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. 

Going Home Stupid

As the P.3s were exiting the library and lining up to return to class, I saw the push. The tallest girl in line violently shoved the girl next to her, sending her hurtling toward, and nearly colliding headfirst into, the wall. Having just failed in my attempt to discipline another student, I was not about to let this go unnoticed.

“Excuse me!” I said angrily, storming over to her as best I could between children and shoes. “Why did you push your friend?”

She looked ahead in line, avoiding my stare and clearly uncomfortable with the confrontation. “Why did you do it?” I asked more gently this time, curiosity beginning to nudge out the anger. She remained silent.

“Teacher Loyce, is it okay if I keep her in the library for a few minutes?” I asked. Loyce nodded and I beckoned for the girl to follow me inside, which she did reluctantly. We sat on the mat, me facing her and she facing the books, still avoiding eye contact.

“I need you to tell me,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you push her?”

She stared at the books. My pent up anger had ebbed enough that I no longer wanted to slap her, but several hot tears fell from my eyes in exasperation. We sat silently for more than a minute. Eventually, I hoped, she would have to talk, because I didn’t know what I would do if she refused and this escalated into something bigger and unnecessary. As I began racking my brain for other ways to handle it, she mumbled something. “What?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

She paused for a moment, then, barely moving her lips, said, “She was passing me in line and abused me.” I could have guessed that. However, it was only half an answer and I was curious.

“How did she abuse you?” Silence again. I waited about twenty seconds, but then a surge of anger and impatience welled up. I moved so I was seated directly in front of her and, fighting back tears, said in a shaking but forceful voice, “You have to talk to me if we are going to sort this out. How did she abuse you?”

Still not meeting my gaze, she finally opened her mouth. “She said I was going to go home stupid.”

Now, honestly, the children use the word stupid quite a lot, most often when referring to another person. It always bothers me and I reprimand them, but this was different. Perhaps it was the fact that she could not meet my gaze, or that she seemed more closed off than angry. Her frown and body language suggested that at least in part, she believed it.

There was no containing my angry tears at that point, but instead of being angry with her, my heart had shattered. How could children be so cruel?

I took a deep, unsteady breath. “What is your name?”

“Faith.”

“Faith, look at me.” She did. “You are not stupid.” Another deep breath. “You are not stupid, Faith… Do you believe that?” She nodded, only a slight movement but an affirmation nonetheless.

“Do you like school?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you try hard in school?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.” That meant she was a good two years older than most of her classmates. Whether she started late for financial reasons or has been kept back I do not know, and I did not ask.

“Your friend should not have said that, Faith, but no matter what people say, you need to know it is not true. You need to believe it is not true. You need to believe in yourself. I guarantee—I guarantee—Teacher Loyce believes in you and that you can learn; otherwise she would not bother teaching you. And I know you can learn. But most importantly, you need to believe it for yourself. You cannot listen to people who put you down or say you are not good enough. For the rest of your life, if anyone abuses you or calls you stupid you need to remember the truth in your own heart. If you keep coming to school and working hard, you will make sure you do not go home stupid.”

I commented on pushing people not being the best way to handle things, then let he go back to class. How much of what I said she picked, I do not know, but I can hope. All I could do for the next few minutes was to sit with my head between my knees and my hands clutching my hair and let my tears fall onto the straw mat. If this starts in P.3, where does it end?

At the beginning of last year, a mother brought her son, Boaz, to Piet to see if he could join the vocational program without the secondary school portion. He had attended primary somewhere else but failed his Primary Leaving Examination the year before. She told Piet her son was stupid. With Boaz sitting right next to her, she told someone her son was stupid.

If your own mother thinks that and makes it known, what would keep you from believing it?

I worked with Boaz on reading and English for four months last year when he repeated P.7 here at Noah’s Ark. I suspect he has ADHD or something similar because his main problem was in concentration, not understanding. It was slow work, but I saw some progress. Oh, how I wanted him to pass the PLE, to be able to show his mother what he could do!

About a month before the exam, his performance took a downturn. He stopped doing homework and was more aloof than usual during class. He lost every piece of paper I gave him. I talked with him a few times, tried to motivate him by telling him of the progress I had seen. I told him he was not stupid and asked how it would feel to show his mother PLE results with passing marks this year after what she had said. He would improve for a day or two, but not consistently.

