Family Matters...

Me, Brian, and Mama Aida.
...one time I saw Mama's boobs. Africans are pretty lax as far as hiding the boobs goes. I've actually seen lots of boobs while here because everyone breast feeds... in public. I've seen women whip 'em out at church, in traffic, in mid-conversation, at a wedding, generally whenever babies start crying get ready to see some boobies.









For the first two weeks in Uganda we called our little sister Lucy. No one corrected us. We eventually learned that her name is Ruthie... we hang out with her a lot because she's cool. She taught us how to do laundry and sometimes irons our clothes.








My baby brother Ronnie. One time he fell asleep on my chest... it was so cute and I felt like a dad. Then I felt something really warm on my stomach... Ronny had peepeed all over me. My t-shirt, my wife-beater, my shorts and my boxers were all soaked. I realized then that fatherhood could wait I'm very happy that I'm the youngest child.








Arianna is the youngest member of our family. She literally screams at the top of her lungs whenever I touch her, but she shut up long enough to let me get this picture.












I was really excited about the EvangeCube... I don't know why, it's actually pretty lame. I'm not sorry if that offends anyone.















I do this a lot. Thinking and reading takes up a huge chunk of my time, which is good for me because I'm normally quite dumb and in a rush.

This Is The Thing about Presence

The only reason I believed Father Gerald is because he’s a priest, and for some odd reason I feel like priests don’t lie. I could be wrong and I probably am; there must be priests that lie but I don’t believe Father Gerald is one of them plus his stories seemed too bad to be made up.

We were on a weekend trip to Luweero (a rural village town in Uganda), having tea with Father Gerald as he explained what his ministry involved. He told us about a time he found a woman waiting by the side of the road holding twins in her arms. Both of her babies were sick with malaria and she had been waiting for hours by the roadside hoping that someone would give her a ride to the hospital, so Father Gerald gave her a ride. By the time they arrived at the hospital both babies were dead. Father Gerald gave her a ride back home.

He told us about a young girl named Joy that was very fond of him. I don’t blame her; I had only known Father Gerald for fifteen minutes and I was fond of him – his gentle young voice made his tall strong frame inviting and comforting. (We had lost electricity so maybe the candles helped as well.) Joy had told him before his last trip to the States that she thought she would be dead by the time he returned. He assured her that she would be fine, and she would see him soon. Father Gerald came back to Luweero with a suitcase full of things for Joy only to learn that she had died one day prior to his arrival. He kept one of the stuffed animals intended for Joy to remember her. He said these things hurt him very much.

“At the parish house we eat meat and we take sugar. And I know my parishioners only eat meat or take sugar maybe one time in a year. They are very, very poor. This is very painful for me,” he explained. We didn’t know where he was going with this string of stories, but then he asked, “What can I do? What is there for me to do for them? The best thing I can offer is my presence and my smile – that’s all I can give,” Father Gerald explained as he offered us his smile.

A month or so ago I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Father Gerald’s offer, because I didn’t understand the value of presence. In The Primal Vision John Taylor explains that, “our presence to one another, eye to eye and face to face, dispels the isolation and lifts our hearts. Africans believe that presence is the dept they owe to one another. The primal vision is of a world of presences, of face-to-face meetings… It is a universe of I and Thou.”

John Taylor and Father Gerald both understand something about presence that neither I, nor many in the “West” have fully taken hold of. Why is presence the dept we owe to one another? How can the other be ‘Thou’? The primal/African view of presence acknowledges the mystical and divine within each of us and restores and elevates the value of our humanity. To Father Gerald, the poor people of Luweero have names and faces and in offering his presence to them he acknowledges and uplifts the divine within them – the image of God. And he offers the presence of the Holy Spirit that dwells in him. It truly is the best thing he can offer.

In the ‘West’ we have not mastered presence, the art of simply being present with people, acknowledging the divine spark in one another. The true and complete nature of our humanity cries out to be acknowledged in known in a culture that reduces people to bodies or a means to an end. What the African worldview asserts is that the presence that dwells among us and in us is the “tremendous Presence in the midst of the world from which our first parent hid themselves… the Presence which Moses knew, eye to eye and face to face… the way of presence is not merely a new missionary method, but God’s own way of drawing Adam into his embrace and lifting the despoiled and threatened Creation up into his peace.” With this understanding of the Divine presence it is no mystery, yet still mysterious, that history moves to a climax with a God choosing to “dwell among us.” It is no mystery, yet still mysterious, that when we gather in His name, He is present. It is no mystery, yet still mysterious, that whatever we do for the “least of these” we do unto Him since He is present. When we become aware of the Presence dwelling within and among us, we too will suddenly offer our presence and a smile, knowing we are taking part in the divine work of redemption.

