work with her, planting seeds for God's kingdom and--above all--to not forget her.

Don't worry, Angelique, I won't forget.

He Did Not Meet My Expectations

On the news this week, they announced a program in which Congo residents can trade in a contraband weapon for $50. The problem?--They can turn around and buy another one on the black market for $25. So foreign aid agencies can fund the war with a 2 for 1 special.

With stories like this one, or stories about how ebola and AIDS were born in the jungles on the Congo (formerly Zaire) and spread along its trade routes, you can see why I harbored some pre-conceived ideas about what people from that vast country might be like. Not that I knew I held these prejudices (I honestly don't think much about the Congo in my daily life) until I met someone from there who blew away any idea of what that country and its people must be like.

Meet Kibi.

He lives with his wife and family in western Uganda. He's a refugee, a history professor, and one of the best Bible teachers I've ever met. His wisdom comes from study--sure--but more so from his collection of difficult life experiences. Not that he brought it up or dwelt on it, but Kibi and his family have been displaced from their home. They had to leave their house, their possessions, their jobs, their family.

They gave up everything they had for a chance at safety.

Three times.

He's had to fight for legal status in Uganda so he could get a job and, now that he has one, the school does not pay him what they owe. He keeps working, hoping they will eventually straighten out their finances and give him his back pay. But he's philosophical about it. At least he's got an employment record for the future if the money never pans out.

You'd think that kind of life would make you bitter, or drive you to despair. With Kibi, though, I got the sense that it made him stronger in his faith, that it gives him a constant reminder or where home really is. I watched his affection and patience toward his 4-year old grandson who he will raise as his own since the boy's mother died. Her last wish to her father was that he would teach the child to know Jesus just as he had taught her. I don't think I've ever seen another man in Africa treat a child so tenderly.

God doesn't look at the outside of a man, but at his heart. If God ever hosted a beauty contest, I have a feeling this humble man from the Congo would be a contender.

Radio Silence

We taxied up to Fort Portal, Uganda, on Friday - a definite African experience, but we arrived none the worse for wear. Internet here is slow and the house we're at doesn't have wireless, so I don't plan to blog again until we return the the States.

Watch for a new post on Saturday. Meanwhile, pray for the work in Fort Portal.

Death and Life

Yesterday we visited two of the hundreds of genocide memorials that dot the Rwandan countryside. It was a necessary part of our visit here to help us understand and remember what people went through, what people did to strangers and neighbors.

Both sites we visited were Catholic churches. In the years leading up to the events of 1994, there was a series of attacks. At that time, people would flee for refuge in churches and find haven there. In April of '94, the strategy was to wait for people to gather in churches and slaughter them there. The first site we visited was a grave for 6000, the second for 5000. I found myself taking pictures of the horror, using the camera as a buffer between myself and the pain.

NEVER AGAIN read the sign outside one of the buildings. That is our hope, but it already happening again... in the Sudan and in other places around the world.

On our return to Kigali, we were greeted with happy news. On this same day that we chose to remember so many deaths, a new life was just beginning. Cy Shelby, 6 lbs even, is the newest member of the team of missionaries working in Kigali.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, new life springs up in the place of death. And hope for a better future is born.

Heart of the City

The center of African life is the marketplace. Whether an outdoor market with piles of beans and vegetables and fruit, like this one, or the big new supermarkets like Naccumat, people meet and interact where commerce takes place.

At the market, I was once again surprised by the difference between the people of Rwanda and those of Togo. For the most part, I was allowed to wander through the market, looking, smelling, even taking pictures without being disturbed.

Down in the tourist end of the market, vendors beckoned, but didn't press. No one shoved carvings in my face or begged me not to steal food from their children's mouths by refusing to buy from them.

Long tables stacked with food, piles of banana stalks, floor-to-ceiling booths of household goods - the market scene can't be too different from what Jesus encountered in the temple courtyard. He lashed out in anger for he saw the hearts of men and the ways they had turned away from true worship. I wonder what he sees when he looks into the hearts of people here... or (for that matter) into my heart.