I think at that point he knew he was not going to pass, but wanted to do it on his own terms. It is less embarrassing to fail when you do not try than it is to put in effort and still fail.

Sometime last year or the year before, I cannot remember now, Francis stopped coming to school. After awhile, Headmaster Moses went to his house to see what was going on. Francis’ mother had made him stay home to make bricks. She said he was too stupid for school and could better spend his time making money for his family. Somehow Moses convinced her to let Francis return to school, but something like that does not leave a person unscathed. I worked with him for four months as well.

Both boys failed the PLE. Now Boaz is enrolled in the new vocational program here and my best guess is that Francis is home making bricks.

When the girl who told Faith she will go home stupid becomes a mother, will she say the same thing to her own children? Does her mother say it to her now? Does she believe it? What abuse has she endured to cause her to abuse like that? Where does it end?

After leaving the library yesterday, I came home and sat in my doorway to try and process my emotions. It was a rare afternoon when I could peacefully be home without children running to my door every five minutes. Perfect for thinking and feeling.

The gardeners had cut the grass that morning, so my verandah was littered with green clippings and soil. When I had been sitting still for some time, two tiny birds ventured onto the verandah and began picking through the clippings, looking for suitable nest material. Their red and brownish-gray feathers lay smooth on their backs and the birds were so small I could have easily fit them both in the palm of one hand. The two of them skipped around, picking up blade after blade of grass and trading each one for a better, preferable piece.

“I care about them,” God said.

What peace can come from such a simple, unexpected sentence.

Yes, God cares about them. Of course He does. And if He cares about two tiny birds building their homes, how much more does He care about Faith, and Boaz, and Francis. How much more will He care for them, no matter how adamantly or violently the world tries to throw them down. They do not belong here anyway. Heaven is their home… and they will not go home stupid.

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. (Luke 10:29-31)

Children are messy... but so are we.

One thing I love about the children here is their eagerness to help. I can be carrying a toothpick around the compound and without fail at least one waist-high child will ask if they can carry it for me. Simone comes by almost daily to ask if today is the day she can scrub my verandah. If children come by and I am too busy to play with them, I hand them a broom and they fight over who gets to sweep my house. It’s crazy. And hilarious. In a good way. Most of the time.

This morning, not long after I heard the echo of prayer that marks the end of breakfast in the children’s home, there were three chocolate-colored cuties perched in my doorway. Following the general rule, they politely asked if they could enter, and once I let them in I asked what they wanted to do. Most of the time, children choose to spend their time reading, going through the piles of books I have strewn around my house. Today, however, as Jethro and Aaron were eyeing the books, Tabitha’s gaze turned to my kitchen.

“Auntie Katie, your chicken is messed!” she said. (Not many of the young children can say the word kitchen.) “Can we clean your dishes?”

My immediate response was negative. I have a system for many things, and washing dishes, especially in such a small space, is one of those things. I like them done a certain way. I knew those nursery school children would not come close to the efficiency and standard I had set.

And then I thought… who cares? I hadn’t washed dishes in about three days—it’s not like efficiency was the first thing on my mind. Plus, it would be something fun for them to do. I carefully maneuvered my coffee table into the kitchen, leaving no standing room but making it so the children could see into the sink. I poured the tiniest bit of dish soap into a bowl, handed out one sponge, one washcloth, and one towel, and stood back to see how they would cope.

It was… messy. What else would you expect from four- and five-year-olds let loose with a sink and soap? Jethro was not content to dry with the towel; he wanted the soap from Aaron. Aaron wanted to use as much water as possible, despite the fact that he was farthest from the sink. Tabitha turned washing into a sort of dance in which she swirled the sponge in any round object she could find, which got to be rather difficult as they poured more and more soap onto everything. A drizzle of a waterfall cascaded off the counter and onto the concrete floor, and I knew there was no stopping it. Once or twice one of the children nearly slipped off the coffee table, which had pools of mud from the dishwater mixing with their dirty feet. Things got more and more wet, but not more and more clean, and I waited apprehensively to hear the first dish slip from soapy fingers and shatter on the floor.

Feet are never clean here... and therefore neither was my table.