I was right about Father Gerald, he didn’t lie – the best thing he could offer his community was not money or anything physical but the only divine gift available – his presence; and as a bonus – his smile.

The Jump...

For some reason I can't explain I decided to bungee jump... it was fun and I survived. Enjoy!

This Is The Thing About Expectations.

Florence, my 23-year-old “sister”, looked not only shocked but also disappointed as Brian (my roommate) told her Jesus probably wasn’t white and Americans didn’t write the Bible. As she recovered from her mild state of shock, she asked us one more time, I guess to be certain that we understood her question, “Jesus, he didn’t look like you [Brian]?” As far as I recall, I’ve never shared identical emotions with someone for completely different reasons. Florence and I both sat in our dimly lit kitchen – shocked and disappointed.

I noticed the blue eyed fair skinned portrait of Jesus that hung in our sitting room within minutes of arriving at my home stay, but never would I have imagined that my family actually thought the portrait was accurate. I had lots of expectations about Christianity/spirituality in Africa as a whole. I naturally associated the words: miraculous, charismatic, Holy Spirit, and healing with “African Christianity”. All those words were synonymous with Christianity in Africa, at least a month ago. I expected to attend charismatic church services and see blind people see and deaf people hear – literally. I at least thought I would hear testimonies from people who had been raised from the dead. I even thought there was a slight possibility I would hear the audible voice of God.

These stereotypes are not far-fetched based on stories I’ve head about Christianity in the “Global South”. I was expecting to finally see what all the hype was about. But in my first month, instead of encountering what I thought would be similar to the book of Acts I listened to an African pastor describe how to use an “EvangeCube” (manufactured in Tennessee). Instead of listening to African songs African drums in a worship service with no time restraints I’ve endured brutally boring Anglican liturgy (manufactured in England), and contemporary worship songs. The stereotype that I had of African Christianity is that it would be – African.

So as Florence and I looked at each other's shocked expressions the last of our stereotypes came crashing down. I destroyed her hope in a white Jesus and she destroyed my hope in an African one; I guess we’ll both have to settle for a Jewish Jesus for now. I’m disappointed in how influential “Western/white” culture is, but I’m not convinced that the expression of faith I have found here is anything but authentic and genuine. I may have not found what I thought I would, but it’s not less “Ugandan”, and the Jewish Jesus I know probably doesn’t care as much as the African American Manny that faith and culture don’t collide as neatly as I would have thought. As more stereotypes are dissembled, I’m ready to encounter this culture on its terms, not mine. Hopefully, in that process I’ll learn to also encounter Jesus, also on his terms, not mine.

The Real Hotel Rwanda

So we just so happened to bump into Paul Rusesabagina outside of the hotel that the movie Hotel Rwanda is based on. After spending time in Rwanda learning about the genocide I now know that the movie is very inaccurate. Paul Rusesabagina is a true hero though... he's legit. The UN... not so much.

Enjoy.

Riots in Kampala

So, this is the thing... every tribe in Uganda has a King called a Gabaca. Uganda as a whole has a President. Today President Museveni didn't allow the Bugandan Gabaca (Buganda is the largest tribe in Uganda) to enter Kampala. This is a BIG NO NO... and riots followed. The Riots got so intense it made it's way to Mukono and no students were allowed to go to their families. We could literally hear gunshots... so we decided to record a video. Duh!

Are you a Negro?

I met Mama Aida and the rest of my family on Wednesday. I exchanged introductions with all eight of my new brothers and sisters as they proceeded to make my bed and unpack, unfold, and hang all the contents of my suitcase. Calling them hospitable would be an understatement.

While all of this is going on my new 22 year old sister, Florence, looks at me and asks, "Are you a Negro?" I think for a couple seconds and give a hesitant yes. "You look like Obama! You Negro!" By this point I'm in mild shock. I haven't heard the word Negro used in years... and never have I been asked whether or not I was one. This has been my most awkward but hilarious social interactions so far. Brian (my roommate) and I are the 17th and 18th students my family has hosted and I am the first Black American, or Negro according to Florence. Many Ugandans never even see Black American except on TV.

While all the students were filing into the DC airport I realized I was the only Black student out of 43. 42 Mzungus (the Ugandan term for white person) and me. My experience will be very different than theirs', when I walk to school from my house nobody stares, I actually feel like I fit in everywhere I go, and my family is very happy and proud to have a Negro live with them for a change.

