Quotables, Part II

Gideon: Here, I have a present for you. Open my present! 

Isaac (6): Yes! And then open my president!

Isaac

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Jimmy (8): Auntie Katie, can I hold your keys? 

Me: No, Vivienne is holding my keys. 

Jimmy: Can I hold your paper? 

Me: No, Jethro is holding my paper. 

Jimmy: Can I hold your hand?

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Pastor Jared at the beginning of church: Okay everyone, find a neighbor and ask him this question: If your house was burning down and you could go back in for one thing, what would you get? 

Me: Ruben, what would you get out of your house? 

Ruben (9): A sausage!

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Me: Margaret, what is your best subject? 

Margaret (10): Mathematics. 

Me: Oh, so you must like numbers then!

Margaret: No. 

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No quote, but look at Tabitha's face, 
then look at the poster behind her...

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Some teenagers come to my house to play guitar. 

Vanessa: Let’s play Indescribable.

Sophie: (singing) Indescribable, unsustainable…

Me: Um, Sophie, God is uncontainable, not unsustainable.

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Before church, Saul, a special needs four-year-old, needs to get back to his seat. About ten children surround him and guide him to the back of the building. As they pass, Ruben watches and whispers, “It’s like when they arrested Jesus.” 

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Levi (6): Auntie Katie, look, look at my baby!

Levi and baby jackfruit

As the P.7 class enters the library, looking smart in their uniforms, Bwabye walks by me without a shirt. 

Me: Bwabye, what happened to your shirt? 

Bwabye: It is absent.

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Ruben, Asaf, and Peter are eating supper in my house. Naturally, the topic of conversation gravitates toward whom, if any of us, is crazy. They agree that of the four of us, I am the only crazy one. I vehemently deny it, and then serve them ice cream. 

Ruben: Auntie Katie, don’t you have any ice cream? 

Me: No, no ice cream for me tonight. 

Peter: Don’t you like ice cream? 

Me: Of course! 

Ruben: So you like ice cream, but you don’t have any? 

Me: Yes. 

Ruben: You see? You’re crazy.

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Madina (6): I don’t like sour sweeties. 

Me: I think they are okay, but they make me go like this. (I suck in my cheeks.)

Madina: Eeeh, God did not send us to make faces like that. 

Madina

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As the children are putting flowers in my hair, they begin discussing whom I will marry, because of course anyone with flowers in her hair must be preparing for a wedding. 

Tirza: You are going to marry Raphael. 

Thomas: No, you are going to marry Uncle Christian! 

Tirza: Wait, Auntie Katie, don’t you have a boyfriend? 

Me: No, I don’t. 

Isaac: Yes, you do! He is called me.

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While swimming with the nursery school children…

Jafeth: (eyes squeezed shut) Auntie Katie, I got water in my eyes! 

Me: It’s okay, just go over to Auntie Stefani and she will wash it out with water from the hose.

Yes, I was being serious. No, I did not thoroughly prethink my response. 

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Mary (10): Uncle Christian, when Auntie Katie goes will you give your baby nunu*? 

Christian: No, they have formula for that. 

Mary: Or you should consider purchasing a cow. 

*Nunu is what they call breasts here. 

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Tirza (6): Auntie Katie, it is boxing day! That means I get to box you!

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Caleb (8): Auntie Katie, they have refused Spiderman to wear your sandals. 

Jake, Jesse, Caleb, Jimmy, Peter, Benja

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Fatuma (7): Auntie Katie, what is that? 

Me: What? 

Fatuma: That. 

Me: That what? I don’t know what you are talking about. 

Fatuma: That thing. 

Me: What does it look like? 

Fatuma: It looks like the thing.

Me: Where is it? 

Fatuma: It is on the other thing. 

I never found it.

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Person #1: You see? I can make you laugh. 

Person #2: I’m not laughing. That’s just my smile making noise.

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Christian comes by and shows me his red and purple spots from rubella. 

Christian: You know how your scars sometimes turn different colors? Look at this! 

Me: Wow… You know, I think you might look weirder than me now. 

Christian: Yes! 

Christy (9): You two have problems. 

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Me: Ezra, the reason I come to the fish ponds with you is to make sure no one falls in. That makes it really hard to do when you don’t stay out of the water! 

Ezra (15): But Auntie Katie—

Me: No, no buts. I know you are a teenager but you’re not listening. Next time you touch the water there will be consequences. 

He goes to another pond to fish, then comes slinking back ten minutes later hanging his head.

Ezra: Auntie Katie, I think I need some consequences. 

