Diesel. Everything smelled like diesel exhaust. Every
motorcycle and car/truck/van seemed to be spewing black smoke. That was one of
my first thoughts on the bus as we traveled from Entebbe to Kampala after
stepping off the plane the previous night. It was my first realization that we
were in a different type of place compared to the United States. I live in Dallas, TX and I am no stranger to
noxious fumes and pollution, but this was a whole new level. I am fairly certain that the vast majority of
people in Uganda have never heard of a catalytic converter. In fact, that is one of the first lessons I
came away with from this experience.
Dallas, TX isn’t all that bad.
Having grown up in rural Iowa and having spent half a decade in
mountainous Colorado, I had previously viewed Dallas as pollution filled
concrete wasteland. I still feel that at
times while stuck in traffic on I-635, but compared to the pollution and rutted
out muddy roads of Kampala, Dallas is minty fresh and sparkly. Those traffic filled and pot holed roads
throughout Uganda would play a major role in our week to come.
The guesthouse we were staying at was very nice by Kampala
and U.S. standards. It was comfortable
enough for us not to feel completely out of our element. It served as a nice
refuge after the physically and emotionally draining days ahead.
But I need to pause here for a moment to articulate
something. Comparing Uganda to the
United States is pointless. I spent the
early part of the week doing it and I still find myself doing it. But it is pointless. I would see a house and compare it to homes
in the United States. I would visit a
school and think about how lucky my children are to be attending their world
class schools back home. I would find
myself blaming war, corruption and bad decisions by Ugandans for the poverty
and lack of infrastructure that I witnessed.
This kind of thinking is pointless for three reasons. First, the United States isn’t a utopia. We have our own sets of problems that cut far
deeper than the latest political debates.
For one, we are an extremely self-centered and greedy culture. It is so ingrained into our culture that we
don’t even know it. It took me
experiencing another culture to realize just how extreme it really is in the
United States. But that topic is for
another blog. Secondly, there are simply
too many factors like war, dictators, cultural norms, religion, language,
geography, history and economy to make an adequate comparison between the
United States and Uganda. The only true
comparison that can be made is that they are different; just different. Finally, comparing them is pointless because
it does absolutely no one any good. It
does not help. As the week went along I
learned to stop comparing and judging.
Instead, I found myself living in the moment more. Even better, I found myself better prepared
to live in the moment. I was more
expectant.
A game master is a position similar to a coach or physical
education instructor in the United States.
But that doesn’t quite describe it.
(See what I mean by comparing?)
He was addressing over 400 children who were sitting very quietly already. I believe he meant for them to be ready to
clap or give respect to whoever was introduced next on the stage. But the phrase resonated with me. “Be Expectant.”
Just an hour earlier, our team was riding in our van through
the most impoverished neighborhood I have ever witnessed. I have seen poverty. I used to work for Catholic Charities of
Denver. I’ve volunteered at homeless
shelters and at a Catholic worker house.
My wife is a social worker who works with people experiencing
homelessness. I have been on numerous
service and mission trips. I have seen
poverty, yet I wasn’t quite prepared for this.
I was not expectant. We were
still in the city, but the paved roads had turned into red dirt with huge ruts. We were fortunate it wasn’t raining, as I am
not certain our van would have moved at all in the mud. The homes we slowly passed were very
simple. Dried bricked made of mud, held
together by more mud with sheet metal roofs.
They were mostly one-room dwellings no bigger than my galley kitchen at
home. People, mostly women and children,
sat on front porches working and cleaning.
They could sweep the front porches 24 hours a day and still not keep the
red dust at bay. We breathed it. Everything, including our own clothes,
eventually held a red tint. But our skin
remained stark white in contrast to everyone we drove by. We were the outsiders here. The children would see us slowly driving by
and holler “mzungu!” (white people).
They would gather in groups, staring and pointing at us until we hit a
smooth patch of ground and moved on the down the road. Adults would look up at us with blank
expressions on their faces or they simply ignored us completely.
