And On the 68th Day, Katie Rested

For those of you who know me (which in all reality is probably all of you because why else would you be reading this), I’m sure you have noticed that resting is not always my strong point.

Huh. One sentence in and I already sound like I am trying to deceive you.

To put it more honestly, I don’t like to rest. I am not good at it. It is not always my strong point because I have rarely made it a priority because I don’t like it.

I don’t take naps. They seem like a waste of perfectly good daylight.

When jogging, I try not to stop mid-run. So great is the effort of coaxing my legs back into a run that it is rarely worth the break.

At camp and at Noah’s Ark, there are always a thousand and one things to do on any given day, so why not take care of some of them right now? No point in waiting, right?

Wrong. Or so I hear.

A friend from home once said he thought people could accomplish far more in five working days with two days of rest than they could in seven straight working days every week. It makes sense in theory, but who has time to put it into practice when my To Do list sits on my desk even during the weekend?

Last time I was here, Warwick and Marilyn urged me to get away from Noah’s Ark once in awhile. Go out the gate. Leave the compound. Go somewhere quiet. (Are there quiet places in Uganda?) They get away for a few days every six weeks or so to rest and refuel before jumping back into the thick of school and ministry and sorting shoes. I understood their point, but since I was here alone the options looked fairly limited and lonely. Leaving the compound was a stressful experience because I was never one hundred percent sure I would find my way back in one piece. I did not want to drag out that stress for a whole day or—gasp—overnight.

This time, they continued their mantra about me needing to get away, but I came up with loads of valid excuses. I may only be here a few weeks, so I don’t need a break in that short amount of time. The term is almost over and I want to utilize the last few weeks with my reading students. I need to plan the holiday program. I need to learn how to run the holiday program.

However, by the end of the holiday I was… pooped, to put it not-so-eloquently. I was embarrassed to admit how much that four-week program took out of me. Fortunately, I didn’t have to admit it to anyone. The day after the program ended, Warwick and Marilyn looked at my defeated face and invited me to accompany them on their trip to Jinja the following Monday.

Not surprisingly, I began vomiting excuses right away. We are going to start Teen Club this week and still have to plan. I need to read through a book and plan the curriculum for Bible Class before Sunday. The students are back at school, so I should be there too so we don’t waste precious time for learning.

In the end, however, I accepted the invitation and two days later embarked upon my first ever trip to the town of Jinja.

Sorry, I am laughing at myself right now. I make it sound like an epic adventure. In reality, we drove one-and-a-half hours so we could sit or lie down for extended periods of time without having to get up. Which was exactly the sort of adventure we needed.

The resort at which we stayed was called Holland Park. (There are a lot of Dutch people in Uganda. I find it somewhat intriguing, but mostly it makes me go “huh” a lot.) The place seemed to be in the general direction of the middle of nowhere, or so I thought as we drove along a bumpy dirt road through small brick houses and gardens. (I mean, we didn’t actually drive through the houses and gardens—not over the vegetables or anything. We were on the road and there were houses and gardens on each side… whatever…)

As soon as we drove through the gate, however, I saw grass—real live grass—and beyond that, the Nile. Right there. Blue and wet and everything. Turns out Holland Park might be strategically located.

We parked next to a small white cottage with Adirondack chairs on the verandah and began unpacking the car. Within five minutes, I was convinced that rest is, in fact, a glorious thing and knew this was exactly what I needed. We ate lunch and then spent the next several hours in the shade of the verandah not working. Looking out over the still Nile and reading my five hundred-page book about a theologian who was killed for trying to assassinate Hitler was a beautiful repose from the heavy chaos of Noah’s Ark.

Later that afternoon, I wandered over to the pool—a quiet, outdoor, stonework-covered infinity pool where, if you put your face at the edge of the water, looks like you are swimming in the Nile itself. After a few minutes of swimming, I hoisted myself onto the ledge separating the pool from the water-catching part (the official name, I am sure) and lay there, letting the water cool one side of me while the sun burnt the other. Never in my six months in Uganda have I listened so hard and heard so little. Most people would have closed their eyes and fallen asleep, but I kept mine wide open because even the sight was peaceful. Looking out over a small field of grass to trees scattered with birds and behind them the Nile slipping past us on its way north… it was wonderful. It was restful. And I liked it.

