Write With Grace

Playtime at the Orphanage in Africa

The late sun cast a glow of Oscar gold on the girls' faces and on the fields of lush green crops behind them. Four or five of them sat in the patch of grass in a circle, legs crossed Indian style, each with palms up and slapping against the palms to their left and right in rhythmic beats to the song  they sang in Luo. Stella in her red dress, Lucky with those wide and gracious eyes, Pesca in her bright teal and pink with the spirit of an ornery five year old, Sarah shy in pink, and Eunice, soaking it all in from a distance. A chicken strode peacefully toward them but kept a safe distance in the dirt as the girls giggled and fell over at the end of each round. Faster and faster they slapped, keeping perfect cadence with their chants.

Scott was nicknamed "the tree." He is tall, about 6'4". The kids loved to play chase with him.  He ran towards them with a loud "ROOAAARRRR", long arms outstretched wide to catch them as they laughed and screamed and tried to run away; a group of them scattering and laughing, and then reconvening for protection and then scattering again as he sped closer. They never tired of taunting him so he would chase them. He never tired of their joy, the squeals and smiles of contentedness.

Pappa T, who glows with an aura of boyish charm and meeknees, climbed to the top of the mattresses stacked in the main hut, "surfing" on them. Several of the boys followed him up there to make the stack sway even farther. Mamma Sylvia quickly scolded her husband, through a smile, for being a bad influence; but we couldn't help but laugh. It was funny to see a grown man being mischievous and trying to get away with it. He did.

Gymnastics really gets them going. Cartwheels, somersaults, and rolls…but no-one could top the boy who can walk several feet on his hands!

On one of the last nights we were there, I pulled Eunice aside. She's a thinker and a learner. "Let me teach you a game," I said. We sat facing each other in the warm glow as the sun made its final decent behind the corn. "Palms up." I showed her the clapping rhythm: right, clap, left, clap, clap, back, front, clap, to be repeated throughout the song.  Then I taught her the lyrics as I learned them when I was a girl:

Say say oh playmate,

Come out and play with me!

And bring your dollies three,

Climb up my apple tree!

Slide down my rainbow,

Into my cellar door!

And we'll be jolly friends,

Forever more, more,

More, more, more, more !

The other girls wanted to play too, so several of us paired up to teach the clapping game. Eunice caught on quickly with the rhythm but struggled a bit to remember the English song. I took out my journal, the one with the peach colored lined pages adorned with butterflies and flowers, and wrote down the words. She smiled brightly and I could see the wheels turning. "Now this is your job," I said, tearing out the page and handing it to her, "to teach the other girls. When you sing the friendship song, you will remember that even though we live on the other side of the world, we will be friends forever." She was beaming, her smile emanating a glow of companionship. She took the paper and got up to go practice by herself.

 On the last night, after the goodbyes were sung, Eunice found me in the dark courtyard and pulled me into the light powered by the generator. She was ready to show me that she had memorized the song. Shy, and afraid to start, I said, "I'll sing with you." We sang and clapped together with perfect rhythm. "Friends forever," she said with a hug that will stay with me for a lifetime. "Friends forever," I said. –Tara Schiro, Write With Grace, the mission trip to Lira, Uganda, through Children of the Nations and Real Life Church

Faith in Uganda and Rio the Rat

It was my turn to sleep in the dorms at the orphanage. There's no electricity there. No convenient way to use the restroom. When the doors and windows clang shut, it is total blackout. My eyes bulged at the strain of trying to see my hand an inch from my face; I thought if I kept opening them wider and wider I might be able to see something.  But then I heard something I didn't want to hear, the "eeh-eeh-eeh" sound of a rat, and I quickly decided that being in the dark was better. Not a good plan.

Our team of fifteen took turns over a three night period, staying in groups of three of four, and my group stayed the third night. Each of us stayed in a different dorm to spread the wealth, so to speak, amongst the kids. The children were over the moon with excitement to have the Americans for a sleepover. The dorms are concrete and brick buildings with metal bunk beds that are made-up military style every morning the minute the kids get out of bed. The floors are mopped twice per day. The rooms are immaculate.

Has your child ever left food in his or her room? Yep, mine, too. Rest assured, kids putting food under their bed is a world-wide epidemic. Kids are kids no matter where you go. Earlier that morning, Stacy had mentioned that the dorm she stayed in had a rat in it. I was in the same dorm, with the same rat, and now I had a sinking feeling I knew the problem. There was a plate of rice and beans under the bed next to mine.

