Our Cute Little Capabilities

She would rather be outside. In the grass, playing with water, grabbing handfuls of dirt, finding the best rock—Patricia loves to explore. Last week we spent an hour sitting in the path between our house and the neighbor’s, putting dry leaves in a bucket and pouring them out again. They crunched between her clumsy fingers and under her chubby feet. They tickled her arms when I emptied the bucket over her head. She struggled to contain a long piece of grass that, no matter which end she started with, would not rest in the bucket like the leaves. Every time I did something new—picking leaves from a new place, throwing them over my head—she did it too. 

Later that day we were inside and I lost sight of her for a moment. I found her behind the house. 

If she had her way, walking anywhere on the compound would be an all-day activity. The road, full of stones, is her favorite playground. Give her a cup to collect the stones and she can happily sit alone or with friends, picking stones one by one until she has enough, then overturning the cup and beginning again. I don’t remember teaching her that. I don’t even remember when she started. 

In the last year, I have watched Patricia make one discovery after another. At first it was herself—I remember Christian and I watching in admiration as she clasped and unclasped her fingers the first few times. What must have been going through that head of hers? Did she realize that the things before her eyes were also under her control? Did she like the feeling of touching her own hands? Was she confused by it? 

On Good Friday last year, some children and I had just finished bathing Patricia on the verandah and I lay her face-down on a towel to dry off. Suddenly she flopped to the left and rolled over! Thinking it might have been a fluke or I had set her more on her side than I thought, I put her back on her stomach. She rolled to the right! Once more I set her on her stomach, and once more she surprised us by flipping herself to the left. 

“Rhode, go get Uncle Christian from the office and tell him to come quickly!” I said, and Rhode ran behind the house to his office so he could see Patricia’s new trick. They both came running back, I put Patricia on her stomach again, and we waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

We had to wait six weeks before she rolled over again. We have a lot of anticipatory videos of her not rolling over. Some things take time. 

When Patricia became mobile, oh the discoveries to be made! The Monday after she started crawling, I reorganized some kitchen shelves to make sure all the plastic and non-breakable things were on the bottom shelf. By Friday she could pull herself to standing and reach three shelves up. 

One day while I was preparing supper, I put a basin upside-down in the living room for her to use as a drum. She could not walk yet and was just starting to pull herself up to standing. As I was cooking, I heard her scooting the basin around on the floor, talking to herself. Enjoying her babbling voice, I continued cutting vegetables for a few minutes. When I turned around to check on her, she was standing on top of the basin, holding onto the table for support. She looked at me with a proud smile on her face and bounced up and down, her bare butt jiggling. Seriously, I could not have asked for a cuter daughter. 

We taught her how to wave and she adapted her own style where she bends at the wrist and looks like a princess in a parade. We taught her how to blow kisses and now she does that every time she says goodbye to someone. When we started spoon feeding her, she wouldn’t open her mouth unless she also had a hand on the spoon. After seeing us clean her highchair tray several times, she now takes the washcloth from me and cleans it herself.  I don’t know if I am more impressed by the things she discovers herself or the things she copies from us. She amazes me time and time again and every time I look at her with a new sense of wonder and love. 

That is exactly how God looks at us, isn’t it? 

We are these small beings that He created. He knows our capabilities and He knows what we have to discover. We are—and to some extent will always be—babies to Him. While I think it is precious to watch Patricia discover her own toes, God is saying, “Look, they finally figured out how to take a picture of a black hole, that’s so cute!” While I wait for Patricia to roll over, God waits for us to cure cancer. 

It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? How small we are and how big He is? Just like Patricia has no idea what she doesn’t know, we also have no idea what still lies before us, beyond our short little grasp and even our imaginations. And God watches and waits with the same smile I have when I watch Patricia make new discoveries. And to think that the love in His heart is infinitely greater than the love that resides in mine… unimaginable. 

My Plans, Cancelled Plans, God's Plans

I wanted to go to Iowa for Christmas. 