Tomorrow I leave at 5AM for Rwanda to learn about the genocide of 1994... It will be a very intense 10 days. I will blog all about it (along with bucket bathing and eating Matooki) when I return.

Dads and Doors

A couple of months ago my Dad surprised me with a new car, a 2006 Honda Civic named Bella. Bella replaced my Ford Focus which I could not justify spending the time or energy to name. Bella was a pretty big upgrade from the Focus, to say the least.

When my Dad first gave me the car he spent about an hour explaining how I needed to be responsible by taking good care of my car and how I needed to show him that I appreciated this gift by cleaning it and taking it in on time for routine oil changes and what not. He went on ...and on... and on.

Last weekend while out with some friends I got into a bit of an accident. I was entering a parking lot and got stuck. The decline into the particular parking lot I was entering was too steep, my wheels lifted off the ground leaving the undercarriage of my car resting on the gravel. I tried multiple times to maneuver my way out but Bella was stuck. We called a tow truck to pull Bella out of the ditch and it seemed the saga was over, until I tried opening the door.

CREEEEEEEEK...

The weight of my car had been resting on the body of the car instead of on the wheels and somehow in the process the gap in between the body of my car and my door closed... and my door wouldn't open all the way. The rubbing was causing the paint to scape off every time I got in and out of my car. This made looking cool as I got in and out of my car very difficult.

I made a split second decision once I noticed my door: "I'm NOT telling my Dad...He'll be pissed."

I got through the weekend without him noticing, I even got through Monday. I got home Tuesday and as soon as I walked into the house he asked me, "What's wrong with your car?'

"Ummmmmmm..." The stuttering problem I immediately developed upon arriving at my house prohibited me from explaining what happened as articulately as I just did.

"Let's go downstairs and see what's wrong." By this point I had an attitude. First, because keeping this from my Dad was an epic fail and who doesn't get an attitude once they've been caught for something? In addition to being upset that I got caught... I knew I was in store for a very long lecture on how to be careful while driving and a lesson on how to drive and not have accidents happen. Needless to say by this point I was not in a good mood... pride never deals well with the humility that comes from being exposed and honest.

We get downstairs and within ten minutes my Dad had fixed my door. He closed my door, walked towards me and said, "If you had just told me sooner, it would have been fixed. It's not good to keep things from me."

How many times have I tried to hide the broken areas of my life from the only One who can fix them? ...countless

How many times have I said, "I'll fix this on my own. I don't need God?" ...countless

How many times have I been too full of shame or fear because of mistakes that I've made therefore I purposefully hide from God? ...countless

Tuesday as I walked back to my room I realized that the door of my heart was just as damaged as the door to my car... unable to open fully and hidden from the one with a solution. Just like I misjudged my dad, thinking he would just be upset at the fact I made a mistake, I had misjudged the character of God so many times, unable to trust the One with my best interest at heart. Just like I thought I could hide my car from my dad, I've been foolish enough to think I could hide the contents of my heart from God, pretending like secrets don't fracture relationships.

Tuesday God used my dad to remind me that I can trust Him more than I think, that nothing is hidden from Him, and that He's waiting to mend, heal, and fix whatever mess I've made. Maybe I'm the only one that has tried to drown out God's voice calling for me to return to him and desperately hiding from His presence. Maybe I'm the only one that has made mistakes and been too afraid and full of shame to confess and repent and allow God to minister forgiveness to me. But what I know about human nature tells me otherwise. I pray we learn from my dad as well...

Hope you enjoyed this Kristie... it was for you.

Where Does It Begin

Seeing the need in Africa is overwhelming to western eyes, and well, to any eyes. Seeing it firsthand, you get a vast feeling of helplessness - that it all seems very unrepairable. The continent, it seems, is in full despair. But can we say that?

We see the townships, the shack communities, we see the flooded homes, soggy mattresses, if any mattresses. We see the need for shelter, food, and clean water.

Then we look to the children and we see their wide smiles. How is it that these kids can smile and laugh without food in their bellies? Without parents at home, or without parents at all. And without a proper home (in western minds at least).

How is it that after this, after a feeding scheme, the kids could run and play with us, after being reminded that their stomachs are hungry - most still hungry? The joy they contain is overwhelming, bubbling over to change and raise the expressions of our faces. It's not hard to decipher which is more puzzling, the fact that there are masses of starving children or the fact that the masses of starving children are so joyous.