Before we went to bed, we played games and then Mamma Lucy and the eight beautiful girls sang songs, danced, clapped their hands and prayed ferociously to Jesus for protection, while giving unabashed thanks for the abundance they have been given, and praising him with pure joy. My feelings of unworthiness kicked in as I listened and watched. When the flashlight was turned off, and I lay in complete darkness, I was terrified.

Rio the rat made its way from the rafters down the wall, down the metal pole on my bed (I could hear its toenails clicking against the metal as it passed), and then across the end of my mattress by my pillow (pitter-patter pitter-patter, which sounded like thunder) and down to the floor to make its way to the rice and beans. Luckily it took a different route to go back up to the rafters. Up and down it went, ceiling to floor, across my bed, mere inches from my head. I thought about turning on the flashlight but what if it was big? What if it had a long tail? What if it wasn't a rat? I decided to stay in the dark.

I began to yell at God in my head: 'REALLY?!! If you are the Creator of all things, then you talk to that rat of yours and tell it to take another route down the wall!!! Make it go the other way!! Are you kidding me?? Does it really need to use MY bed as a freeway??' On the rat's 20^th trip across my bed, it became apparent that God was not going to answer my "prayer."

I was stiff as a board in my bed. Rigor mortis was setting in. I clutched my purse so hard it made an indent in my chest. I made myself as small as I could to take up less space; the theory was to be out of the way of the rat so it wouldn't get caught in my hair. I listened to the girls snoring away in their beds without a care in the world. No restless moving around, just completely relaxed. "Why aren't you listening to me?!?!" I screamed in my head. "I want to sleep, too!! I need my sleep!! I have a long day tomorrow!! You talk to that thing and make it go away!! I know you can!! I know you have the power!! Why are you making me go through this?!?!"  I was so mad at God I would have punched him right in the face if he would have shown himself to me.

My heart was pounding, my breathing was labored, I couldn't move. I was in FEAR. For HOURS. And my bladder was full. No way was I getting up.  At some point in the night, the goat out in the corn field decided to make some noise: they sound exactly like a man being murdered. It's a God-awful noise. I almost laughed out loud. My night was complete.

Now that I'm back in my own home, with the lights on, I can see the clear picture of faith in the girls. They were putting their prayers into action. They behaved as if their prayers of protection were already being answered. They were peacefully at rest. One of the little one's had told Stacy, "don't worry, they don't bite." Yeesh.  Stacy slept fine, by the way. I, on the other hand, have had to take a serious look at my beliefs and get down on my knees in repentance.

I've had to admit that I've been talking out of both sides of my mouth. On one hand, I hear and agree that Faith is a verb; it is not blind or passive, it is active and aggressive, based on who God is. When the Israelites were being chased, they had to run into the water before God parted it. 'Yes, yes,' I say. 'We must move in faith first, and then God will save us.' But as my head was nodding in agreement, my body was standing on the shore with my arms folded across my chest, waiting for the sea of my problems to be parted before I moved forward.

I've done this with my marriage, my family, my job, my purpose in life, my relationships…any situation that I am a part of. I nod my head, 'Oh yes, I believe God will take care of me,' and then I stand still and wait on the shore for him to make the first move.

I was rigid with fear, sweating, waiting for God to take away the rat before I would relax. I didn't sleep. I couldn't relax because I didn't believe. I didn't have active faith. I wanted the rat to go away first, so I could SEE that I was safe, and then I could rest. This isn't faith. This is pride.

Faith requires action from me. Instead of screaming and cursing God to take away the problem, I need to change the dialogue in my head to match what I say I believe. Proper faith would have allowed me to relax and sleep peacefully, knowing that God would protect me from the current situation. I needed to say, 'thank you Father, for your protection. You've protected these girls, this orphanage, our travels to this place, and based on who you are, I believe you will protect me from this rat.' That's what I should have said. He did protect me. Nobody has been bothered by Rio. But I couldn't believe it. I couldn't embrace it. And I paid for it with a miserable, sleepless night.   –by Tara Hoke Schiro

The bed I slept in is the bottom bunk in the middle of the second  picture :) The first picture shows the girls of faith: Helen, Eunice, Anna, Rose, Pesca, Stella, Lucky, and Sarah.

What Really Happened in Africa

I found an orphan in Uganda; but not the one I was looking for or wanted to meet. This is the one I was actively pushing away. I didn't want to acknowledge she existed. I tried to amuse her by being friendly and pretending she was a part of the group. When a situation arose that demanded truth, I tried to placate her by handing her a journal and telling her to write but that didn't really work. Finally, I tried to ignore her altogether but she kept coming back, demanding my attention but not telling me why. She wanted to show me something. I told her no.