A couple months before Christmas, my mom told me that the family would be able to help with our plane tickets if we wanted to join them for a week for Christmas. At first it sounded frivolous—plane tickets are expensive, especially around Christmas, and for such a short time—but then we started talking more positively about the possibility and decided it could work. 

In the coming days, Christian had a lot of second thoughts. This would be Piet and Pita’s first Christmas not living on the compound and no one knew how involved they would be with the activities, and Christian thought there would be gaps to fill. With so many unknowns, he felt uncomfortable leaving the children for that time. 

I didn’t share his concern, but I understood it. I have not had many opportunities to submit to him as the Bible tells a wife to submit to her husband, and this was one rare occasion in which we had differing opinions and I chose to lay mine aside and follow his. 

We did not go to Iowa. I prayed that God would help me not resent Christian for that decision, and for the most part that prayer had been answered. We did end up with many roles regarding Christmas and the surrounding days and I was convinced that Christian’s prediction was right and it was best for the children that we stayed. But I still missed my family. 

Then my mom had good news—she and my aunt were going to come visit in February! Finally, the trip they had wanted to make four years ago (that they had to cancel when I got burnt) could happen. We would go on safari, laugh at my aunt for crying over the elephants, hang out with the kids and of course they would completely spoil Patricia. 

They didn’t buy their plane tickets right away. That made me increasingly nervous. Then my mom found out she had kidney stones and a gallbladder issue. She waited for doctor appointments and we waited to hear what needed to be done and when. After a few weeks she delivered the bad news that the general consensus was it would be unwise for her to visit a third world nation until after she had gotten the two operations needed to address those problems. Maybe they could come later in the year, or next year. 

I was of course disappointed, but I understood. Meanwhile, we were making our own travel plans for the year. Initially, we wanted to make two visiting-and-fundraising trips, one to the United States and one to the Netherlands. The US trip would be in May and the Netherlands in September. When my mom said she couldn’t come, however, we pushed our US trip up to April. Then we found out we were expecting another baby. All of a sudden, instead of spending September in the Netherlands, we would be spending August, September and October there. Our year was quickly turning into something entirely different than we had planned. 

In February my grandma got sick—very sick. It started with a cold, became pneumonia, and after a week in the hospital family was flying to Iowa in case they needed to say good-bye. But even at 87 years old, my grandma is strong, stubborn and resilient and she pulled through. Since both of my grandpas have died since I moved to Uganda, I know it is possible that any time I say good-bye to one of my grandmas it can be the last time. I will never be ready to say good-bye to Grandma Pat, and I was so happy to find out we could still see her in April. 

If my mom and aunt had gone through with their trip, they could have been in Uganda when Grandma almost died. Either they would have cut a short trip shorter or they would have spent their time worried sick. I can honestly say it is far better that they could not come. 

We were supposed to leave for Washington one week from today. But then a terror began to overtake the world: coronavirus. In the beginning, if you listened to the media, coronavirus is a major killer to be feared and we should all don face masks and bathe twice daily in hand sanitizer. If you listened to doctors, we should treat is as the normal flu and please not flood emergency rooms unless we are elderly or have preexisting repertory problems. And wouldn’t you know, out of the entire United States of America, Seattle is the hot spot for coronavirus. 

Seattle, that final destination on our plane tickets. 

After doing some research, we chose not to worry. We are all healthy and have good immune systems, and even though we don’t know how it could affect pregnant women any differently, our best guess is that it would be annoying for me but not harmful to the baby. Still worth seeing my family. 

Well, then Grandma’s doctor said it was ultimately up to us, but if we visited Grandma we were putting her at risk. She is old and in recovery and definitely in the high-risk category. 

There have been no confirmed cases of coronavirus reported in Uganda. Africa actually seems to be one of the safer places, as there is less international travel and the warm climate makes it hard for the virus to survive. Though “seems to be” could be key here because we also have less ability to test for it. Our biggest rick of catching it would be by traveling through an infected country (Netherlands) with a bunch of people from all over the world, through America’s most infected region to reach Morton, where people are geographically quarantined anyway. We could quarantine ourselves with my parents for two weeks before going to Iowa, but if any of us displayed so much as a cold symptom, we had better stay home. All things considered, Iowa was off the table. I mourned the idea of not seeing my grandma, but to be blunt, I would rather miss her this time and see her in November than see her now and kill her. 