Ezra

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Some children are playing in my house, and after awhile Isaac disappears into my bedroom and comes out a minute later. 

Isaac: (whispering) Auntie Katie, I just put a toy lizard on your pillow to scare you. 

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As I am hanging my running clothes on the line, Isaac points to my sports bra. 

Isaac: Auntie Katie, what is this? 

Dorothy: It is a bra. 

Isaac: What is a bra? 

Me: It holds my nunus in place while I go for jogging. 

Thomas (6): Yes, otherwise they fall down. 

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Nakato (5): Hulda had an idea that Group 3 gets to go for swimming when we get to primary school. 

Me: That sounds like a good plan to me. 

Nakato: What? 

Me: I like Hulda’s plan. It is a good one. 

Nakato: But satan is a very bad one. 

I laugh, then, thinking of this blog, asked if I could take a picture of the children who were with me. 

Me: Say cheese!

Hosea: Cheese!

Robby: Cheese!

Nakato: Satan! Satan! Satan! Satan!

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Babirye comes running into the school office and wraps herself around my legs. 

Babirye (5): Auntie Katie, the safari is coming to get you!

Me: Yes, you have to watch out for safaris! Here come the lions, and tigers, and gorillas, and—

Babirye: And apples!

Front to back: Babirye, Nakato, Robby

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A group of children gather in my doorway struggling to get closer. 

Nathanael: Auntie Katie, please may I enter? 

Me: No, not now. 

Barnabas: Auntie Katie, please may I enter? 

Me: No one is going to enter this afternoon. 

Isaac: Auntie Katie, please may I don’t enter? 

Me: Yes, you may don’t enter. 

Isaac: Hooray! (and runs away with a huge smile on his face)

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As I am making homemade granola bars in Christian’s kitchen, he walks in and inhales deeply. 

Christian: Wow… it smells like something real!

I’m not sure what that says about all my other cooking…

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Job and Ella the Elephant

Jjajjas

Making the mat was easier than I expected. I cannot say my fingers were swift, but they were not too clumsy. Start on the right side, over-under-over-under-over. The best part was the fwsh, fwsh, fwsh sound the grass made as it passed back and forth between the pieces. Pull the ends until they are covered by the pieces going across. One green, one white, one green, one white. Pull it tight! 

“Ah, look at the muzungu making the mat! She knows!” said an auntie in Luganda, sitting down next to the jjajja. I handed the strip of mat to Hananja and began teaching him the method I had just learned. I corrected him, and the auntie and jjajja corrected me. We passed the strip around the circle until each of the six children had had a chance to try. Most attempted for one or two minutes, became frustrated, and passed it on to the next person. When everyone was finished, jjajja gave it back to me, nodding for me to continue. 

The children went outside with Auntie Sarah and began cleaning the compound, while the jjajja watched me with the mat. Though she spoke no English and I speak next to no Luganda, she was able to instruct me with her tone of voice and demonstrations. Each row became a bit easier and her instructions became less frequent. There is a rhythm to mat-making. Fwsh, fwsh, fwsh. 

At the start of last holiday, we asked the oldest children in the program (ages ten-ish to thirteen-ish) what kinds of projects they would like to do in the three-week break from school. One of them suggested visiting people in the village. As the children are not allowed off the compound alone and they seldom have a reason to go out with someone, even the immediate area around Noah’s Ark is a bit of a mystery to them. Their perceptions of life in the village come from stories from their classmates and glimpses they see through the compound gate. They are not completely ignorant, but they are also not immersed in Ugandan culture. Though I understand the necessity of a closed-gate policy in a place like this, it also drives me crazy, so I was all for an outing with the children. 

Over the course of the next week, the general manager found four jjajjas (grandmothers) who lived in the surrounding area and might be able to use some extra help. Our social workers visited the families to explain to them what we wanted to do and see what kind of help they could use around their homes. After the meetings, we decided to spend our first visit cleaning. 

Jjajjas play an important role in Ugandan culture. When I asked some people why jjajjas are so special, the answers were unanimous: 

“Jjajjas, they are very wise. They know everything! They can counsel you.” 

“It is a matter of respect. You have to respect your jjajja. If you don’t respect yours, who will respect you when you are old?”

“They tell stories of long ago, from before our time. When they see teenagers with phones, they tell us we are spoiled because they never had such things when they were young… and then they tell a story about it.” 

“They are important because they are the mothers of the family. They are the mothers of our parents so we need them.” 

“My jjajja is so fun! Jjajjas love their grandchildren, so of course we love them too.”

