Christmas Angels

July 15  …  I am still in America, hoping to go back to Uganda the second week of August. I know that almost as soon as I return, we should begin preparations for our second Christmas cantata. Last year, we put on Noah’s Ark’s first ever cantata, a show called Mary Remembers presenting the Christmas story through song, dance, and drama. Though we had no idea how it would go and what to expect from the community, more than 5,000 people ended up coming and it was a greater success than we could have imagined. Last time, we started planning sometime in October, and things felt rushed toward the end. To avoid that, I expect a meeting shortly after I return. 

August 11  …  I return to Uganda. 

September 4  …  Someone mentions something about a cantata. It is decided that a second cantata will in fact happen this year. Someone else mentions that we should have a meeting as soon as possible. 

October 3  …  We hold a large meeting to discuss what went well from last year and what should be changed. The most persistent request from all children: Actors should be fed special food and should also get a gift. We take a moment to remind them that the reason we do the cantata is to share the Christmas message with community members. A few of them may have even heard what we said. Maybe. 

October 5  …  Four of us from last year’s leadership team meet to discuss the ideas expressed at the last meeting and see where to go from there. It is decided that the performance will be shorter this year, fully in Luganda (the local language), and have more singing and dancing and less talking to cater more to the high population of children we are expecting. I land the role of director again. I can’t recall if I volunteered for it. We are given three scripts to read to see if any might be appropriate for this show. This year there will be eight shows (last year we planned three and did four) over the course of four days to try and accommodate the 5,000 people we are expecting. 

October 12  …  The four of us meet again and choose a script. (I had not read any. I’m off to a good start.) The only roles that need filled are Mary and Joseph, so an audition date is set. A second director is chosen, which is good because as a director who doesn’t speak the language of the performance, I turned out to be rather useless in some areas. We choose our four angels, the only speaking parts, and they all accept. Things seem to be going rather well. 

October 23  …  Not a single person shows up to Mary and Joseph auditions. It is raining—barely—so we can pretend that is why. We hand pick the people we want. 

October 24  …  Auntie Tina tells me about an idea she has for an interpretive-ish-style dance involving the shepherds and wise men. It sounds like a neat idea to include them in a unique way. When she mentions that she’ll need someone to help her choreograph and train dancers because she doesn’t know very much, I list a few names who might be helpful. By the end of the meeting, somehow I have agreed to help her. Oops. 

October 31  …  After having ten children and teenagers in the ballet last year and many more who said they wanted to be involved, I have high hopes for my ballet auditions… until two eleven-year-old boys show up. That in itself is not the problem—the problem is that they are the only two who show up. The modern/freestyle/interpretive/hip-hop/something-or-other audition is a bit better (this dance will hereafter be called the modern dance). However, instead of lots of teenagers, we get eight pre-teen boys who are enthusiastic about learning hip-hop and nothing else. It is not exactly what we were hoping for, but at least they are interested. Meanwhile, I go on a search for last year’s ballerinas to try and talk them into performing again. Twelve people say yes! 

November 4  …  We hold our first rehearsal with the angels, and they are fantastic! We had provided them with English scripts, and they had translated it into Luganda in their own time. They spend most of the rehearsal reading through portions of scenes again and again, trying out different words and phrases to see which translation best encapsulates the original meaning behind the text. For the next month, we hold weekly lunch rehearsals. Even this is a sacrifice for them because three of them are teachers who have few resting moments throughout the day. I decide then and there to purchase a cow for each of them as a thank you when the cantata is finished. 

November 7  …  Three boys show up to the first modern dance rehearsal. 

November 8  …  Five ballerinas show up to the first ballet rehearsal. 

November 9  …  Tina informs me she has taken another job in Mbarara and will be moving to eastern Uganda in a couple of weeks. She claims she can still come back for rehearsals on the weekends to lead her dance. The claim turns out to be forty-six percent true. 

November 14  …  Six boys come to modern dance rehearsal. It turns out pre-teen boys can be kind of fun to teach. Awkward in motion, but fun. Seven girls (half of them different from last time) come late for ballet. I teach them as many basic moves as I can, and we have a good time. Things are looking up! 