Then we wondered: If we came to the US, would people be scared to be around us? If we did fundraising and presentations, would anyone come? Speaking of high-risk groups, my church is full of old people—should we even go to church? We could postpone our trip (airlines are making that surprisingly easy at the moment), but then there would still be two things to consider: One, we have a mandatory three-month trip a the end of July to deliver Little Peanut, and that cannot be moved. Two, for all we know, the virus could get much worse before it gets better. No one really knows when that climax will be. This could actually be the safest time to travel. 

We decided to go ahead with our trip. Worst case, everyone else is scared to see us and we would hang out with only my parents for four weeks, and can anyone really call four weeks of Goof Camp (what my niece and nephew affectionately call my parents’ house) “worst case”? I don’t want to wait until Patricia is two years old before her grandparents see her again. Plus, I had been worried about how Patricia is going to do on the flights. The only time she sits still is when she is eating, and we can’t feed her for 24 hours straight. Even she can’t eat that much. Since everyone else is cancelling their trips and airlines are flying near-empty planes around the world, this was our chance to travel with a one-year-old and have nobody to bother! It was the perfect solution to my toddler-flying fears. 

We had our minds made up, and then I got an email from the embassy alerting all Americans in Uganda of new protocol the Ugandan government has put in place to prevent coronavirus from coming here. If you arrive from specific countries (the list started with eight countries but has since grown) and you have no symptoms, you must self-quarantine at home for two weeks after arrival. I don’t think a single person will be strict enough on themselves for it to be effective, but whatever. Anyone arriving with symptoms will be quarantined in a hospital for two weeks. 

I do not want to be quarantined in a Ugandan hospital for two weeks. Also, what happens if Christian and I have symptoms but not Patricia? She could stay with someone at Noah’s Ark, but she is also supposed to be self-quarantined. Plus I would miss her too much. And if I were to miss two weeks of work after coming back from a month-long vacation it would not be fair to my coworkers. On top of that, if we were to travel now, would Noah’s Ark even want—or allow—us to come back? Would they be scared we are putting all the children at risk? Those were the things that would keep us from going. 

On Wednesday last week, the Netherlands and America were both put on Uganda’s quarantine list. That meant that if we were to go, in the best case we would need to self-quarantine at home for two weeks after we came back. I can’t imagine trying to keep Patricia in the house for two weeks, moreover without any of her friends. I can imagine all the children at the closed glass door wondering why we can’t let them in. And that is the best case. 

We decided not to go. 

I spent the whole evening in tears, which was especially sad because it was Christian’s birthday and that is not how anyone wants to end their birthday—with his wife standing at the kitchen sink, water pouring from the tap and water pouring from her eyes. This was the third time in a row I had gotten excited to see my family and then had it cancelled. The third disappointment, the third time I had to undergo the guilt of raising my child away from her relatives who long to be with her and play with her and love her in person. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take. 

A few years ago while reading the story of Exodus for the thousandth time, something struck me. Many of you know the story: The Israelites, God’s chosen people, had been slaves in Egypt for hundreds of years. God sent Moses to Pharaoh to ask him to please let God’s people go, and the answer was predictably no. Egypt was not going to let its entire labor force disappear without so much as a two-weeks notice or finding a replacement. So God took some drastic measures and sent ten plagues to the Egyptians. After each plague, Moses asked Pharaoh again to let the people go, and the first nine times the answer was still no. After the tenth plague, Pharaoh finally conceded and told Moses to take them and leave. 

Just as the last Israelite stepped out of Egypt, Pharaoh changed his mind. What had he been thinking to let them all go like that? He sent his armies after Moses and the Israelites, who were traveling on foot in a very big group. As the army was approaching, the Israelites found themselves stuck. They had the mountains to one side, the Red Sea in front of them, and an angry army behind them. What were their options? 