The children at Noah’s Ark grow up without jjajjas. There are a few old women who sell food on the compound or come by regularly, but they are not loving grandparents to the mass of children here. Most of the workers are young or middle-aged men and women called aunties and uncles. They are necessary too, but without jjajjas these children miss out on a key aspect of Ugandan culture, as well as the lessons typically taught by the oldest generation. Our hope in visiting these jjajjas was to begin building relationships with them so at least these twenty-four children could have that figure in their lives. We split into four groups with six children in each group, accompanied by two adults who could serve as translators and guide everyone through the activities for the day. 

As my group entered the house for our first visit, I got distracted by two young children playing outside. We spent a minute trying to tickle each other, and then I removed my shoes and hurried into the house so I didn’t miss anything. I quickly sat down on a free spot on the couch, then glanced around and realized only the boys and men were sitting on chairs, while the girls and Auntie Sarah were kneeling on a mat by the door. I slid off the couch and onto the mat, following suit as best I could. I still have a lot to learn about Ugandan culture. 

Auntie Sarah taught us how to greet our jjajja and her family, and then we all sat in a circle on the floor and she taught us how to make grass mats. Once the others were finished with their portions of the mat, they ventured outside for more chores and I continued the much more enjoyable craft project. I eventually brought the mat materials outside and watched the others play a game while I resumed my fwshing. 

After our first visit, the children couldn’t wait to go back to their jjajjas’ homes. I asked if it was something they wanted to do again, and several people cried, “Yes, let’s go tomorrow!” We did not go the following day, but the next week we drove back to the homes with enough food to prepare a meal. In order to feed six children, two adults, plus the families we were visiting, we loaded up our bags with a variety of foods—green bananas for matooke, posho, cassava, g-nuts for sauce, onions, tomatoes, eggplants, and half a chicken for each location. When we showed my jjajja the chicken, she danced around her living room for a bit. For an old woman, she can still shake her hips!

During this second visit, jjajja and her family taught us how to prepare familiar foods in the traditional village way. We peeled vegetables with knives and cut them without a cutting board. 

The most interesting part for me was learning how to use banana leaves to pack and steam the food. 

In the bottom of an industrial-sized cooking pot, we bent the stiff middles of the leaves to make something upon which the rest of the food could sit. Before packing the food, we filled the bottom of the pot with water and created a steamer from the banana leaves. 

We then filled the leaf-bowl with cut vegetables, packing a special portion with bananas. 

After all the food was inside, the family taught us how to use more leaves to make a cover for the food, tucking the ends into the pot as if we were making a bed. 

While the food was cooking, jjajja brought out the mat materials once again and motioned for me to get to work. I fwshed while the children played together, all of us enjoying our time out of the compound. 

When the food was finished, we pulled out the smaller package of banana leaves that was holding the bananas for matooke. Without opening it, Auntie Sarah showed us how to gently knead the parcel so as to smash the bananas without letting anything seep out. Our children were enthusiastic about the smashing and went a little overboard, but we didn’t lose any food. 

The family laid out everything on a mat inside the house and the aunties served, as is Ugandan fashion. Their family sat on one mat, our boys on another and us girls on the last. Ugandans are generous with their portions! We ate with our hands, breaking off pieces of posho and cassava and dipping it in the g-nut sauce. To my surprise, the food had more flavor—more good flavor—than I was expecting. Even so, I could only eat half of the food piled high and served the rest to the children, after which the family made fun of me as the muzungu who could not finish a meal. 

We hardly had time to collect the dishes before our bus arrived to take us back to Noah’s Ark. Our jjajja was all smiles (with about half her teeth missing) as she and her family waved us off that day. 

What I have found most interesting about this project is the perceptions of both parties involved. When speaking with the children and with the jjajjas, each of them feels as if their responsibility is to help the other. The children see it as a charity project in which they get to help people less able and less fortunate, while the families see it as an opportunity to share cultural traditions of which these children would be otherwise ignorant. I had not anticipated the benefit being this mutual, but through it we will be able to develop healthy relationships with these jjajjas. 

We are now in the middle of another holiday and the project is continuing. There are more children involved this time so we have added two more jjajjas to our group. The children are excited as we discuss how we can best serve them—they want to do everything from planting gardens to fetching water to buying toilet paper. We have asked enough questions to draw six family trees, as I hope we can not only serve the families but get to know them as well. In time we will see how these relationships develop. For now, I will enjoy watching the children and jjajjas bless one another as only they can. 

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