The veil between us and God is a little bit thinner in Africa. Here in the States it seems like a drape hanging between us and the throne; the kind that is so thick it blocks the light from coming in the window to wake you up. In Africa, it seems like gauze billowing in the breeze; you can make out images of the Spirit, but it's still not completely clear. Minus the thick heaviness of gathering material possessions, or bank deposits, or the busyness of success, there is the freedom to feel—to allow—the breeze of grace and compassion to be the wind that carries you, that connects your soul to another.

My favorite part of the trip was shaking hands at a local high school we visited just outside of Lira. Our team was to be the highlight of their assembly. They weren't ready for us when we arrived so they sat us in the middle of the courtyard to wait. Sitting in a fishbowl is an understatement. Several hundred kids, maybe a thousand, sat two or three deep around the perimeter on the sidewalks of the buildings…all staring at us, the "moonos," the white people. Because of another assembly that was running late, it was decided we would not stay and talk to the students. Our team leader instructed us to go around the courtyard and quickly high-five the kids sitting and waiting. I didn’t want to be quick. I tried to shake as many hands as possible, looking each one in the eye, smiling, saying hello. Some shook my hand, some gave me the knuckle bump, some took my hand with palms up, and one young man put a fist to his chest. I asked what that meant. "Friend. You are my friend."

For most of the trip I felt very inadequate and out of place. I painted the buildings at the COTN orphanage with other team members, but this isn't what was needed. What was needed was something I didn't think I had. I'm not a good conversationalist; mingling at cocktail parties is worse than a root canal. I'm not good at praying; especially out loud in front of an audience. I'm not good at imparting spiritual wisdom; I don't know the right words to use to make someone feel better. I needed to offer them my soul but my soul was blocked off. I felt all I had to offer was a smile and a handshake. A simple touch that said, "You matter. You are not forgotten."

That orphan girl, the one that wouldn't leave me alone, needs to hear that she matters and that she is not forgotten. Physical poverty is one thing; wells can be dug, food can be brought, medicine can be supplied, to end the deprivation . But spiritual deficiency is something else entirely. It is up to the individual, a decision must be made, to see and believe. Spiritual fullness doesn't get delivered in a package from another person. It is first a personal decision to reach up vertically and plug our soul into the soul of God himself, to allow Him to be everything we need, to depend on Him for the very breath in our lungs; and then it is reaching out horizontally and connecting our soul to the souls of our fellow human beings, validating them, breathing life into them, putting our arms around them and never letting go.

The orphan girl wanted to show me something. I told her no.

If you Serve, Expect to get Served...Fruit

Serving has a way of putting life into focus. For some people, the result is bad. It makes us question who we are and what our life is about. We might serve food at the homeless shelter, we might visit a safe house for inner-city kids, we might make a meal for a cancer patient, we might go to Africa and serve at an orphanage.  The point is that serving exposes us to situations that are uncomfortable: disease, dysfunction, filth. And once we are in that uncomfortable position, we are left with a choice: Do I invest in this problem and make a commitment to continue to help? Or do I pound a few nails so I can put 'serving' on my resume' and then go back to my own life?

A question I've asked myself is this: the world is such a mess, there are so many starving people both here and abroad; why isn't anybody doing anything? Why does there have to be such a disparity between the haves and the have not's? I came across a quote one day that went like this: "A man was praying and said, 'God, why aren't you doing anything about this problem?' And God said to the man, 'I'd like to ask you the same thing.'"

A lesson I've learned since returning from my trip to Uganda is that many people are not interested in knowing about Africa or the orphans. I quickly discerned which friends or family wanted to know about the trip and which ones did not. I use a simple litmus test to decide how much information to give to the person in front of me. I bring up the fact that I was in Uganda for two weeks and then I wait for them to ask  questions. I will stand there as long as it takes to answer as many questions  as they like. But, if they do not ask questions, other than "how was your trip," then I know that this person really does not want to hear about my experience. And the reason, I think, is because they do not want the responsibility of knowing there are people on the planet that need their help. These same people will turn around and complain about how messed up the world is but when the rubber meets the road, so to speak, they don't want to get involved. They want to stay in the dark as much as possible so they can be comfortable in their own little world.