Even after God’s silence for so long, we know at least some of the Israelites still had faith. Especially after seeing God send the plagues on the Egyptians and the miracles He did to get them out of Egypt, I imagine many of them had renewed faith in that moment. And I imagine that when they found themselves stuck between the sea and the army, many of them prayed. 

They probably prayed for God to save them. Maybe they prayed for God to strike down the Egyptians before they could reach the Israelites. Maybe they prayed for God to put a protective forcefield around them to keep them from harm. Maybe they prayed for God to come back and fight the army Himself. There were thousands of people who probably had thousands of ideas of how God should save them. 

I cannot be sure, but I doubt if any of them prayed for God to open up the sea before them and allow them to walk through on dry land. 

Did God answer their prayers? Absolutely. Did He answer them in the way they expected? I highly doubt it. Who could have imagined the plans God had in store for the Israelites that day? 

Who can imagine the plans God has in store for you today? 

The God who knew He would part the sea before the Israelites is the same God who knew we would cancel our trip to Washington. He had a plan then; He has a plan now. And as I have seen my own plans crumble before my eyes time and time again, let me cling to His instead. 

In the week since we cancelled our trip, the world continues to change and travel has become increasingly more difficult. If we had not cancelled it ourselves, the airline would have cancelled it for us. Or perhaps America would not have let us enter. There are still no known cases of coronavirus in Uganda, but it has reached Kenya and yesterday the president of Uganda announced that all schools will close tomorrow for at least one month. That in itself is understandable and though it is disappointing (every single student I have talked with today is actually complaining that they have to go home tomorrow and will miss lessons), hopefully it will help slow the spread of the virus if it does make it to Uganda. 

Only here’s the thing with closing our schools: I have been reading so many Facebook posts from parents who are all of a sudden homeschooling their one or two or three children and have a deeper appreciation for what teachers do day in and day out. When we keep our children home, we don’t have one or two or three—we have 200. And they need something to do. I have not yet heard what Noah’s Ark plans to have the children do in this emergency vacation, but my guess is we could quickly go into holiday program mode (which, for those of you who don’t know what the holiday program is, imagine summer camp for the next who-knows-how-many weeks for 150 children and I am in charge). Very quickly, I have gone from having a one-month vacation to likely one month of overtime. And very quickly, God has shown me for the third time in a row why it was good that my own plans have changed. 

I miss my family, but I will trust Him. And I know that is the best—and only—thing to do.

Waiting for our flight to America one year ago. God willing,
we will get this girl on a plane again sometime soon-ish.

The Man in the Path with the Garbage

Does he really have to be sorting that trash in the middle of the path? I thought to myself. That’s where we always walk. Can’t he be considerate of other people? 

Wham!—the moment those words entered my mind, I hit a brick wall. Not literally, though it would have served me right. The realization of what I had just thought hit me with such a force I had to put in all my effort not to stop right there and stare at the man in the path. 

The man in the path with the garbage. 

The man in the path who was probably depending on the garbage, either to find something to eat or to sell to buy something to eat. 

And here I was, mentally complaining that he was in my way. 

The alternative path, by the way, was about ten feet to the left. This was not a big inconvenience. And even if it had been… so what? 

I continued. I did my shopping and I went home, but I went home sad. I was sad about what I saw. I can hardly imagine being in a situation desperate enough to need to pick through trash to get by. I have looked through many a dumpster to find treasures and interesting things not valued by my neighbors, things which I could repurpose into something pretty, or practical, or fun. But that was with an air of joy, of creativity, of lightheartedness. That was not in hunger. That was not in desperation. That was not my last resort. 

I went home sad about what I had seen, but I went home even more sad about what I had become. Years ago, my first thought would have been one of compassion. My first thought would have been of the help he needed. My first thought would have been of him. Now?… now somehow I had made it about me. My agenda. My path (which is not even my path at all). My convenience. My comfort. 

Dare I even still call myself a missionary? Let alone missionary—dare I still call myself a follower of Jesus? 

When did I make the change from thinking about others to thinking about myself? When did I replace compassion with a schedule? When did it go from a passion to a job? A To Do list? 