I chatted with a young man named Thando, a new found friend of mine, as we walked through his home, a township of shack homes called Kuyamundi. He told me he could not live any other way, or in any other place. This is his home. He told me I was welcome to live with him in his shack for a year. An invite I didn't take lightly. He said that I would see why he said what he said, that I would learn a few things (and indeed I would). But, I think I already see. Of course, on a low understandable level, but this is how I think Thando feels - and how I think I am coming to feel more and more:

Thando and I are both Christians. He and I both know that the United States is filled with more than its share of the rich, the self-absorbed, and the distracted. An American will say, " God has blessed me with these TVs, toys, and clothes, this beautiful house and expensive car." I think both Thando and I speculate that maybe these things are not blessings. That statement sounds harsh; but maybe these "blessings" are built as distractions. Distractions that skewer our view of God and the world. The toys can fog our ideas of what is important in life. The cars can drive our understanding of God, that He is good because he has given us nice cars. This of course is not the case for everyone, but it is evidently the fact in many American homes.

But here, to Thando, that is not the case. The possessions are nonexistent. There are less distractions, exempt the reality of very visible poverty. And that may not be a distraction so much as a challenge. Thando is a member of a leadership group (under a mission organization called Kuyasa) called Hats and Glasses. The point is to find and train the leaders of 'tomorrow'. Thando doesn't want to leave his community because he wants to grow it and change it for the better - not in a possessional way but in a spiritual way.

It is a strange reality that a young man such as Thando would not choose to leave a simple shack for what would be a nicer home in our minds. Nonetheless, it is a reality, and it is a hopeful one. He knows that there is more out there than a fancy home, an expensive car, and fashionable shoes. He knows that those items come and they go. He knows more than the average young person, let alone the average young person in the States.

And so I wonder, here in Africa, were does the need end and the blessing begin?

South Africa is a beautiful country filled with the fingerprints of God.

- Jesse Poole

0183

Today while walking around the township of Kayamandi we met this lovely lady. Her name is Leah. Kayamandi is home to 28,000 members of South Africa's Xhosa tribe, and today, like many winter days in Kayamandi, it rained a lot.

This is no problem for most Americans, because we live in actual houses, with roofs that work. Unfortunately for Leah, who's husband died years ago, tin shack 0183 is not waterproof and when it rains everything she owns gets soaking wet.

When our team first met Leah, the entire inside of her shack was covered in water. The ground was soaking wet despite the sea of buckets covering her floor. So we did what any group of people would do. We went into town, bought plastic to cover her roof and spent the entire afternoon making sure that Leah didn't have to live in a leaky shack, sleeping in a wet bedroom. It's my opinion that nobody should have to sleep in a soaking wet shack with rain constantly pouring in. But definitely not a sweet old lady, who's old enough to be my grandmother.

Nobody may care about what our team did today. But Leah cares, because she can sleep dry tonight. People may think that we made no big difference since there are several thousand shacks that are still leaky and wet. But there's one that's not, and to Leah we made a huge difference. Others may think making a real difference means building her a real home. But to Leah, tin shack 0183 is a real home. It's her home, she's lived in this shack for over 10 years, and it's always been leaky until today.

To fix Leah's shack cost about $12 and 2 hours of our time to listen to her story and fix her roof. All it really takes is caring enough to help meet people's needs. Everyone can make a difference in one person's life.

No excuses.
No pessimistic attitudes.
Just hearts of compassion and hands ready to serve one person.

This is the thing. And this is for you Leah.

Mary Singing.

This girl's name is Mary. As our team left her school she wanted to sing for us. She sang in Zulu, the words of the song mean: "My thoughts are filled with the Holy Spirit." As I stood in front of her in awe I was finally able to put a name and face with all the staggering statistics we hear in America. From now on I won't think of the millions that live with HIV/AIDS in depressing poverty. I will remember one little girl. Mary's voice. Mary's face. Mary's name. I'll never forget her, I promise. I heard the Holy Spirit in this little girl's voice. I wish I had the words to describe it, but some things you just have to be there for.

This is the Thing. And this is for you Mary. Now that I have seen you I am responsible.

Roxanne

My Dad.

The last time I hung out with my dad I was 11 and we went to go see "The Mask" with Jim Carey. I remember exactly how I felt about my dad at that age, but to simply say he was my hero sums it all up. I remember the day we went to see "The Mask" because I always looked forward to hanging out with my dad... it was always a highlight. Lots of things have changed since I was 11 and circumstances have come in the way of my dad and I having the best relationship in the world, but some things never change. For some reason a man that I've said I've hated in the past is still my hero and just to spend time with him still makes me feel really special.