I wrote in a recent blog post that "serving isn't about the doing; serving is about the relationship through the doing. It is validating one another, human to human, to say to that person: you matter enough for me to give you a hand and lift you up." It is at this point where we who are serving get served. It is a humbling check of the ego to give to "the least of these." Once we serve, the selfish side of us rears up and tells us we don't need to be involved on a continual basis. Our house needs repaired, our kids need clothes, we've been talking about that luxury vacation for three years. If we commit ourselves to helping this problem, we can kiss our own lives goodbye. We will have to start saying no to us and yes to a stranger who is probably too lazy to help themselves anyway. They want that life. They choose that life. They were born in the wrong country, how is that my problem? Right? Don't we say those things to ourselves? I know I do.

Knowledge is costly. When we expose ourselves to the atrocities of this world, we are exposing our heart to the possibility that it might break. When our heart breaks, we must do something to repair it. We can either go back to life as it was and either block or rationalize the experience to make ourselves feel better, or, we can re-prioritize our life and continue to make a difference. This is a hard decision because it means we need to give up being selfish. We may need to give up monetary goals or dreams. But when we make the decision to embrace humanity, to roll up our sleeves and forget about ourselves, we will be served the best kind of fruit on the planet: the Fruit of the Spirit, "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness,  faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. For against such things, there is no law." Galatians 5:22-23

Serving Is Always More Than You Bargain For

A version of this post will be published in the Sept/Oct SFV-CAMFT publication, CONNECTIONS

Even though I’m not a therapist, I spend a lot of time sizing people up. I love to pinpoint why a person is insecure, why they take control of every situation, why they think they know it all. But on a recent trip to Uganda, I was the one who needed my head examined. I was in a third world country serving the poorest of the poor, the orphans--and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what I had to offer that was of any use.

Fifteen of us from Real Life Church in Santa Clarita were part of the annual trek this year to the orphanage that our church built in 2007. Back then, we raised $50,000 and in partnership with Children of the Nations (COTN), sent a team to lay the bricks for the school and dorms. Every year since, a team has raised money to go back to complete another project. This year we built a latrine, painted the dorms, and organized the sea container we’d sent last August. I signed up to be a part of this year’s team--initially not for the right reasons. I raised my hand because I was bored being at home all the time. I don’t get to go anywhere because I have kids and don’t really have any occasion to go anywhere by myself. I wanted an adventure. I wanted to see what the planet looked like on the other side. I wanted out for a while. “Serving” is always more than you bargain for. I put that in italics because I’m still not clear who was serving whom. We were there “to do” things for them, things that needed to be done, but they were much more interested in relationship. They wanted to serve us. We were their guests. Some of the locals gave us chickens and fruit in gratitude for taking care of the children. We stayed in a clean guest house where we were fed and someone did our laundry and made up our mosquito nets every day. More importantly, they wanted to know if we were coming back and pleaded with us to remember them once we left for the States.

If I were to size up the people of Uganda I would say they are hard workers for daily survival. They make three trips a day to a well a few miles away just to be able to drink and bathe and wash the plates. They sell food or clothes in the market and barely survive on a dollar a day. I would also say that the orphans, and the Nationals who take care of them through COTN, are grateful beyond understanding. They sing and dance praises for everything they have. I did not hear one of them complain about anything. They praise God for the abundance they have been given.

They have been torn with civil war and brutalized from vicious attacks by the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) rebels. Northern Uganda has suffered civil war for over two decades. The LRA was formed in the late 1990’s to resist against the Ugandan Government, but when support for them began to dwindle after the death of its founding leader, the LRA’s new leadership took a violent turn and began plundering villages, setting them on fire, raping, butchering, and kidnapping boys to force them to become child soldiers for them. The Ugandan government tried to help its citizens by rounding them up into IDP (Intentionally Displaced Persons) camps to try and give them military protection, but this lead to disease and famine and the LRA rebels often out-powered the military. In February of 2004 the LRA attacked the IDP camp of Barlonya where our orphans came from. The rebels are now hiding out in the Congo and causing the same kind of havoc in that area. Many of our orphans watched their parents burned alive in their huts, hiding in the human waste in pit latrines to avoid being raped or butchered with a machete. Many ran into the bush to avoid being captured and made into a child soldier. The ones that  were babies at the time of the attack are told the tragic story of their parents death by their current guardians; and they are told to forget about them because they are not coming back.