I felt the callouses on my heart as if they were anvils. Something ugly had risen up and I hand’t even paused to notice. Do I still see anything anymore? Anything real? 

I never saw the man in the path again, but I hope that someday, if I do, I see him. 

Everyone deserves that much. 

Seeing the people, Jesus felt compassion for them… (Matthew 9:36)

Looking at him, Jesus felt a love for him… (Mark 10:21)

When Jesus saw her, His heart broke… (Luke 7:13)

Missionary Ballerina

Last year I spent two days at a women’s conference in Jinja.  In one session they had a panel of long-term missionaries from the area and interviewed them about what inspired them to go into the mission field and how God worked in their lives once they were here. One woman’s story was my favorite: 

Interviewer: What made you decide to be a missionary? 

Missionary: Well, when I was younger I loved ballet, and I also loved God. I wanted to do both with my life. So I told people I was going to be a missionary ballerina and travel the world dancing and telling people about God. Of course, it wasn’t until later that I learned a missionary ballerina isn’t really a thing…

When she said that, I leaned over to my friend and excitedly whispered, “I spend a lot of my time teaching kids at Noah’s Ark ballet—I’m a missionary ballerina!”

Then and there, I unofficially made that my new title. Katie Berkman: Missionary Ballerina. 

When I was six years old, I wanted to start taking ballet lessons. I don’t remember how it came up or what inspired me to ask for it, but through one way or another my first grade Christmas present was to start taking ballet and tap lessons at Jan’s School of Dance in Morton. It wasn’t a big studio—in face, Jan had converted her basement into a dance studio by putting in a vinyl floor and covering three walls with mirrors and a bar—but it was enough for the small classes she taught. 

The other girls had started practicing in September, so I was the latecomer. At the beginning of my first lesson, Jan told my mom I could join, but whether or not I performed in the recital at the end of the year would depend on how well I could catch up with the last few months of lessons. At the end of the first lesson, she said I could be in the recital. 

For the next nine years, once or twice a week I spent the afternoon in Jan’s basement learning demi pliés and chassés and tourjetés and a host of other things I can’t spell. By the time I reached junior high, most other girls had stopped dancing in favor of sports or free time, so by comparison I was one of the advanced students. I started coming to a younger class as Jan’s assistant teacher, correcting the girls and helping Jan keep order in exchange for a lower rate on my own lessons. 

I spent a year doing special ankle exercises so my feet and ankles would be strong enough to dance on pointe. Jan traced my feet and took measurements to get just the right shoes, and when my wooden-toed slippers finally came, I was ecstatic. For a few years, I woke up at five in the morning while the rest of the family was still sleeping, tied the ribbons on my shoes, swept all the dirt in the kitchen under the rug (except on Fridays, when I swept all the dirt from under the rug into a dustpan and finally threw it out), used the kitchen counter as a barre and did my stretches and exercises. Only one time did I fall and break a cabinet door. I didn’t wear flip flops to school for years because my toes were always ugly and bloody and bandaged from those beautiful, painful shoes. I won’t lie, I was proud.

When I was fourteen, after my freshman year of high school, Jan retired. Since hers was the only dance studio in Morton, if I wanted to continue lessons I would have to drive an hour to and from another studio, which meant quitting volleyball and softball to make time for that. I loved ballet, but not enough to give up sports for it. So at the age of fourteen, I also retired from ballet. 

Or so I thought. 

When I moved to Uganda ten years later and someone asked me to choreograph and teach a ballet dance for our Christmas cantata, of course I said yes. I still loved dancing; I just didn’t do it much anymore. I had ten dancers who I remember as teenagers, only now—five years later—they actually are teenagers, so they must have been pretty young in that first dance. We practiced in a small concrete-floor hut near the children’s home and performed in the cantata that Christmas. 

In the five years since then I have choreographed a ballet every Christmas for anywhere between two and twelve dancers. And from there it grew. I have included ballet lessons as part of the children’s holiday program, where I have had a class of 25 6-year-olds that I am happy to say was not as chaotic as it sounds. I taught ballet to a class of four-year-olds in the nursery school and have had a few groups of teenagers in between. 

