Beauty in Broken and Hidden Places

Sometimes beauty sprawls out in front, a majestic waterfall, or a snow capped peak, impossible to pass by and not notice. Other times it is hidden, a simple bloom among thorns, perhaps painful to reach and easy to miss. I think my experience living in a foreign land has been much more representative of the latter. The beauty is deep, and there are hints of what is lovely, but sometimes it is hidden and the journey is painful.

I have been struggling lately with my inabilities to achieve in a place so foreign. Perhaps such a struggle showcases the very fickleness of my human nature, but I came from a place where I knew what it meant to be a high achiever. I was used to being good at things. I was used to working hard and doing well, to being at the top of the class, the investing deeply in things that mattered to me and having those things somehow work out. I have found that when I moved to a place where I don’t understand the customs, where I often misunderstand and am misunderstood, where doing simple tasks become increasingly difficult, I just feel somehow so unqualified. Yes it is true, that in the past year and a half I have learned to adapt, and my husband has been a wonderful buffer to all this chaos. I have learned to drive in chaotic traffic, to negotiate a price, and to buy from the market, sometimes even in the local language. And yet, I still feel somehow maimed because I cannot operate at the same capacity that I once did. It has been humbling and forever changing, and probably even good for me as hard as it has been. It has been a journey of putting to death who I once was and seeking to find beauty in dry and cracked places. This loss of myself has been hard to reconcile, and I often grieve who I used to be, but I am increasingly finding beauty in the place that I am.

And yesterday, I sat in a room of students, at the front among other volunteer instructors as the students had time to ask us any question they wanted. One student directed a question at me “How can I feel like I am good at something when there is so much I don’t know and I keep making mistakes, when I feel like I don’t know anything?”  Amen brother, somehow our souls feel this same kind of pain. I told him that there are so many days when I feel like I don’t know anything, but we must push on. We must find others who have stood before us to teach us, to encourage us and to show us the way. We must not get discouraged and want to quit when things get hard, because even if you work the same job for 50 years, although a level of comfort comes with gained experience, there are still days when you feel like you have no idea what you are doing. This is why we are engineers, because these road blocks give us opportunities not to give up, but to find a way around. Perhaps that student asked that question because I needed to hear my own answer even more than he did. Perhaps as the sun rises and the sun sets, I need to remind myself of that every single day. Perhaps I can tell these students that even as they struggle to find their way, so too do I, and that is ok. As I walk back to my room, I see it so clearly. A brilliant flash of purple hidden among the foliage. It is here among us, this hidden beauty. It is there displaying its brilliance, overcoming what tries to extinguish it. 

Valentines and Speaker Trucks

I suppose that when I left the familiar confines of my office I should have known.  That traffic would be bad that is. It was Valentines Day, and somehow that means crazier than normal traffic. But on that somewhat ordinary day, it didn't cross my mind. Now on my drive home from work, there is one short stretch of back roads that is very narrow.  It is only about a 15 m long stretch of road, but it is too narrow to fit two cars driving in opposite directions comfortably that is.  But I suppose I have somewhat assimilated, because I have become used to driving with less personal space and somehow manage to drive beside another car on that stretch without too much stress on a regular basis. But this, this was Valentines Day.  And before I begin this story I must explain one thing. . .

There are multitudes of what I shall call "speaker trucks" here in Uganda.  They are large delivery style trucks packed to the rafters with speakers that drive around and broadcast obnoxiously loud messages about various things.  They advertise upcoming events, give opinions on politics and a variety of other platforms.

On this day, Valentines Day, I was approaching the precarious narrow stretch and I saw a speaker truck approaching.  I decided to drive like a Canadian and politely wait until he passed before proceeding to the narrow stretch of road.  The two cars behind me apparently did not appreciate my Canadian style of driving because they became impatient and started honking.  So what's a girl to do but proceed.  I thought it would be ok, until I was about halfway through and suddenly I was feeling pinched for space.  So I did what any normal person would do and I stopped.  At this point, his gigantic speakers were at window level with my car and all I could hear was the pounding music coming out.  All of a sudden, dead silence.  And then a voice on the microphone "Madam, you proceed, it is ok" and before I knew it a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) driver got off his motorcycle to direct me.  I couldn't see where my tires were, but he could so I appreciated the effort.  And the gentleman in the speaker truck kept on giving me orders/encouragement such as "That is right Madam, you proceed"  "Yes, you keep proceeding" followed by "yes, yes"  "yes, you proceed."  I think my favourite part of all was the grand finale, when I had finally reached the end of the precarious stretch of road and he got o his microphone and said "Yes, you are welcome."  I thought he was proud of himself for giving me such good directions, but later I asked my husband what he meant and he thought he was appreciating my driving.  Whatever he meant, I feel as though there is no shortage of comic relief in the midst of seemingly ordinary events like this. I am sure the entire neighbourhood got entertainment out of watching the scared foreigner trying to navigate roads that were narrower than she was used to, all this with a running commentary from the speaker truck.