That night, Marilyn and I sat on the verandah and watched the moon ascend the dark expanse of sky while we talked for hours about Noah’s Ark and family and monkeys and support raising until Warwick invited us inside for hot cocoa. The next day, we drove into Jinja and bought groceries, drank MILKSHAKES, went to a craft market, and finished with supper at a Chinese restaurant where I ordered something so spicy it made my upper lip sweat just smelling it. The next morning I made sure to tiptoe downstairs and outside in time to watch the sun rise over the Nile before taking a taxi home later that morning.

As I said goodbye to Warwick and Marilyn (who were staying another night), Marilyn looked at my face and said, “You look better.” I felt better. Apparently rest is not so bad after all. 

The Holiday Program

I always expected working at Lake Waubesa Bible Camp would prepare me in some way for overseas missions. I learned how to share my testimony, how to relate to different ages of children and youth, became more confident speaking in front of a large group, and at least in part conquered my fear of leading real, live people in worship. What I did not expect, however, was that in doing overseas missions it would be helpful to know how to play Tube City. I did not think I would need to keep half a dozen action songs in the back of my mind to occupy idle bodies while we wait for a movie. Neither did I anticipate preparing crafts until the wee hours of the morning. And I certainly did not expect to spend hour after hour drafting schedules so as to include all the necessary activities and all the available staff and volunteers at the appropriate times and with the appropriate age children and for activities for which they will be excited… No, I simply did not see that coming.

Apparently, every Nursery and Primary School aged child at Noah’s Ark participates in a holiday program when they have breaks from school. I say apparently because before I arrived this time I knew very little about the program itself. So little, in fact, that I cannot recall if I even knew there was a program. Hence my slight surprise when, three days after my arrival, Piet told me he wanted me to take over leadership of the program in place of a missionary who would soon be leaving.

Trying to step up to the primary leadership role of a program I had never seen was… interesting. I was immensely blessed by both the missionary who had started the program five years ago and one of the Noah’s Ark workers who has been running it for the past two holidays. We sat down and had meetings where they did their best to try to explain the atmosphere and chaos of holiday time, the expectations of children and staff, and obstacles I was likely to face in the four-week break from school. As the end of term loomed closer, I felt completely unprepared but was ready to put an end to theory and see it all for myself.

The school year in Uganda begins in February. There are three twelve-week terms with a four-week break after Term 1 and again after Term 2. Term 3 ends at the beginning of December, which is the start of the long holiday between school years. My first holiday of four weeks can be considered a warm-up for the longer holiday that extends over Christmas.

For the program, the Nursery and Primary School children (of which there are slightly more than one hundred) are divided by age into five groups. Every week, each group has one craft, one game time, and one extra activity. Activities for the youngest two groups usually involved something like playing in the sandbox or making body outlines with sidewalk chalk, while the oldest three groups had a movie or game night. Along with that, we took the oldest three groups swimming at a nearby pool, one group per week for three weeks.

Week One, I was along for the ride… mostly. I worked alongside Hilda, who has been running the program recently and who organized the first week so I could see things in action before being the one to put them into action. I had a few responsibilities, participated in every activity, and followed Hilda around between times with children, preparing and learning what goes on behind-the-scenes. Week Two, I took on a few more responsibilities and became more familiar with the schedule and children. Week Three, Hilda took her leave; therefore, my role was significantly larger. I had a co-leader, but at that point I was the one enlisting her help instead of the other way around. By Week Four, I had a firm grasp on what was happening and no longer found it awkward to delegate, organize, and tell people what to do. Not too awkward, anyway. I realized the level of my responsibility as I was filling out some paperwork one day. Unsure of whose signature I needed for the “Head of Department” line, I turned to Piet, who straightaway replied, “That’s you!”