I quickly realized that knowing how to dance does not necessarily mean I know how to teach dancing. Thank God for the internet. I made a lot of adjustments depending on the size and age of the group I was teaching, which can be summed up in an observation I made last Christmas: 

Teaching ballet to 14-year-olds: "Point front, point side, passé, first position. Pas de bourré, pas de bourrée, arabesque, relevé.”

Teaching ballet to 4-year-olds: "Point front, point side, tree! Catch your stars--one, two, three, four--and put them down. Rainbow arms! Open, close. Open, close. Airplane right, airplane left, catch your ball!"

Last year when I was choreographing a dance for four teenage girls, for inspiration I took them to a Uganda National Contemporary Ballet performance in Kampala. It wasn’t long before I realized the word “contemporary” in the name is much more prevalent than the word “ballet,” but we enjoyed seeing different styles of dance and even used some of the moves we saw in the dance we were learning at the time. The girls’ favorite part was when the whole audience was welcomed onstage at the end to eat cake and talk with the dancers. I don’t think they talked with a single person, but they did spend half an hour dancing around the big stage in front of a real auditorium. Seeing them love dance makes my heart smile.

About two years ago I also started teaching Stomp. What is stomp, you ask? Well, it is step dancing, only I thought it was called stomp and no one here knows what it is anyway so I have gotten away with the mistake for years. Maybe they will never find out. While stomp on its own was fun, I discovered that mixing stomp and ballet in one dance is better. There is something about finding a song where we can bring out both the gracefulness of the music and the heavy beat that I find fun.

But fun is not enough. Pretty good ballet is not enough. Even perfect ballet is not enough. How is this ministry? I have struggled with that question a lot as I have taught more and more dances, more and more groups, on more and more occasions. If I want to call myself a missionary ballerina, surely the missionary part of that needs to encompass more than just living here. Doesn’t it? 

It is a slow process, but I am learning. 

When I choreographed for recent cantatas, the dancers and I talked about what it means to be onstage. The cantatas are a form of evangelism where we perform the Christmas story and share the gospel message through music, dance and drama. I told the dancers that if they are representing Jesus onstage, they had better represent Jesus offstage as well. It opened up the door to address issues of disrespect, disobedience, and dishonesty, to name a few, and what it looks like to represent Jesus to the people around us in our everyday lives.

A few months ago I taught my first solo dance to one of the teenagers, Tamar. Those were some of my favorite rehearsal times ever because we could actually get personal about what we were doing. While we stretched, I had her listen to the song and we talked about what the meaning was. Since the song was about remembering God’s faithfulness and all He has done for us, we shared stories of how He has been faithful in our own lives. Before we began to dance each lesson, we sat on the floor with our legs extended in front of us, the soles of our feet pressed against each other, and we reached down and held each other’s hands and stretched and prayed. We thanked God for His faithfulness and for our bodies that are able to dance. We prayed that we would always remember what He has done and is doing in our lives. We prayed that the people in church who would see Tamar present this dance would listen to the words and be touched by them. We dedicated the dance to God as our worship, over and over. And it was. And it was beautiful. 

Often a dance is born in my head when I am listening to a song. A move or two pop into my mind, then a few more, then larger pieces of choreography and what can make it unique from the other dances I have taught. Before long I am listening to the song on repeat (I have an incredibly patient husband), half-dancing around our tiny kitchen and frantically typing up the choreography before I forget it. The only way to get the dance out of my head is to have people perform it; it never goes away on its own. 

The most recent dance to take root in my mind was another ballet-stomp. I thought I was ambitious in wanting to find 18 dancers to fill the places in my head, so I made a general announcement to all the teenagers in church… and got more than 40 takers. This has been quite the exhilarating learning experience. I knew we only had time for five lessons before we needed to present, but these dancers have shown an attention and enthusiasm that I definitely couldn’t find in the six-year-olds and I am so proud of them, not necessarily because of their dancing abilities, but because of their commitment and effort. They not only show up on time to lessons, but many of them come early! It is a whole new experience for me. 