Moments of laughter and moments of kindness.  I do appreciate the willingness of the local people to direct and help me through.

One of the famed speaker trucks

The Yellow Jug

She takes my hand and leads me up the hill. In her other arm she carries the proverbial yellow jerry can. The bright hues of yellow smudged with iron laden dirt are gripped and carried by nearly every child in rural East Africa as they haul their family’s water supply back from the community well. This one, she takes my hand and leads me back to the home where she stays. They walk here three times a day, climb down the wide mouthed well and fill their buckets with water that will give them typhoid, and start the journey home. Somehow in the exhaustion of simply living in a place that is foreign, I find myself losing sight. The scene in front of me seemingly normal. I remind myself that this, it is not fair and yet, it is her reality. I don’t want to become blind to the heartbreaking realities that so often surround me and yet sometimes I am. Sometimes it is all too much and I don’t even realize I am walking along with my eyes closed to what is around me.

And yet, even still I remind myself that somehow in some small way I am part of her story. I know her name, and hopefully someday soon she won’t have to deal with water that gives her typhoid, or the risk of falling down the well. I type words on my screen, the reality of this life she lives made real in the body of a report, and I prepare for a conference call to discuss the technical findings. And yet beyond the mineral content and the bacteria counts, I remind myself that there is a girl with a name behind the words I type and the water chemistry I analyze. Behind every drawing that is drafted, behind every report that is crafted is a person who has a name.  Let’s just be honest here. I am not changing the world. They are. These people, they teach me, inspire me, and remind me to remember what is really important. They are generous, humble, and I have much to learn and remember.

Perhaps the notion of living in an African nation seems exciting. Romantic. Inspiring. In all there is to love here, perhaps there are moments in time that embody all of these lofty adjectives. But it is also so very ordinary. I get up and drive to the office still half asleep. Drink tea and eat snacks as I work. Go home, make dinner, sleep and do it all over again. And yet in the middle of all those ordinary moments there is somehow something extraordinary if I will remind myself to see it. There is a young girl with a name I know, who carries a yellow jug of water. People like her are written right in the middle of my story and somehow make it extraordinary. They are all around me, overcoming adversity, inspiring me, and reminding me the meaning of contentment. Of what it means to be still in the middle of this crazy world. These moments written right into the middle of all that is ordinary are what I hold onto. In the middle of all these hard and holy things, I must remind myself of this. There was this one time I stumbled my way up a mountain at 5,500 m. I thought I wouldn’t make it, and the girl behind me told me I needed to keep on going because difficult is not impossible. Somehow I made it to the top. I can do hard things. I can keep on running, because there is a girl with a yellow jug leading me onwards, reminding me to keep on going.

Redemption Stories

I look at them as they sit in a row watching cartoons. One who landed here some seven years ago knocking on death’s door, one whose body is ravaged with cancer and the other who is only just crawling out of the vice grip of four years of starvation. They inspire me these boys. The first I met at age two, he had been nursed back to health by the loving family that took him in, but still showed telltale signs of abandonment. I remember the first time he wrapped his chubby arms around my neck and how his adoptive parents told me I was the first white person besides them that he wasn’t afraid of. Earlier this year he walked down the aisle of our wedding as a sure and confident ring bearer.  His is a story of redemption.

The other I met a few short months ago abandoned by his mother because she couldn’t afford the treatment he needed and didn’t want to see him die from the cancer that ravaged his body. He became fluent in English in a couple short months and I came to fall in love with his sense of humour. I sit back and wonder how a boy that was left to die, a boy who has not even seen a decade on this earth and whose body is ravaged by cancer can somehow be that witty. My heart wells up as I think that I don’t want to say goodbye to this precious one anytime soon. I want to hear his jokes and see him play for many years to come. I somehow wonder how his story would be different if he had been born somewhere else. Into a family that was able to get him treatment sooner, into a country that had the technology he needs. And somehow I am reminded not to focus on what might have been but to find joy in the now. In the laughter as they watch cartoons and in the joy of riding to church with Uncle Paul and Auntie Jaimee as if riding in our car instead of their regular car is some kind of grand privilege.

The third one I have only just met. His body and his brain ravaged by starvation, he is now receiving loving care. He has started to blossom and it brings me joy. Nobody knows if or how much ability he will regain after so many years of neglect, but I see joy in the faces of those who have come to love him at each new milestone.

I sit back and I praise Him. I praise Him for writing me into the pages of their story, even if only in a very minor way. I feel as though I somehow bear witness to some kind of sacred miracle as I watch these and so many others. And somehow God uses these three to remind me of His redeeming love. As I sometimes struggle through my days in this foreign land, I expend my energy surviving an unfamiliar culture and I can become numb to the people around me. But this Father of mine, He has this way of showing me Himself in so many unexpected ways. In boys watching cartoons and in the ways each of them has been redeemed. He writes their stories even as I don’t know how they will end. He reminds me He is good, forever and always.