November 15  …  All of my ballerinas show up late, so I ask them to devise a plan for coming on time next week. Jefta comes up with the winner: “At 2:30, before rehearsal, we will move around and find all the dancers and come as one big group on time.” It sounds good to me. “And for Sunday?” I ask. “We will meet at church,” says Leah. “No one will leave church and then we can come to the hut together to practice.” It seems as if next week will go better. 

November 21  …  Not a single ballerina shows up for rehearsal. 

November 22  …  Not a single ballerina waits for me after church. By the time I finish clearing chairs, they are all gone. The first one shows up to rehearsal at the hut twenty minutes later, slowly followed by five others. I give them a short lecture about keeping commitments and then fire them all and cancel the ballet. There is simply not enough time left for people to be so flippant about their responsibilities. 

November 23  …  I begin to regret canceling the ballet. Also that day, the music director, choir director and I have a meeting because we just realized the cantata is three weeks away and we have no choir. Better late than never, right? Especially considering the choir has four songs in the script. We post flyers with rehearsal times for the next two weeks and wait to see what happens. 

November 24  …  One item I am particularly excited about is the song Mary Did You Know?, sung by one of our teenagers as Gabriel and acted out by Mary and Joseph. Unfortunately, Gabriel is unable to come to our first rehearsal tonight. 

November 27  …  After approaching Brenda, one of last year’s ballerinas, about doing a dance with just the two of us, she agrees and we begin practicing the following day. She is a pleasure to work with—she listens, she practices on her own when I have to step aside for a minute, and she is willing to rehearse even more often than I think necessary. What a change! 

November 28  …  Gabriel misses another rehearsal. We are beginning to doubt his commitment. 

December 7  …  After Gabriel misses his fourth rehearsal (and the dress rehearsal is days away), the other director offers to play the part. He has a singing voice that surprises us all! He is a bit hesitant to volunteer, but also seems pleased in such a way that it seems he wanted to but was waiting for someone else to suggest it first. Hooray for multitalented uncles!

December 8  …  Tomorrow is the first rehearsal with the whole cast. 

“I’m scared for tomorrow,” I tell Zadock, the other director. He laughs. 

“Yeah, it will be interesting,” he says.

“They’re not ready. No one is ready.” 

He laughs again. 

“Well,” I say, “I guess something will happen tomorrow.” 

December 9  …  The rehearsal goes surprisingly well, meaning all the main characters show up only marginally late, thirty percent of the set and props are in place, and by the end of the day my voice is not shot from yelling. 

December 11  …  The dress rehearsal goes even better! Shoot, they say that’s a bad thing…

December 15  …  Performance number one! And two! It is remarkable to see the difference in children between practicing in jeans in front of an empty church and performing in costume in front of hundreds of people. They don't understand the eternal magnitude of what we are trying to do, but they know this is special, and for now that is enough. 

The show this year is entitled Christmas Angels because the story is told from the perspective of two angels in heaven discussing God’s perplexing choice to go to earth as a human to be with the people he loves. Our main characters sit atop a platform three meters in the air in the back of the church, while the singing and dancing takes place onstage in the front. 

After the opening song by a group of primary school children, Gabriel enters singing Mary Did You Know? while he, Mary, and Joseph act out the divine message and how the parents-to-be handle the news. By the end of the song, Mary is very pregnant with a cute little balloon baby stuffed under her costume. 

The choir moves the story along with several songs scattered throughout the performance, half in English and half in Luganda. During the ballet, Mary and Joseph travel to Bethlehem and settle down in the stable. 

It is during the traditional Maganda dance that the balloon baby is scooped out (as one Mary described her method of discretely giving birth onstage) and replaced by baby Jesus in the manger. The spirited dance is the perfect celebration of such an event.

In a lovely rendition of Silent Night, the choir brings the good news to the shepherds, after which the shepherds, wise men, and a widow honor Jesus through the modern dance. (Those boys and girl do such a great job!) 

The angels wrap up their lively dialogue, the choir sings their final song, and the gospel message is given in brief by the preacher of the day. After the performance, the audience is ushered out of the church and back to the compound gate, where every child receives an Operation Christmas Child shoebox before returning home. 