This was the first and last time that I asked myself what
the hell I was doing in Uganda. I was
actually a little scared and a bit ashamed.
I wanted to head back to the guesthouse and look up when the next flight
left for the United States. I knew I
needed to be here for Fields of Dreams Uganda and for myself. I knew that I would never bail. But at that moment I wanted to go home.
Then everything changed.
I heard the children singing.
We had turned into New Kabaale Busega Orphanage and as we
came up the drive, the sound of children singing slowly got louder. They all came into view, making two lines
forming a pathway from our van to the church on their campus. They were pure joy with big smiles on their
faces. Precious white teeth gleamed
vividly in contrast to their dark ebony skin.
They sang a song of welcome and friendship. It was easily one of the most amazing moments
in my entire life. I had been told how
incredibly loving and friendly the people of Uganda can be, especially the
children. I should have been more
expectant.
We were escorted from our van, between the lines of singers
and into the church. It was Sunday
morning. I spent the next hour listening
to two women from one of the poorest countries in the world share the Word of
God with us. One of the young women
spoke about Isaiah 58. I knew I was in
trouble the moment she mentioned Isaiah 58.
This blog is called Daybreak Gardens because of Isaiah 58. Abigail and I used Isaiah 58 as a reading
during our wedding. I have read Isaiah
58 countless times. Yet it was not until
that moment, in that church in that orphanage in Uganda that I finally
understood it. Trust me on this one,
just open up a bible or Google that passage.
In fact, just click here. Read
it…all the way through. Then imagine
hearing it while surrounded by orphans in one of the poorest neighborhoods in a
country that had been at war or oppressed by a ruthless dictator for 90% of my
life to date. It would be an
understatement to say it was a humbling experience.
I could not have asked for a better way to start the
week.
I could have ended my trip right then and it would have been worth the money and jet lag. But God wasn’t finished with me yet. In fact he was just getting started. I still had to meet Elizabeth, see the child beggars, visit Gulu, shake hands with the coal men, witness the awesomeness of nature, hang out with the widows at the market and witness unbridled joy in hundreds of children. There was a long way to go and this post is only about my first day in Uganda. So, let’s continue.
After the church service ended, we were escorted to an area
in front of an outdoor stage shaded by canopies. We then witnessed a spectacular demonstration
of Ugandan culture as the children performed traditional song and dance for
hours. Jennie was moved to tears as a group of children started singing and
dancing to one of her songs. It was a powerful moment.
Part of the program included Mike Warneke taking the stage to
pass out the soccer and net ball shoes, new jerseys, socks and soccer
balls. The kids went wild, dancing and
cheering for five minutes straight. The moment was joyous, but also
troubling. It was very hard knowing that
I have spent equivalent amounts of money on stupid things that brought far less
joy. 
After the program, I found myself surrounded by 10 little
girls and boys; each grabbing my hands, taking my arms or simply grabbing a
pant leg. They guided me on a tour of
their home and school. They were very soft spoken, but their faces lit up with
joy every time my focus turned to them. I cannot even describe adequately the
quality and joy of those interactions. Faith, a young girl in Primary 6, was so
proud to show me what she had learned in school. We examined a map of Uganda
and she taught me about the districts and regions. Tracy, whose face had been scarred by illness
or some other cause, had a smile that could melt an iceberg. Edison, an older
student engaged me in a conversation of such maturity and intellect that I got
the feeling he would one day grow up to be a strong and passionate leader of
Uganda. To make the whole thing even
more real, the other local teachers and parents challenged us to a game of volleyball.
By the end of the day, I was once again ready to leave. But I had no desire to leave Uganda. I was just tired and ready for bed. Back at the guesthouse I wolfed down my
dinner and headed for bed. Before falling asleep, I thought about those words, "Be Expectant." Tomorrow I would be more prepared. I would be ready to be present for the children. I would be open to God guiding my steps and thoughts. I would expect to be moved by each experience. I would expect to be changed.