Our church continues to serve these children so when they grow up they can hope to fulfill their dreams of becoming doctors or lawyers or teachers. They want to make a difference. They know quite well where they came from, but they also know that they need our help so their past doesn’t become their future.  They depend on us for three meals a day, an education, a clean and safe place to sleep, for clean drinking water and access to medical care. They depend on us to serve, whether or not our reasons are in the right place. Serving isn’t about doing; it is about relationship through the doing, human to human, that says we value one another and desire to lift one another up so we can all have a meaningful life.

Tara Hoke Schiro is the Associate Editor of CONNECTIONS. NOTE: There are many children on the waiting list to be a part of the program at the orphanage. Through Children of the Nations, $32 per month will drastically change an orphan’s life. If you would like to sponsor a child in the village of Lira, Uganda, please visit www.COTNI.org.

Remind me, again, why we're in Uganda…

We came to serve the forgotten ones; the poorest of the poor, the least of the least. It sounds good in theory, but after hearing the presentation at the mass grave site, I felt really stupid. How was I supposed to help? We were in Barlonya, the IDP camp just outside of Lira where a good majority of the orphans we were helping came from. Their origins were here. They were born here, lived here, and watched their parents die here. This was their history. The massacre in February of 2004 by the LRA was their start in life and we needed to learn it.

My kids have cell phones and iPods and a Mac laptop. They can open the pantry and eat whatever they want in an air conditioned room while watching a cake decorating competition or the latest experiment on Mythbusters.  We think this is living.

Helen Apio came from Barlonya. The LRA rebels jumped out of the bush and shot her mom between the eyes. Helen pulled at her and cried, "wake up wake up," but she was already dead. Her father and brother were burning alive in the hut. The camp was in chaos. Women were being raped. Helen took a blanket from a dead man, wrapped it around her and tried to pull an old man, whose legs were on fire, into the bush. Her blanket caught on fire and burned her arms. Her aunt was able to rescue her and take her to a medical facility. She now lives at the COTN orphanage where we are "serving." She is grateful to God.

I think I'd like to have an iPad. They are lighter than a laptop and checking my emails from a larger screen would be easier on my eyes than on my cell phone when I'm on the go.

Maureen Abura's grandmother decided to hide them in the pit latrine when the rebels tried to get her to follow them over to the area where they were butchering people with machetes. Many of the kids were being abducted into the rebel army and as their initiation, were being forced to kill people they knew. The rebels kept calling, "are you coming?" and her grandmother kept answering, "yes, I am coming," but they could not see her. She was hiding her family in human excrement. They found her in the morning and shot her in the leg. She died 30 days later. Maureen's eyes are bright now when we hug her and play games with her at the orphanage. She knows she is loved.

Nook, or Kindle? I like the feeling of an actual book in my hand, and I love to take notes in the margins, but the thought of carrying ten heavy books in one little device is appealing.  Maybe I should add this to my Christmas list.

Janet Akello is an orphan. She didn't say how her parents died. She lived in a village just outside of Lira. She slept on the hard floor. She thought she was useless. School was out of the question. There was little or no food and no clean water. She lived in the dirt. Her relatives told her to pray for a better life but she refused. Someone suggested her name to COTN and she was accepted. At first she was uncomfortable but after a week began to trust and enjoy being taken care of. She now had plenty of food, clothes, medical care, clean well water to drink and bath in, and schooling. She gets to study! In the village she had nothing and knew nothing. Now she speaks English and knows that God rescued her through COTN. Now she is excited to praise God for her many friends, the relationship with whites, and the many blessings that come every day. She has no mother, but she has many Mama's that love her and take care of her at the orphanage.

I can't wrap my mind around all this. I'm not sure how I’m supposed to help or what I can do for them. They are stronger than me, braver than me, more grateful than me. What am I doing here?

In Search of Orphans …in Africa

We arrived in the dark. The headlights gave us a glimpse of the fields and mud huts as we turned the corners down the red dirt road. Pedestrians and cattle appeared and disappeared in and out of the light. Now you see them, now you don't.  If you were to ask us on that moonless night where we were headed, we would have told you we were going to meet the orphans. The one's whose parents were burned in the fire or killed by a bullet that first passed through their own hand. But we didn't know that yet. We had our mission statement, and not much else. "Going to help the orphans" had an idyllic tone to it and we were on our way. We squished together in the seats as the tires crawled in-and-out of large holes and rivets, swaying the van off center.