All we did was go out for lunch, go to see "Wolverine", and wash my car, but it was a day I'll never forget. Because I had been hurt by my dad so much in the past my automatic reaction when it comes to our relationship is to protect myself, my feelings, my expectations, and my emotions; because I don't want to get hurt I usually become numb and turn all defense mechanisms on full blast.

But that's an awful way to live.

I realized sitting in that restaurant with my father that I do love him, I do have hope and expectations and that's healthy and normal. I've finally come to the point in my relationship with my father where I'm not constantly thinking how I need to protect myself. By protecting my emotions, I realized I would never grow and mature, emotionally at least.

Love equals risk. Relationships require lots of risk and vulnerability. Accepting the fact that I love my dad, despite our history, is a huge step for me and I just wanted to share that with my Blogger family. I forgave my father a year and a couple months ago and told him I loved him for the first time in years. Last week we hung out for the first time since age 11. If I can make progress so can you. This is a very sincere encouragement to all those who have a hard time reconciling with a parent, specifically a dad. There's hope! You don't have to have bulletproof emotions. Don't be afraid to be vulnerable for in your moments of vulnerability you will find true strength.

Let's Kill the King...

 "In the year that King Uzziah died, 

I [Isaiah] saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted, 

and the train of his robe filled the temple."

Isaiah 6:1

Isn't is ironic that Isaiah saw the Lord in a breath-taking vision right after King Uzziah died? 

What "king" needs to die in your life in order for you to see God?

Like... maybe sometimes it takes death to finally get a revelation from God and of God. 

Maybe it takes killing some things in our lives before we can hear God clearly and see his purposes in our lives. 

"Kings" may represent anything that sits on an undeserved throne in your life. If you ever hear God's direction, or see His vision for your life, or have him reveal your true identity it will come after you've killed something in your life that's a "king". 

your pride.

unforgiveness.

bitterness.

selfishness.

a relationship. 

an addiction or habit.

Once King Uzziah dies, Isaiah is able to get a vision from the one true King. Makes sense. 

Isaiah had a choice though. He could have mourned King Uzziah's death, holding onto the dead weight of a dead king. So many times we hold on to dead weight. We stay in dead relationships. We go to dead churches. 

Maybe God has killed that relationship for a reason... and you keep trying to hold on to it. If it's dead, let it go and move on. 

Maybe we hold on to dead things because it's familiar, it's what we're used to. Maybe to embrace the new and unpredictable course for your life. But what happens when we begin to shed all the dead areas of our lives that aren't producing anything? I believe that's when we receive a revelation from God about the NEW and UNFAMILIAR places and plans He has for us. Although the dead feels familiar, God's best for us is found in the new, the unexpected, the unplanned, the unfamiliar, the scary, the different.

Kill what needs to die and chart a new course based on a revelation from God... then take a huge leap of faith into the unknown. The life of a prophet was unpredictable and scary but Isaiah accepted that call. 

"Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 

'Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?'

 And I [Isaiah] said, "Here am I. Send me!"

Isaiah 6:8

The Truth About You

Every night after Reveal and Respond various students would approach me to talk, to wrestle through certain issues, or to ask me questions, which I absolutely enjoyed. While talking to people, I noticed a certain pattern. People would often say things like, "I wish God could change me" or "I know God wants to change me but I'm not ready, "All I need is for God to just change me." 

All of these statements rely on the premise that for some reason God wants to change us. If God created you, and loves you, and accepts you, why would he need to change you? Are these questions based on a wrong assumption we have about God, and the intrinsic value and worth He's placed in each of us?

God doesn't need to nor does He want to change any of us. Why not? Because he created us just the way He wants us to be. Rather than change us, I believe God wants us to discover our true selves, our identity that can only be found in Him, and to base our lives on the truth of our real identity.

He doesn't want to change us. 

He wants to reveal to us who we really are. 

He wants to introduce us to the unlimited potential we have. 

He wants us to become us.  Because in becoming the creation we were made to be we worship the Creator. 

The last thing God wants to do is to change who you are, because then He would be losing out on a part of His creation. He doesn't want to change you, if anything He wants you to be more... you. God rejoices in each intricate piece of the puzzle that makes you, you. Neither does He want to change a thing about you. It's such a part of our culture to want to change ourselves that we believe God also wants to change us. Well, He doesn't. He's only interested in showing you who you really are. 

Don't pray to God to ask Him to change you. Pray for Him to reveal the truth about who you really are and respond in obedience.