First Impressions

The city of Kigali is set on a series of hills which divert both traffic and rainclouds in confusing patterns from here to there. Main roads are wide and nice, cobbled roads are serviceable and neighborhood roads remind me that this is still Africa. Rutted red dirt paths wreak havoc on shock absorbers, if you’re lucky enough to have any.

Rain fell yesterday, a light lazy day rain in early afternoon that pattered against the corrugated tin roof next door… a heavier cloudburst in the later afternoon that sent us racing for the car and made the school kids smell like a tumbling litter of wet puppies. Today's rain didn't waste time on sprinkling. We had to shout to make ourselves heard under the metal roof of the ATN (Africa Transformation Network).

We spent the morning at the ATN office where Louise co-teaches a quilting class. They are in the beginning stages of imagining and planning how to best transfer skills to the ladies who come that will add value to the skills they already have. In other words, the class is supposed to give them a new, more readily marketable skill. In this case, they’re teaching quilting in the hopes that the ladies will be able to make a sell quilts. The ideal would be to create a market among Rwandans and not depend on tourist money, but they’re not there yet.

Between Two Worlds

Amsterdam's snow is left behind and the African sky stretches ahead. Even suspended at 35,000 feet above Ethiopia, with the dry landscape shrouded under a blanket of clouds, I wonder at the sunset, a thin strip of orange that deepens to red then blue then black. The first stars appear and then, the Southern Cross.

Waves of emotion wash over me as I realize this trip is real. My sandals will soon tread through the red soil of a continent that is as much a part of me as the blood in my veins.

When I step off the plane into the jetway at the Nairobi airport, I am greeted by the faint smells of human sweat and duty free liquor. I pull my roller bag through the narrow arced corridor, purposely slowing my steps to match those around me. No one is in a hurry here.

I wait for my flight, letting the sounds of a dozen languages wash past me. My ears perk up at the music of language that could be English, but isn't. It's not important for me to understand, though. They're not speaking to me.

No one knows me here.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...

Excited? Yes.

Nervous? A little.

Ready? You betcha.

The hardest part about leaving? I'll miss my kids.

But I'll be back, full of stories and hope and experiences and dreams for God's people around the world.

Check back every few days for updates and photos.

Oh, Garbage!

I'm amazed at the attention garbage gets in this country. And I'm amazed at how much of it we produce each week.

In Africa, we ended up with perhaps a barrel full of garbage a year, less in a year than what we now produce in a week. There, food scraps went to the neighbors, the dog, or the compost heap (in that order). Tin cans, cardboard boxes and plastic containers were coveted items. I'd collect a stack of them on my porch knowing that sooner or later someone would come and carry them away. For a while, we buried our chicken bones. That was until we realized that our African friends could get a whole 'nother meal off the bones and skins and scraps we left behind.

Here, no one wants my chicken bones. Or my yogurt cups. Or my cereal boxes. I've tried reducing how much we use, but the system here is designed to produce waste. I take my own bags to the grocery store, but I still come home with all kinds of foods wrapped in plastic or mesh or cardboard. Even fresh produce has to go in a plastic bag to keep it safe from the other produce. You never know where that avocado has been, you know.

I wonder if we produce more garbage in America because a big truck comes to haul it away each week. After all, if we had to pile our trash in the street for everyone to see or bury it in our yard, I bet we'd be a lot more careful about how we shopped.

From the Pages of History

How often do you get a chance to sit at the feet of someone who made history? Someone who is actually part of a chapter in your history textbook? We're not hoity toity cultural snobs, but when we heard Desmond Tutu was coming to town, we bought our tickets to see him right away.

Desmond Tutu changed the face of Africa.

Our first visit to Africa was to Johannesburg, South Africa, a place torn by the injustices of Apartheid. We were given the privilege of staying in the homes of three families - one English, one Afrikaans, and one coloured. I couldn't tell you the names of the white families we stayed with, though they were kind and hospitable. But the Africas (yes, that was their name), made us feel like family in their home in a coloured township. I think we were the first whites to ever stay there, or at least it felt that way as people watched us walk down the street. We drove through the streets of Soweto and saw the fields where blacks were "necklaced" with burning tires. We saw the hospital not far away where great advances in organ transplants were taking place... for whites. Meanwhile, our host spent over a week in the sparse ward of an under-equipped hospital waiting for someone to see him about a kidney problem.