During our first lesson, I gave them all a worksheet to take home. On one side were printed the lyrics to the song, and on the other side were a few questions about the meaning of the song and how it applies to their lives. I told them the paper was their ticket to get into practice the next week, and they took it seriously. At the beginning of practice when we stretch, the teenagers share their testimonies with the rest of the group. We get to hear from one another how God has set us free from different burdens and chains in our lives and be encouraged by the work of the Holy Spirit all around us. Some take this part more seriously than others, but the good thing is they all hear it. We begin each rehearsal by praying and dedicating that time and dance to God as our worship. I told them the first week that even if no one in church has any idea what the song is about or cares that we are doing this, as long as it inspires one dancer to recognize what God has done in his or her life and remember to thank Him for that, it is all worth it. We have one rehearsal left before we present the dance in church and I am honestly sad to see this one end. 

Possibly one of my proudest moments as a ballet teacher happened when we returned to Noah’s Ark in March this year. The schools had been preparing for Easter Carols, their school Easter program to present to parents and staff. All the students present songs, dances, poems, or skits, and in the past I have often been called upon to teach ballet or stomp. This year we were still gone when preparations started, but I came back to find that Tamar and Brenda (two of my more experienced dancers) had trained the entire fourth grade class using moves and choreography from previous dances I had taught them. It was really special to see that class onstage and know that this time I was not the one who made it happen. 

Last year for the newspaper Tamar wrote about her experience as a ballet dancer: 

“Hi everyone! I am Tamar, one of the children at Noah’s Ark. I want to tell you a little bit about ballet. I think ballet is one of the most beautiful types of dance. You don’t see it often in Uganda.  I did some ballet for the first time when I was in Primary 4 (fourth grade) and now I am in Senior 2 (a sophomore in high school). 

“Together with a few other girls I get lessons from A. Katie. She has taught us a lot of new things like arabesque, plié, tourjetté, passé, pique turn, developé and chassé. In the lessons we learn new positions and choreography and at home we have to practice and stretch everyday. 

“We perform our ballet dances to music with a Christian message. We have already danced twice in the church service and also during our school Christmas program and in the Christmas cantata. I hope that my friends and I keep getting better at ballet and many people enjoy our talents.” 

Tamar in her first ballet dance in 2014

Tamar in her most recent ballet dance in 2019

I had no clue that nine years of ballet lessons were preparing me for the mission field. I absolutely love the way God works. I hope and pray that for many years to come I can be His missionary ballerina. 

If you give a grandma a baby...

If you give a grandma a baby… she will say she is too thin and probably want to feed her. 

But the baby will make a mess with the food and get it all over her clothes, so Grandma will decide to change the baby’s clothes into something clean. While she is changing the baby’s clothes, she will decide to change her diaper too. 

The baby will enjoy being naked so much, Grandma will decide it is time for her to play naked for a while. She will put a towel on the floor and let the baby crawl around on it. 

But the dangerous thing with naked babies is—they don’t know how to use the bathroom. The baby will pee all over the towel, and the floor, and herself. So Grandma will decide it’s time to give baby a bath. She will put her in the basin with a toy and some soap and let her play until the baby is clean. 

When the baby gets cold, Grandma will get her out of the bath and dress her up in something nice, maybe even with a bow. 

The baby will look so nice Grandma will decide to take her for a walk to show all of her friends. As soon as they step onto the verandah, Grandma will see the johnny jump-up and decide to put the baby in there instead. 

The baby will bounce and move her feet a lot, which will remind Grandma of dancing. So she will dress up the baby like a teeny tiny ballerina. 

Grandma will want to play some music for the baby to dance to, but the speaker won’t work, so she will decide to use the piano instead. 

All this bouncing and dancing and piano playing will make baby tired, so Grandma will decide to give her some Mt. Dew. 

When she realizes that is a terrible idea for a baby, Grandma will change her mind and decide to put the baby down for a nap. But before the baby can take a nap, they need to read a story. 

While they are reading, the baby will try to eat the book, which will make Grandma think the baby is hungry…

So she will probably want to feed her.