In the midst of the slippery chaos, I realized… I am no different from them. None of us is any different from them.

How often do I run up to God, pleading for him to let me help with this one thing? I want to work with children in poverty; I want to go to Africa; I want to teach. God, can I please, please do this? You need people to do this!

As if.

I wonder what the world would be like if God did things the way He planned. I wonder what would be different if God operated everything according to His perfect, well-planned system. I wonder what it would be like if we stopped getting in the way.

I step into a country, a city, a situation, see a mess, and say, “I can take care of that!” I dive right in, doing everything I think is right and necessary and helpful, not realizing that what I’m really doing is flinging water all over the place. I am like Tabitha, swirling a sponge in a glass, mesmerized by the progress I think I am making and not even noticing the sudsy drip from my elbow to the floor. I tend to get so caught up in teaching children to read and setting up the library and preparing talks for gatherings with the teenagers I forget to ask God how He wants me to do it. I forget that I am the one helping Him, not the other way around. God is more than capable of ministering to the world on His own, but He graciously gives us the opportunity to jump in and take part in His work. He gives us that honor.

I have to admit that despite the flooded kitchen and muddy table, it was much more fun to watch those children try to help me than it would have been to stick with my system alone. After awhile, the first three had to leave and four slightly older ones took their place. They soon realized four was too many for the limited counter space, so two went on their way and two remained. Caleb and Jared patiently washed, rinsed, dried, and stacked the dishes on my couch because with the coffee table in the kitchen I couldn’t open any cupboards to put things away. Being the responsible boys they are, when they finished they hung up the towels… which dripped down the wall and immediately made yet another puddle on the floor.

These four children are twice as old as the
ones who initially started washing.

After they left, I spent some time doing damage control, which proved difficult since they had left no dry towels in the house. But you know what? In the end, the dishes were clean.

Of course, there was no room for them in the kitchen...

However messy the process, I pray my own endeavors within God’s work will result in the same happy ending.

Deep Treasure

“Approach each new day with desire to find Me. Before you get out of bed, I have already been working to prepare the path that will get you through this day. There are hidden treasures strategically placed along the way. Some of the treasures are trials, designed to shake you free from earth-shackles. Others are blessings that reveal My Presence: sunshine, flowers, birds, friendship, answered prayer. I have not abandoned this sin-wracked world; I am still richly present in it.

“Search for deep treasure as you go through this day. You will find Me along the way.” (Jesus Calling)

I have been finding it difficult to concentrate on God tonight. After spending all day cleaning, I keep thinking of how much there is left to do in my house. Parts of movies recently watched replay behind my eyelids. I mentally write my next blog, the one I intended to post five days ago. Things don’t slow down, and they certainly don’t stop.

I close my eyes, willing myself to focus on you, wishing the other images would fade into nothingness. They don’t. Maybe holding my hands out will help—open so you can take everything I have and I can receive you. Lists spin through my million-mile-an-hour brain. Frustration.

Listen for me, you say.

That sound be easy. Nature is quite loud tonight and I always hear you in nature.

I close my eyes and listen.

There is evidence of you all around.

Evidence, yes, you say, but that is not me tonight.

I try to identify individual sounds. The uneven rhythm of cicadas envelops me.

Are you in the cicadas?

No.

I try to tune out their hum and focus on another sound. Surprisingly, even from up on this hill I can hear croaks from the streambed below.

Are you in the frogs?

No.

The chorus of other insects blend and swirl together, and above them all (audibly and literally) an airplane passes overhead like a star broken free and on a mission. It is not beautiful. Man-made swooshes as metal fights past air is not beautiful.

Surely you are not in the airplane.

There is no reply, which I take for another no. What other sounds am I missing? Aunties talking by the home. Cars on the main road. Insects upon insects upon insects. Faint shouts from across the valley. I lean back and focus on my breathing.

My breathing.

Two long seconds in, stretched to their breaking point, a slow curve, and two measures out, relaxing and releasing, even, metered, and graceful. Over and over again. By the grace of God, over and over again.

That is where you are. Not in the cicadas or the frogs or the airplane, but in me. In every inhale and exhale. In every blink, every thought, every forgotten moment. I breathe you in and I breathe you out and still I think I have to look around to find you.

What a deep treasure it is to have your Spirit in me.