The Power of Helping Just One

Sometimes when one lives surrounded by poverty, it becomes easy to become accustomed to it. To no longer see the need that is right in front and all around you day by day. Sometimes it becomes disheartening and it seems like the little I can do is a drop in the ocean. Sometimes I don't want to see it and sometimes I choose not to.

But sometimes I am reminded that even if all I can do is a drop in the ocean it still somehow matters. The child I am sending to school has a chance at a future she never otherwise would have. Lucy, she is my drop in the ocean today. She is what reminds me why little things matter.

My friend Hannah and I go running in our neighbourhood several days a week. There are many dogs around, some stray, some owned, most of them roam free. Being an animal lover it is hard for me to see the often poor conditions the animals are in. I miss playing with dogs because most of them here are trained to guard and are not friendly to strangers.  But there was this one. . . she always ran up to greet us and wagged her tail. Once she became familiar with us she came to greet us with unbridled joy. She was a ray of light in what sometimes felt like overwhelming cross cultural challenges. She made me smile, she made me laugh and I came to look forward to seeing her.

I hadn't seen my black dog friend for a few weeks, and then she came out. Painfully skinny so much so I am not even sure how she supported her own weak frame, but she was just as joyous as always. It broke my heart. I finished my run upset and unsure of what to do. So I called my husband who suggested I bring her some food and call the one and only animal shelter in Uganda. So that is precisely what I did. The next day, the manager of the shelter came out to investigate. The dog wasn't there, but he was determined. His commitment to helping animals in this country inspired me.  This man loves his country and is passionate about teaching his fellow Ugandans what it means to love and care for animals. He told me he would be back and to call him if the dog showed up.

The dog was out the next night when Hannah went for a walk, so she called the shelter and out they came. They collected her, took her back to where she would be cared for and I somehow felt relieved. She was just one, but she was mine. She was my drop in the ocean. One of them at least. It made me so happy to know she would receive veterinary treatment, food, and hopefully someday soon a loving home to adopt her. I wish we could have adopted her, but our apartment won't allow dogs.

The shelter asked me to choose a name, and I called her Lucy.  Because she exhibited the same strong spirit as my favourite character from the Chronicles of Narnia. She is a survivor.

We went to visit Lucy on the weekend and she is doing much better. When we arrived she was out being walked by some high school volunteers. She is happy, she is fed, and she is receiving treatment for a number of things, and then she will be spayed and put up for adoption.  She is my happy ending and it brings me joy.  Thank you to the Uganda Society for the Protection of Animals for their tireless work and their passion and commitment.

She remembered me!  A sweet reunion!

Hannah and I with our Sweet Lucy

What joy!

Lucy is happy at the shelter.  She will make a wonderful dog for someone.

A few others were happy to see us too!

Nutella and Crossing Cultures

The other day my husband asked me why I was buying 5 bags of breakfast granola. I replied quite sensibly that because last time our local supermarket ran out of breakfast granola it took 3 months for more to come in.  I have been learning that living in a foreign culture can cause you to do strange things. . . like hoard breakfast granola.  In fact, we were walking past the garbage bag aisle and I told Paul that it was sure a good thing I bought 2 years worth of small garbage bags last time they had them in stock because they have been out for the last 2 months.

Now don't get me wrong, all of these idiosyncrasies are a reflection of me and the fact that I am a stranger in this wonderful land, and not of what Uganda lacks.  Because, it in fact lacks very little. There are many marvelous things you can get here, amazing tropical fruit being one of my favourites.  And the local food is very good, and much more readily available than breakfast granola. I have been enjoying it more and more and discovering variations to different dishes that I appreciate. But for someone who was not born here, I also sometimes do miss things from home.

We went grocery shopping yesterday and they were out of Nutella.  Now that may not sound like a big deal, in fact I never ate Nutella when I lived in Canada. But it has become some sort of survival food for me here, and I told Paul that I must get Nutella before the setting of the sun.  And so, 3 supermarkets later, we went home with both Nutella and our sanity. In fact, in supermarket #3, not only did I find Nutella, but I found a small piece of heaven.  I found one lone container of fresh strawberries. For the first time in 8 months, I tasted the juicy red goodness of a small handful of strawberries.  Strawberries, oh how I have missed thee. I lamented last month as my Facebook Newsfeed was filled with pictures of juicy red goodness from Canadian U-Pick farms. And The Lord saw the desires of my heart, and led me to the one and only container of strawberries I have seen.

Sometimes living in a foreign land is hard, sometimes it is wonderful, sometimes I just want to stand in front of the empty Nutella shelf and burst into tears, but I am learning to take one day at a time, to be more flexible and to let things go (not always easy for me). Uganda is making me into a better version of myself, Nutella or not.

Nutella and Strawberries. Heaven on Earth.

In addition to Nutella and Strawberries, Running also helps keep me feeling like a human being when challenges of being in a foreign culture arise. I love running in Uganda.  It makes me feel alive.