And then we do it all again…

December 16  …  Two more performances. 

December 17  …  Breathe…

December 18  …  Two more performances. 

December 19  …  Two more performances. As I prepare for the last one, our baby Jesus doll is nowhere to be found. There are a few dozen performers and workers in the church already, so I call out, “Has anyone seen Jesus?” My question is met with confused looks and blank stares until I realize the lack of context. “Sorry, I mean Jesus the doll… the baby who is supposed to be onstage… have you seen him?” We find a new doll just in time. The other has yet to be found. Who has two thumbs and manages to lose Jesus at Christmastime? This director.

There is talk of adding more performances the following week because somehow we forgot to invite our closest neighbors, the people living in the village of Nsambwe just outside the walls of the compound. (I cry a bit at the suggestion.) Instead, we pack the church today. After the last performance, I count 1,278 people walking out, but that does not include those who left early or managed to sneak out a side door. 

And. We. Are. Finished.

In the course of four days and eight shows, more than 8,000 people from the surrounding communities came to hear and see the Christmas message as told by our children, aunties and uncles. Well, that may be a bit misleading. I am sure many of them came to receive a shoebox. In the process, however, they were exposed to the greatest story ever told and our prayer is that seeds have been planted. In all likelihood we will probably never see the fruit of what God does through the cantata, but if we have a Father who loves us enough to send His only Son to dirty, messed-up earth—not just to live, but to die—then I think we can trust that we have a Father who loves these communities and these people enough to make sure His Word does not go unheard.

p.s. If any of you would like the chance to be a part of what God is doing here, feel free to come plan next year’s cantata! To avoid last-minute-ness, we will begin rehearsals in January… :)

p.p.s. If you want to watch a short video overview of the show, click right… here.

p.p.p.s. Like the photos? Credit goes to Christian Berkman. 

Scars

I used to play a game where I would try to find the largest scar on my body. Of course, the answer never changed much because for all the times I fell down and all the times I scraped my arms and legs and face on a tree branch and all the times my knees swelled and my hands bled from volleyball, my injuries were typically minor and no scars remained. For some time, my largest scar was a small circle on my right (or was it left?) ankle from sliding into home in a softball game. After I graduated high school, I gained a more pronounced scar on my finger when I sliced my finger on the deli slicer while cleaning it at work. It wasn’t a good story, but the centimeter-long scar was visible enough that I was proud of it. 

A few days ago, I absentmindedly began to play that game again. I halfheartedly inspected my right arm, then examined my finger to see if the deli scar was still there. It was. Using that as a reference, I began looking over my body and trying to remember if anything significant had happened lately that might have led to a game-worthy scar. 

If I had looked at my left arm sooner, the game would have been much shorter. My left arm is a scar. When I realized that, I felt like a bit of an idiot for playing the game. My largest scar now goes from my left shoulder to the tips of my fingers. It is a reference point if ever there was one. 

Before I was discharged from Harborview, a psychologist talked to me about some of the effects of my injury and how I would handle them once I was out of the medical setting. 

“You are aware that you look different now,” she said. “It is not uncommon for people to stare or ask questions, whether or not they seem appropriate. You cannot control what other people do.”

“Yes, I realize that,” I said, thinking of my flights from Uganda to Seattle when my face was still swollen and my arms had thick bandages and gauze covered my chest. Fortunately, I was unable to put in my contacts so I could not see the stares I received. 

“What about children?” she asked then. “They might say things without thinking. Do you think you can handle their comments?”

I laughed. When I came to Noah’s Ark for the second time last July, the most common greeting I heard after the usual welcome was, “Ah, Auntie Katie, you have grown fat!” I became used to shrugging off potentially offensive words from both children and adults. They might not always make me happy, but children are children and I can’t help but love them anyway. 

Since returning to Uganda (which happened on July 9th), I have been pleasantly surprised at the children’s reactions to my new scars. When we arrived at the compound and I first stepped out of the bus, nearly one hundred people surrounded me but didn’t get close enough to touch me. They were hesitant. Many were scared—both of how I looked and of hurting me if they did touch me. In time, they became more comfortable. That is usually a good thing, until someone tries to wrestle me and grabs my shoulder or throws a cardboard book at my chest. 