Aside from overseeing, general planning, and delegating, much of my time was spent preparing games and crafts for the eldest two groups. I quickly learned that not every game I had found successful with American children could translate well to Ugandan children. There were a lot of failures. However, Piet recently told us that true leaders make plenty of mistakes, so I took that information to heart. We did water relays, balloon games, different kinds of races, skipping ropes, hide-and-seek, and many other games. We ended the holiday with a scavenger hunt around the whole compound, which, to my surprise, ended with a smile on nearly every face.

 The most sizeable craft project I took on was teaching a small group of children how to make piñatas. Having only made one in my life, and that being nearly ten years ago, it was probably foolish of me to offer it as a craft before experimenting with it myself. I spent three days making a rough model in my house, collected copious amounts of newspaper and wallpaper paste, and prayed. Somehow—I’m still not sure how this happened, but I suspect it had something to do with the praying—over the course of three weeks we ended up with five piñatas that were not only beautiful, but functional as well. As a culmination of the holiday, we had a disco on the last Friday and children took turns beating the piñatas until we were showered with sweeties and confetti. (Annie, spending hours tearing colored paper into confetti made me sorely miss you and our New Year preparations.)

Looking back (you know, because a week-and-a-half ago takes some serious memory and concentration), here were my five favorite parts of the holiday program:

1    1.  Swimming once a week. For one, I like to swim. For two (Is that how you say it? Sometimes I can’t believe English is my native language.), the children like to swim. Well, they like to play in the water. Some of them know how to swim. Every week, I could spend half a day splashing and playing and carrying children on my back and teaching the older ones how to do somersaults in the water. I ended every one of those days in the good kind of exhaustion.

2       2.  Learning the names of more children. What a privilege to spend several hours each week with nearly every child here at Noah’s Ark. That is something I don’t get to do during the school term.

3    3.  The rush of the Nursery School children when they came for activities. Collectively, they reminded me of an ocean wave: I could always hear them coming before I could see them, once they were in sight I knew there was no escaping, and a few would pass by while the rest gathered at my knees and, if one of them had recently wet his or her pants, even got me a little wet.

4    4.  The excitement of my piñata group when I told them they could burst my sample before the disco. They had been gravely disappointed when I told them the piñatas were to be used for the disco, not only for our group. It took four of them with three swings each to make a hole and no one was hit with the stick. Though they all scrambled for the sweeties, they proceeded to sit down at a nearby picnic table and divide them evenly, giving the odd extras to the leaders. What a group!

5    5.  The end of the holiday. I couldn’t believe how drained I was after four weeks of this program when I am used to doing eight weeks every summer. I found it is significantly different, however, to put on a different program for the same children every week than it is to put on the same program for different children every week.

All in all, this holiday was a valuable learning experience. Yes, I was relieved when it ended, but not more than two days after our final disco, I was already jotting down craft and game ideas for next time. I never thought I would be running camp in Africa. Good one, God.

Clenched Fists

Once upon a time there was a girl. This girl had a simple life with big dreams, as girls often tend to have. Though the legs on her body were rather short, the legs on her heart were rather long, and they carried her heart to places and people near and far. The problem was that long legs are able to travel farther than short legs, so her heart always seemed to be leaving her body behind as it explored new territory to love.

God was good to this girl. He gave her a family who loved her from day one and always gave her the best they could offer. He gave her friends to strengthen and encourage her growing up. He gave her a body that almost never fell ill and remained intact no matter how many times she fell down. He gave her sunsets over a lake in the evening and sunrises with cups of tea in the morning. He gave her books to teach and challenge her. He gave her teachers who genuinely cared for her brain and her heart. Most of all, He gave her the opportunity to know Him from the very beginning so she didn’t have to miss out on a single day of His love and fatherhood.

One day, God gave that girl a threefold dream: Poverty. Children. Africa.

In reality, it wasn’t given in a single day. The dream had been brewing for years, but once the bud of an idea sprouted in her mind, her imagination blossomed into a million vibrant possibilities. Poverty. Children. Africa. Those long legs on her heart were only warming up.