 We were late; the drive from Entebbe airport took longer than expected. But this was Africa and in Africa, you're always on time no matter when you show up.  As we rounded the property line, a row of 58 children and a handful of adults showed up in the light and were gone again as the lights of the van made the final turn down the straight path to our destination. Shouts and screams and whoops came out of their mouths in great excitement as they chased the van waving palm fronds in the air and brushing the dirt in front of the van as we inched further. We were surrounded with high pitched "loo-loo-loo"s coming through the windows on all sides. The 15 of us were wide-eyed, trying to see in the dark with more than our eyes. The van stopped, the side door swung open, and one by one they pulled us into their arms with celebration, some being picked up and carried with celebration, like a mosh pit. 

We danced in battery powered light in the courtyard of the dorms. The kids tried to teach us African steps, the traditional dance, and I tried to keep up. I was there, but I wasn't there. I studied their dark faces: beautiful, glowing, and smiling bright, as they bounced up and down and tried not to make fun of the way we—I—fumbled awkwardly through the steps but were outwardly happy we had arrived and were dancing with them. The music was loud. We were sticky. I held tight to my water bottle. My shoe was uneven on the grass and dirt, pitching me in directions opposite of where I wanted. I smiled...on the outside.

We were in search of orphans. The destitute kind. The in-need-of-saving kind. The I can be a hero by helping them kind. But we were in the dark. That moonless night on the other side of the world was the beginning of the search for a kind of orphan we didn't yet understand or want to face.  The kind we might only find by traveling to Africa. The kind that is recognized and catches in your throat during a parting embrace with Helen or Eunice or Olivia…and I swallow and push it back down into the dark pit of my gut. I don't want to see.

T.I.A. This is Africa

The pee circle was the rite of passage. We stopped the van on the left side of the road and headed in to the bush in a single file line. Whatever preconceptions or inhibitions we may have brought with us were gone now. It was down to the basics: my bladder is full and needs to be emptied. There were no bathrooms on this road; just women walking for miles with bright yellow five gallon water containers on their heads or kids walking for miles to get to school or men biking with bags of cassava or chickens dangling from the frame.  There were other vehicles, transporting wares and people between the two cities or to remote villages, but we paid no attention as our skirts colored the way to "privacy" between the high stalks of green. Our most basic human function called us to ignore all pretense and get on with it. As if being guided by an unknown desire for community, we followed the leader into a circle, faced each other, laughed, squatted, and peed…our skirts acting as curtains around us but not doing as good a job as we would have liked. The men stood along the road on the other side without bothering to conceal anything, and I think they were smiling. This was our new reality. This was the road between Kampala and Lira. This was Africa.

I'm not sure what causes a person to be a missionary; excitement, danger, curiosity, or maybe to carry around a badge of honor to flash in front of your friends. The underlying reason should be to serve those less fortunate, to help those who cannot help themselves. This is my first trip out of the United States and I am in Uganda.  I left Los Angeles with acrylic fingernails and painted toes and now I am in a third world country peeing in the bushes on the side of the road. To say I do not know what I'm doing here might be understated. How will I help someone who seemingly has more strength and tenacity than me? I don't understand carrying five gallons of water on my head. For three miles. I don't understand smiles on the faces of children walking barefoot on hot pavement and gravel for miles and miles. I don't understand what I'm seeing out the windshield during our nine hour drive. The people are busy, here. The villages we pass through are full of vendors, like Venice Beach, selling fruit, maze, clothes or chicken, either cooked or still flapping their wings. The driver pulls over to make a purchase. Immediately a flurry of nationals clamor at the windows pedaling their goods. We learn a new word: Moono. It means white person. They are hesitant, wanting us to buy but wary of how we will treat them. Not too many white people stop at their village.

We smile and say no thank you and they smile back. The young children call "Moono, Moono," to get our attention and wave furiously with huge smiles. We wave back with equally huge smiles and this brings a smile to the adult women, who giggle and look down and look back up again. The driver gets back in the car, we wait for the cows to move out of the way, and we are back on the road headed to the children's' village in Lira. I am searching for something familiar. 'Round and round we go, where we stop, nobody knows.' 

Since landing in Entebbe, every sight and sound is a curiosity. The road we are traveling is not just a paved road flanked with red dirt and lush green landscape.  It is a journey to the unknown place of "…taking care of the least of these…"; to understand if the word missionary is something we want attached to us from now on or if it is a word we will borrow for two weeks to define what we think we are doing here. My western ideals will not fit on this road: a road where there are no lane lines, no traffic signals, and seemingly no sense of order. I am not sure what I can possibly bring to the table, what I have to offer, how I can help. For now, I am just grateful for the skirt, instead of pants, as we make another stop and head yet again into the bush.