To help them become more comfortable with me again (and perhaps because I am lazy and did not want to do this myself), I enlisted the children as my right-hand nurses (literally—they only help with my right arm and hand). Part of my therapy is to do scar massages. Most of my scars are raising as they heal, and apparently that is not a good thing. It is common, but not good. To prevent that, I am wearing a compression sleeve on my left arm and hand. On the rest of the scars, however, I have to do it manually by massaging the edges with my fingertips. It is supposed to be done on every scar for ten seconds every hour, which, when you look at how many scars I have, adds up to a LOT of time every day. Because the spots on my right arm do not pain, I taught the children how to press them and now they do my scar massages on that arm as often as they can. They press their fingertips into the red spots and slowly move them around while they count to whatever number seems appropriate at the time (usually somewhere between ten and fifty). When they remove their fingers, the pressure will have caused my scar to blanch, which elicits cries of, “Auntie Katie! See, your scars are removing!” Of course, they become red in a matter of seconds, but the moments of white are enough to keep the children working on it. 

In general, I would have to say ninety-five percent of the comments I have received are compliments and encouragement. As my nephew so nicely pointed out, since my accident more people have told me I look good than at any other point in my life. Now that I have been back in Uganda long enough for people to see improvement, almost daily I get a child, auntie or uncle telling me how different I look and how my scars are disappearing. If it were not for them, I would not be so convinced of my healing. One day ten-year-old Jonah spent some time standing next to me gazing at my face until he said in awe, “Auntie Katie, you are healing so fast!”

Even the young children who do not fully understand the reason for my scars are curious. Yesterday after school I was sitting outside the library when four-year-old Martha walked by. “Auntie Katie,” she said, “What burned you?”

“Fire from cooking,” I said. 

She changed direction and walked toward me. When she reached the step upon which I was sitting, she put her hands on her knees so we could see eye-to-eye and, enraptured, said, “Tell me the whole story.”

All scars tell a story. Sometimes it is as mundane as slicing your finger at the deli and sometimes it is as exciting as a freak accident with a dragon sneeze, but whatever the story, scars serve as that reminder. 

My scars remind me that God is good. 

That may seem like a strange reminder considering the circumstances of my accident, but there are dozens of reasons God’s goodness is the first thing to come to mind at the sight of them:

No oil entered my eyes. When I was in the ambulance on the way to International Hospital Kampala after I was burned, I spent the entire ride thanking God that I could still see what was around me. 

No children were in my house at the time. Gladys had left only minutes before. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened if one of those precious young ones had been near me when the oil caught fire. 

I was able to get medical attention at Noah’s Ark, in Kampala, and in Seattle. Combined, they did the best job possible. 

He blessed me with Ugandan and American nurses who not only cared for me physically, but emotionally too. They made me laugh. They told me stories. They checked in on me even when it was not medically necessary. With them, I knew I was in good hands. 

While in America, I was able to see all three of my sisters. This does not sound impressive until you know that I was in Washington, one sister lives in Oregon, one sister lives in Washington but was busy fighting wildland fires in that dry summer we just had, and the third sister lives in Virginia. And I got to see and hug them all!

By coming back to America for some time, I was able to connect with friends, family, and even strangers and share stories of the children here and the mission of Noah’s Ark. My roommates in the hospital probably got tired of hearing about children they had never met and sitting through videos and photos people sent me. I couldn’t help it. 

Since being in America, God has provided more financial support through friends and family, which is a bigger blessing than I can say. 

Because of insurance, I am able to remain in Uganda. For awhile I thought I would have to stay in America and get a job to pay off hospital bills. That prospect broke my heart. I rejoice in my new opportunity to be here. 