So, to sit and listen to Desmond Tutu, a man who worked to end Apartheid, whose work on the Truth and Reconciliation Council in newly integrated South Africa helped that country seek forgiveness above retribution, was indeed a privilege.

And beyond being a privilege, it was a pleasure. Despite all his honorary degrees, his Nobel Peace Prize, his endless list of accomplishments, Archbishop Tutu has a terrific sense of humor and an ability to connect with a crowd. I'll cherry pick a little to keep the pearls of wisdom I agree with and leave the rest, but on the whole the evening was enlightening, interesting and fun! The highlight, for me, was hearing him pray the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, first in English, then in an African tongue (I'm guessing was Xhosa because of the clicks), before he led us in a chorus of Amens.

The Prayer of St. Francis
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not
so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

Forgiveness above retribution. Peace over war. Truth. Amnesty. Love for each other. Amen.

Where are the Chickens?

We're having fufu for dinner. I found a hairy taro root that, though it's purply on the inside, tastes remarkably similar to the yams of West Africa.

Problem is, when I peeled off the hairy skin, I realized that there are no chickens wandering around underfoot in my kitchen. Nary a one.

I never thought about chickens when I bought the taro. Or when I set it on the shelf. Or when I sliced it in chunks. But when I peeled off that first piece of skin, my automatic reaction was to toss the peelings on the floor. For the imaginary birds.

Old habits die hard. Even dormant habits.

Another Look

You know how there are things you drive by all the time without really seeing them?

There's a place on the sidewalk between my house and the mall that I've driven past a thousand times. It's a little platform with something sticking up from it and something fluttery wrapped around it, like a tattered flag.

Without ever putting words to it, I've always assumed it was a little voodoo shrine. That's not completely illogical considering I used to live in a place with shrines everywhere you looked, enough that I eventually looked past them as they became part of the larger landscape.

But this is suburbia. In America.

This week, I walked past that spot on the sidewalk for the first time and was surprised to see it was not a shrine at all, but a broken utility pole with warning tape wrapped around it.

Another piece put in the puzzle of what my surroundings look like. Another piece of the African me lost.

I Miss the Rains Down in Africa

I lay awake last night listening to the thunderstorm, the first night storm in over a year.

I miss the rains down in Africa - the boiling clouds overhead, the hope of relief from the heat, the crack of thunder and the drumbeat of rain hitting the hard, red clay.

Last night, I was homesick.

Front Lines

Soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Missionaries in Guatemala and Uganda, Turkey and Togo, Irian Jaya and Italy.

Fighters on the front lines for our country and our kingdom.

But the ones on my heart today are those working in embassies around the world. I've got to admit, when we lived overseas, I thought embassy workers were a little spoiled with their food allowances, their trips home, their fancy houses. That was before they became a target.

My first awareness of their risk started when the Tanzania embassy was bombed. Other incidents through the years served as little reminders.

Last night I came undone. I kept the news on to see what was happening in Kenya. It breaks my heart to see people lashing out at each in other with machetes in Eldoret, the town that made me fall in love with Africa. I cringe at the comparisons being made to the genocide in Rwanda. Oh please, God, no. Not again. Not the Luo. Not the Kikuyu. I'm praying fervently but with little hope against the protests being called.

Following the Kenya story came a one line report, a tag-on, about a U.S. official being killed in the Sudan. U.S. official sounds so... official, so out of the realm of where I spend my days... so political. Only it wasn't. This official worked for USAID, the agency that spends its time trying to help undeveloped countries deal with the problems of AIDS, of disparity, of malaria.

It's the same agency that took one of my very dear friends to Africa where she sits wondering if her husband is in danger because of his job with USAID.

Now it's personal. More personal than the news about the shooting 2 miles from my house. More personal than the hit-and-run accident a couple miles south of me.