Her heart was running far from home, but her body was slower and steadier. Emotions only pretend to set the pace for actions; rarely can the latter keep up. The girl lived her simple life at home while her heart raced back and forth between continents. There were the normal things to do: Go to college. Find a job. Spend time with family. She loved those things, she really did. There was nothing wrong with them. In fact, there were so many things right with them that many would say she had it easy. She was blessed.

More than anything, the girl was blessed by the people God kept placing in her life. Her family multiplied, not by marriage or blood, but by relationships and acceptance and wholehearted love. She was never orphaned, but she was adopted many times over. There were special people, and there was an extraordinarily special man, and it was all very, very good. Her days were full of hard work and her evenings were full of laughter and her nights were full of rest and her months were full of challenges and her years were full of growth. Soon, she had another dream edging its way into her heart: Marriage. Family. Ministry.

One would think her heart would have been full—and perhaps it should have been—but with all its running around there was always a bit of an empty space left behind. Some days the space seemed negligible, but some days it consumed her entire being. It hurt when her heart so often left her body behind. It wasn’t fair.

One day, God gave the girl the opportunity for her body’s short legs to follow her heart’s long legs. For three months, she lived in Africa. She loved children. She served people in poverty. It wasn’t exactly like the dream in her head, but reality tends to rebel against cookie cutter plans. Like most dreams realized, there were a fair share of disappointments; but like all God-given dreams realized, there was an incomparable satisfaction and joy in knowing she was in the center of His will.

Yet her heart was still unable to rest. How could it rest when it still had two homes—two homes located on opposite sides of what seemed like an excessively large world? It filled the previously empty space and left a new one that proved no better than the last. But the girl lived on, and the girl loved on. This was the beginning of learning to live in the tension.

The girl came home and the emptiness traded places with the fullness. Her two dreams were in a constant tug-of-war in which the opponents were infuriatingly evenly matched, and it took its toll. Instead of hard work, her days were full of longing. Instead of laughter, her evenings were full of tears. Instead of rest, her nights were full of confusion. The challenges were still there, but the growth seemed elusive. Her heart was growing tired. So once again she turned around and physically ran toward her first dream: Poverty. Children. Africa. Only once again, the emptiness traded places with the fullness. But the girl lived on, and the girl loved on. Life in the tension continued.

God had blessed the girl, and she desperately wanted everything He had given her. She truly believed both dreams had come from His hand, and that the hope of Poverty, Children, Africa, Marriage, Family, and Ministry were all God-given gifts chosen especially for her. So she held tight. She did not let go. They were all good things; why would she let go? She embraced her love for people on both sides of the globe and held them close.

In doing so, however, the girl misunderstood—or perhaps simply forgot—that there is a difference between an embrace and a clutch. Though the dreams had been gifted to her, they were not hers to protect. They were not hers to claim. They were hers only to receive… and one can only receive with an open hand.

It is hard to love with a hand wide open, because what if that love is then taken away? How could she keep it close if she couldn’t protect it? How could she care for her God-given dreams if she had to leave them exposed? If they were both given from God, were they not hers to keep? What if God took them away? With what would she be left?

No matter how many times the wise woman told her to hold everything with an open hand, and no matter how hard she tried to hold her palm flat, the girl kept a mighty grip on both dreams, until God had to pry open her fingers one by one to reveal what lay inside. What He saw made Him sad, for a dream held in a clenched fist cannot grow, and dreams held in opposite hands cannot be joined. What protection she meant to give had turned to limitation, and her lack of trust had stifled the precious gifts.

God, being the gentle Father He is, did not confiscate the dreams. He left them in her incapable hands, placed His finger beneath her chin, and lifted her eyes upward. Slowly, she turned away from her hands and to His face. It was only then that she remembered, This is where all dreams are supposed to lead.

And that is where we must leave this girl, for that is where she still is: with a Father who dearly loves her, clenched fists, tug-of-war heart and all.