While in America, I desperately wanted to be back in Uganda. (My parents, sisters, friends, and even nurses and doctors can attest to that.) Though it was not fun to be away, and not for a good reason, missing the children and the work here affirmed in my heart that this is where God wants me right now. While at Harborview, some family and I were talking about our dream jobs. When it came to my turn, I shook my head and said, “I’m doing it.” It doesn’t look how I expected and not every day is perfect, but every day I laugh, every day I am loved, and as long as I don’t forget to look, every day I can see God working around me. Sometimes we have to go away to be sure this is where we want to be. 

Going away also gave me the opportunity to come back, and I had quite the welcome home when I returned to Noahs’ Ark! The children had shaded posters that were hung on my door and inside my house. They had drawn pictures that still hang from my ceiling. Thanks to my neighbors and friends, my house was cleaner than it has been in months (both in my presence and absence). On top of all that, they wrote a song about having their auntie back and some of the children sang it to me as I got out of the bus in front of my house. It was a special occasion. 

I could say more, but I think that gives you at least a glimpse into God’s goodness through all this. I would be lying if I told you I never looked at my scars and thought about what a stupid mistake I made. They are not always a reminder of the good. But God does not make mistakes, and He does work things out for the good of those who believe in Him and who are called according to His purposes. I made a mistake, and He is making much good. So. Much. Good.

Still a lot of healing to go, but compared to four months ago
at least my face is a normal size and shape again. :)

Some people see scars, and it is wounding they remember. To me they are proof of the fact that there is healing. 

-Linda Hogan

The Dragon and the Church

There was this dragon, and he was big. Big and green. And there was this friend of mine who dared me to stick a feather up the dragon’s nose. Not being one to shy away from a dare, I accepted. I got a feather. A big feather. When you are dealing with a big dragon, you must have a big feather. I crept up to the dragon and slowly, carefully extended the feather toward his nose… and then inside.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. When the feather was nearly forty-six percent of the way in, the dragon sneezed. Now, when you or I sneeze, things come out of our noses no matter how much we pretend we are always clean and cannot be associated with filth such as snot, boogers, Fruit Loops or whatever else we may have up our noses. When a dragon sneezes, however, it is much worse than snot, boogers, or Fruit Loops. Dragons sneeze fire, and this one was no exception. He sneezed fire… and he sneezed it right on me.

I am quite tall, so the fire did not affect the bottom half of my body, but my arms, chest, and face were instantly scorched. What does one do when one has been scorched by a dragon sneeze? The only logical thing, of course. I sneezed on him. You may think I look a mess, but seriously, you should see the dragon. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that I won that dare.

Some people have been circulating an alternative story that seems to revolve around onion rings. In that story, so I’ve heard, I was deep-frying onion rings in my kitchen when the oil caught fire. I made a series of poor panicked choices in which I tried to move the flaming pot, only to trip and fall and pour hot, flaming oil on the top half of my body (as well as on my verandah, my curtain, some books, a guitar, and my floor).

Believe what you will. Either way, here is what I looked like two or three days after the incident:

In a matter of seconds, I had more people trying to care for me than were helpful. They showered me with cold water for nearly half an hour, during which I regretfully evaluated my arms, which were blistering in a way I had never before seen. The left side of my face stung and I felt as if my left eyelid had grown flabby and was drooping over my eye, making it difficult to see. After the shower, I forced myself to look in the mirror. It appeared as if someone had melted the left side of my face. I prayed that somehow, in whatever way possible, it would not look like that for the rest of my life.

The medical staff at Noah’s Ark gave me some initial pain medication and hooked me up to an IV to get fluid in me, and then we hopped—gingerly, of course—into the ambulance and made our way to International Hospital Kampala. There they evaluated, cleaned, and bandaged my wounds as best they could. From their approximation, twenty-five percent of my body was burnt and the worst ones were second degree. The doctor wanted to admit me to the hospital, but we convinced him that the doctors and nurses at Noah’s Ark could provide adequate care and I could come back to the hospital the next day. That night, I went home. My left eye was swollen so badly I could no longer see out of it, but the rest of my body only stung as if I had gotten a bad sunburn.

I saw a lot of the Noah’s Ark nurses over the next few days, which was fantastic because they are a joy to be around and I usually don’t have any reason to spend much time with them. I went back to the hospital two more times after that, and it was not until two or three days after the incident that someone mentioned going back to America for treatment.

