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. 

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)