May God protect my friend and her children, her husband, his colleagues. May He stir the heart of Africa with a calm that soothes the anger, with a peace that passes explanation and understanding.

Like Yesterday

I remember those painful good-byes, those "we're off to deep dark Africa and we don't know if we'll ever see you again" moments with our families.

14 years ago this month we pulled out of Vancouver with our little yellow Subaru loaded with boxes, our heads loaded with plans, and our hearts loaded with all the apprehension and excitement we could fathom.

Yesterday Andrew and Aimee Martin boarded a plane with the same hopes and fears and faith, off to change the lives of people on the other side of the continent I love so much.

There were so many things I wanted to say.

• It feels like forever, but it's not. You'll see your family again in the blink of an eye. There's nothing like a grand child to help get loved ones to visit.
• If things don't all work out according to plan, it's okay. There's no such thing as failure as long as you place yourself in God's will.
• Culture shock may be the worst thing you ever experience, but just remind yourself that craziness is the norm and you'll make it through.
• Jeff and Cheryl are going to be a blessing to you... and they'll be blessed by you.
• Learn the language. It will give you window into hearts.
• Take Anaiah out. She'll be an instant conversation starter.

Oh, and there's so much more. But part of the adventure is in the discovery. I love you and a huge part of me wishes I was on the plane with you right now.

Travesty

I had a teacher in France, Madame Weille, who would have fainted at the thought of throwing out a piece of bread. Every morsel, every crumb of each baguette was used either as pain perdu (French toast) or as bird food. "Jamais," she would say, "Never throw bread away. It would disrespect our memory of the war, when our bread kept us alive."

I smiled inwardly at her passion over bread. I knew then, as I do now, that throwing away a piece of bread or a bowl of rice or a half-eaten serving of salad does not really affect the soldiers of WWII or the starving children of India, China or Africa.

Still, when I made too much Akume (Ugali, cornmeal mush) tonight, I could not throw it away. If I have to eat it for breakfast, fry it into chips and introduce it to my dog, it will all get eaten. Because really, when it comes down to it, I am tied to the hungry people of Africa. I can see their faces as I eat their food.

And to throw away their sustenance would disrespect their memory. It might not affect them, but it affects me.

War Memorial

Adam Langford, missionary to Uganda, died in a car accident along with his friend and co-worker Moses Kimezi yesterday.

I didn't know Adam, though his sponsoring church was not far from here. But I can picture his life in Jinja, his work with The Source Cafe, an Internet cafe and coffee shop that serves as gathering place, fund raiser and development prototype. I can picture his last trip in a lorry across the pitted asphalt and red dirt roads of Mount Elgon.

For those of you who know Adam, Ben and Kym, my deepest sympathies and my most sincere prayers. To you in Fort Portal, Mbale, Mbarara, Jinja and Kampala and elsewhere in East Africa, to friends and family in Oklahoma and Portland, may God bring comfort, peace and eventual understanding.

In the war we wage, the battle that is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers of this dark world, it seems there are so many casualties lately. Adam, Cyndi, Nancy, and Cathy, all left their comfortable American homes only to lose their lives on the African roads. But that's from our perspective. In fact, I wonder if they are casualties at all.

I read a book years ago about a missionary in South America who was kidnapped and later murdered. Rather than leaving a hole in the work in that place, his story spurred dozens of new recruits to volunteer to replace him. A loss on this side of the curtain between life and death may bring many surprises. I don't believe that God caused this accident, but I do know that he can use it for good ir ways that we can not yet imagine.

God bless you, Adam and Moses. May your sacrifice and suffering reap great rewards.

Solutions are wonderful. Cures are amazing. Answers are great. But in this broken world, I am beginning to believe we need more people who are willing to enter into the suffering of others whether they can help or not. I want to choose to suffering for the sake of others. I am not always sure how to do that or what it looks like, but most days I wake up and can’t think of anything else to do. Uganda has problems, I pray that God will solve them, but until He does I will also pray for the strength to suffer.
- Adam Langford, November 2006

*For more news about Adam and Moses and the needs of the church and teams in Uganda, click here.