My initial reaction was to say no, that the burns were not bad enough to need to go halfway around the world when there was already a hospital in Kampala who could care for me. However, after some thought I decided that when all was said and done, I would want to know I had done everything I possibly could to have a full recovery, and it was clear that the care I could get in America surpassed that which I could get in Uganda. Within twenty-four hours, I was on a plane for Seattle.

My parents met me at the airport and we immediately drove to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, which I later discovered has the second best burn unit in the country. I explained the dragon incident to the workers in the emergency room, and they gave me a bed and nurses looked and interrogated and poked and prodded and did other things nurses tend to do. (Side note: If you ever plan on getting burnt, try to avoid your arms. You will need an IV at some point and the easiest places to put them are all in your arms and hands. If they cannot use your arms, they will resort to less comfortable places like feet, legs, or in my case, your neck.) It came as a bit of a shock when, six hours later, they informed me I would be going to the ICU that night. To get off a commercial flight five days after the incident and then get admitted to the ICU made it all seem like a much bigger deal.

Fortunately, I only had to spend one night in the ICU before they transferred me to the regular burn and plastics floor. For the next three weeks, my daily routine looked something like this: The nurses woke me up in the morning with a small plethora of medications for pain and pooping. Midmorning was wound care, when they removed all my bandages, cleaned everything and peeled off any dead skin, and then bandaged me up again. This was by far the most painful part of the day. Try peeling off the outer layers of skin on your arm, then having someone hold a washcloth around your arm and not-so-gently slide it from your shoulder to your wrist. Multiple times. Every day. The rest of the day I hung out with my mom and any other family who was there. We mostly walked around the eighth floor (the only place I was allowed) while I stretched.

I loved going to the gym and working on the arm bike and the pulleys. Because scar tissue tends to contract and tighten everything around it, I was instructed to stretch anything that felt tight—which was everything. Every waking moment was (and is) spent stretching my arms, chest, and face so as things heal the scars do not inhibit my range of motion.

In the evenings, we watched movies in the lounge-ish areas to get out of the room. My family and I are a bit loud, so in order to not disturb my roommates we had to find other places to watch… and talk… and dance.

Thriller... ish. 

My mom and I created a game where we go back and forth and have to list good things about what has happened to me. The first and biggest one was that I have been able to spend time with family whom I have not seen in a year. So far, I have seen my parents, two out of three sisters, two aunts, one uncle, one cousin, and several friends. Talk about a good support group. I had been hoping to come back for a visit sometime soon anyway, so in a way it worked out perfectly.

Crazily, we had some really good times in the hospital. I never expected it to be so fun! The nursing staff was fantastic—one of my nurses even crocheted me a headband for my birthday to cover the front of my head they shaved in the ICU. One afternoon, my dad and I spent two hours playing with one of the greatest toys ever invented: flickin’ chickens. We had races, made games with point systems, and hid behind walls and flicked them at the nurses at their stations. This was all before we got them stuck to the ceiling. Even the custodian made my day every time he cleaned my room, with his huge smile and Ethiopian accent. I could not have asked for better care.

Nurse Jeff, one of my regulars.

Dr. Mandell flickin' a chicken at me during wound rounds.

While some of the burned areas were healing nicely, some stalled out, so on June 12^th I had skin graft surgery on my left arm, which they determined were all third degree burns. They basically took a cheese slicer to my left thigh and used a special tape to attach the strips of skin to the top of my left arm and hand. The surgery went very well, but I would not recommend it to anyone—waking up still intubated is not a fun ordeal. I had to stay in bed for the next two days, which is the longest I have ever stayed in bed in my life. I was hooked up to one nerve block in my neck to numb my arm (which worked a little bit) and one on my hip to numb my thigh (which worked for a day or two), plus a normal IV with a button so I could give myself morphine every six minutes as needed. That part was kind of fun. But not too much fun, so don’t worry.

The donor site after ten days of healing.