The Hard Life of a Missionary

It was Tamara’s tenth birthday party. I licked crumbs off my lips after having cake for the second time that night and set down my empty bowl that not so long ago had been filled with other special snacks. Balloons on the floor, banners on the ceiling, and smiles all around. Though we had ten of us piled on the red L-shaped couch, it felt cozy and not cramped. The children were taking turns tickling our forearms in a game they had learned earlier that day.

Christian, sprawled out on the couch and covered in a layer of kids, laid his head back, closed his eyes, and with a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his lips said, “Ugh… it’s so hard being a missionary.”

I had an image of missionary life before coming to Uganda. If I tell you it included a mud hut with no electricity, you can probably fill in the rest of the picture. Dirty all the time. Kids in tattered clothes. I am working as hard as physically possible just to make sure they are all loved and fed. No personal time or space. Talking about Jesus every chance I get.

What I did not picture was snuggling on that red couch with seven nine-year-old girls watching Seventh Heaven for three hours on a Friday night. Can this possibly be what I signed up for?

Don’t get me wrong; sometimes it is hard. Like a few weeks ago, when on Thursday night I was told I had to yo-yo in the Friday school assembly as part of an object lesson. When I gave it a try, for the first five minutes without fail my yo-yo spun down and never managed to come back up. I could only yo. Warwick, Marilyn and I spent at least half an hour that night trying to figure out technique, which color yo-yos were the best, and how to keep them going while walking and talking. You know what? It was hard.

Returning to Noah’s Ark has been an entirely different experience than journeying here for the first time. On my last trip, every new little thing made me cry. I had to flip a switch on the outlet to turn it on and off. The showers were cold. I couldn’t leave things plugged in if I wasn’t in my room. Boda drivers always tried to charge me more than they knew I should pay. The toilet paper didn’t tear in a straight line. The ants came in a dozen different sizes and traveled in swarms. I had to wear skirts.

It wasn’t only the major things that were different in Uganda—it was one little thing after another that heaped up until I found myself crumpling under the weight of all that overwhelmed me because sometimes it was just too much to flip that switch on the outlet.

Coming back, however, those things that once made me crumple are a strange source of comfort. I soon came to realize that those little overwhelming differences didn’t bother me because they were obnoxious or inconvenient; they bothered me because they were unfamiliar. When I came back to Uganda expecting them, every insignificant thing I remembered was a small victory for me because I had already tackled that problem. They make me feel at home because I know a little bit about what home is like here.

Sometimes I think it is hard, and not in a learning-how-to-yo-yo kind of way. I will admit no day would seem complete if it did not include a period of time in which I lock myself in my house so I can cry alone without well-intentioned and curious children asking me what is wrong. Early this month, we had an elaborate birthday celebration for Papa. There were moments when everything was utterly perfect—music playing, people laughing, good food, a child on my lap—yet all I wanted was someone back home with whom I could share it.

Just when I think things are hard for me, I have to take a step back and consider some of the people in my life who know what hard really is:

One of my secondary students, who only gets three hours of sleep a night because she attends school, works to pay for school, and does extra lessons with me after hours. She is the same age as my niece, but instead of getting excited about high school and a first kiss she has only seen her family once in the past three years and fears for their safety and future.

Aaron, who last month broke his back and had to have spinal surgery. For weeks, he was paralyzed from the waist down and has only just begun to regain feeling and movement in his legs. At this point no one knows if he will be able to walk on his own ever again.

Annie, who less than two years ago lost her boyfriend and best friend in a car accident. Though much of her old self has resurfaced since then, she lives with his memory and the pain of that loss every single day. She carries him with her.

My grandparents, who daily face the challenges of my grandma’s deteriorating body and my grandpa’s deteriorating mind. For many years now, Alzheimer’s has slowly stolen away my Grandpa Tom. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in confusion as he does, nor how hard it must be to live with a husband who will never again be the husband I once knew, as my grandma does… yet their love remains firm.

One hundred seventy children who were not wanted by their parents. Some are orphans, but most were abandoned as babies. No matter how young they were when it happened or whether they remember anything of their biological family or the pit latrine or sugar cane field in which they were dumped, the reality of how they got here is something with which they will have to live their whole lives.

No… I know nothing of hard.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)