Three days after surgery I stood up for the first time and gingerly began walking again. I went a little farther everyday. The donor site was much more painful than the graft site, which would have been surprising had they not told me that several times before the surgery. We went back to normal wound care and gym routines for the next week and my arm slowly began looking less like Frankenstein’s monster and more like… well, a more evenly toned Frankenstein’s monster. 

My arm before surgery. I know it is my arm, but this picture makes me want to throw up a little.

The graft a few days after surgery.

My arm yesterday. I won't go so far as to say it looks pretty, but compared to what it was... wow!

My mom snuck me outside three times in the course of the three weeks, and my therapist got me cleared for one therapeutic outing, where we went outside to get fresh air for about twenty minutes. Then, on June 22^nd, they set me free!

Therapeutic outing with my physical therapist, Sarah! This was the closest I could come to a jumping shot.

Now my parents and I do my wound care from home in Morton. Fortunately, there is less and less to do everyday. Unfortunately, healing burns are quite painful, but I can see my skin improving, which is encouraging. The full healing process will take up to a year or year-and-a-half. For the next year, I will wear a compression sleeve and glove on my left arm and hand to keep the scars from rising, and I will continue stretching to make sure I maintain full range of motion. After a year, the scars will have matured and I will have nothing else to worry about. I expect to spend another three or four weeks in the US before returning to Uganda. It is wonderful to be home, but I am itching to get back to the children there!

This is what therapy looks like at home. It stretches my wrist and fingers.

Since the dragon incident, I have had numerous people tell me they cannot believe my positive attitude, how well I am handling all this, and other such niceties and amazed compliments. The truth is, none of that would be possible—and I am convinced the healing would not be going half as well—if it were not for the hundreds (yes, hundreds) of people I know who are praying for me throughout it all. Of course, there are the usual prayer suspects: my church at Noah’s Ark, my church in Morton, friends and family. On top of that, however, I have had a handful of people telling me their churches are praying for me, and I have no idea which churches are theirs. I have gotten cards and emails from people I had to ask my parents about because I didn’t recognize the names. I had visits in the hospital from people I have not seen since college graduation.

The one that blows my mind the most, however, is even bigger than that. On Sunday, my aunt informed me that she shared my story with a friend of hers from Cambodia. I have met him once when he was in the US, but he and I are no more than once-met acquaintances. He works in a YWAM base in Cambodia and since he found out about the burn, he and his team have been praying for a full and miraculous recovery… one in which I am fully healed, aside from one scar to serve as a reminder of what happened.

To be lifted up in prayer by people in Washington, Nevada, Iowa, Wisconsin, Uganda, New Zealand, Cambodia, and wherever else these prayer warriors are… it brings me to tears thinking about it. That, my friends, is the church: people from all over the globe joined together for one mission and one purpose. We are temporarily joined by my accident, but the mission that unites us more permanently is much greater than this. What I see right now is only a small taste of what we are called to do every day of our lives, and let me tell you, it is beautiful.

The circumstances may be awful and awfully painful, but I am convinced I have never been more blessed. 

Happiness Is

You know when you get a song stuck in your head, and how it can be quite annoying even if it is a song you normally like?

 Imagine this for a moment: You get a song stuck in your head that you already find irritating (the song, not your head) and it will. Not. Go. Away.

And imagine this: As a joke, someone tells a group of sweet little girls to sing you that song, so for a while they follow you around and drive you up the wall.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Imagine walking down the hallway in a school and, like a motion sensor as you pass, each classroom begins a chorus of said song the moment they see you through the window, so you get four renditions in a row while all you wanted to do was deliver a paper to a teacher.

Then imagine going home thinking only, “I have got to get this song out of my head.” You put on some new music given to you by someone you thought was a friend, but a minute into the song it changes to something entirely different… yes of course they would splice the irritating song into the middle of one you had never before heard. There is no getting away from it.

Imagine children waking you up by singing it on your veranda in the morning… and in the afternoon… and in the evening before bed.

You just imagined my last three weeks. The abridged, mild version, that is.

Ironically, the song I find so aggravating is entitled “Happiness Is.” Fitting, right? The message is decent:

Happiness is to know the Savior

Living a life within His favor

Having a change in my behavior

Happiness is the Lord

Real joy is mine

No matter if teardrops start

I’ve found the secret

It’s Jesus in my heart

That is the first verse and chorus. There are two more verses, but I will not subject you to more corny lyrics.

Okay, truthfully, I am not willing to type them.

This song does not make me happy. It makes me want to rip out my hair and use it to plug my ears so I no longer have to hear the all-too-cheerful tune. That may sound extreme, but if it had been running through your head for three weeks you would have had your fair share of meltdowns by this point too. I guarantee it. Even the word “happy” makes me exasperated. Oh, irony.

That song does not make me happy. There is no question or doubt in anyone’s mind about that. However, in having such a song go through my head in recent weeks, it is enough to make one consider what does make me happy.

I tell you? (A question with which most children here begin their stories, regardless of whether you answer positively or negatively. So I am going to tell you whether you want me to or not.)

Happiness is sitting on my veranda in the early hours of morning, talking with God and watching the sun rise over the forested hill across the valley. I have been here nearly a year and I still rush outside at the first glimpse of orange through my window.

Happiness is going “swimming” with the nursery school children during the holiday program. For one, when you tell them they get to go swimming, they jump up and down and scream and tell all their friends. Who doesn’t want to make four-year-olds do that? And then there is the actual swimming, which in reality is a square-shaped slip-n-slide where we pour shampoo and spray water and everyone slides around on their stomachs for an hour. The squeals of delight would cheer up Scrooge, I swear.

Happiness is watching the children pass my house on their way to school every morning. Being greeted by a dozen enthusiastic “Auntie Katie!”s is not such a bad way to start a day. I love that they still do it.

 Happiness is my dear friend Ruth becoming a boarding student here at Noah’s Ark. We are no longer limited to minutes after school and hours on Saturday afternoons—we live in the same place!

 Happiness is every Sunday when the church leader announces time for testimonies and thirty children literally run from their seats to the stage to tell the rest of us what God has been doing in their lives in the past week and for what they are thankful. Granted, half of them praise God that tomorrow is school or tomorrow is Monday, but hey, how many of us adults ever consider thanking God for Mondays?

Happiness is sorting books on a Saturday afternoon while Angel and Benja cuddle up on my bed—Angel to read, Benja to sleep. I don’t think my house has ever been so calm with children inside.

 Happiness is walking outside at night, glancing up, and then stopping dead in my tracks because the stars have rendered me speechless once again. Like the sunrise, this is a nearly daily occurrence, but they never cease to amaze me. If God can imagine and create something so awe-inspiring, how much more awesome must He be!

Happiness is watching Mariska worship in church. That nine-year-old girl stands in the space between the congregation and the stage, eyes fixed on the worship team and mimicking their every word and action. She sings and dances in the almost-graceful, innocent way only a child can do.

 Happiness is a library set up and ready to go for the beginning of Term Two of school. (Don’t get too excited—this is still the primary library. The secondary one for which I have been collecting books is still some time in the making.)

Happiness is knowing that in less than a month my mom and aunt are going to be here in Uganda with me. Less than a month. Here in Uganda. My family. The only appropriate word seems to be “booyah!” but at the same time it does not seem fitting at all. Might I remind everyone that I am an English major and am clearly putting that education to good use.

Happiness is spending a Saturday afternoon building a blanket/sheet/sleeping bag/curtain fort in my living room and squeezing fifteen children underneath to read books.

Happiness is the weekly missionary game night on Sundays. Phase Ten, Catan, Telephone Pictionary, Spot It, it doesn’t matter—the laughter, I tell you.

Happiness is knowing that at this point in my life, I am where God wants me to be. No, I do not do things perfectly and I miss the mark much of the time, but I now feel closer to the center of His will than I have in… perhaps ever. I miss home and I long for heaven, but I really, truly want to be here and am happy God has given me this opportunity.

For the record, I did not mean to type the word “happy” there. Somehow in the process of writing this blog I had forgotten the song, and now with that one word it is back in full force. I won’t type the words that are going through my head (they are not the words to the song). 

Is anyone happy? Let him sing songs of praise. (James 5:13)

Just not that song.