I knew I needed change

I am house sitting for a missionary family on secondary side this week, a very welcome change of pace, indoor plumbing, running water, solar power, a refrigerator and stove, it really is the little things.

Today, I put off going to the primary side as long as I could, I sat around, I made food, I went online, I tried to take a nap.  When I finally decided to get off my buns and get to it.  I had two visitors, girls asking for work, who were quite determined to help me.  Camp is coming up this week and the kids are earning money any way they can to go.  Finally I told one of them that I had some laundry, but it was over on primary side.  So she agreed to meet me there.  I also had several people to visit, and speak with so I took off on bike to make some quick stops before collecting my laundry for her.

I knew I needed change so I could pay her a fair price (which is strictly measured and enforced here).  I went to a few people, who could only give me larger bills, finished my errands and went to meet Sara at my hut.  I collected my laundry in the laundry bag, got out the basin for washing and a Jerah can for collecting water, just as Sara arrived.  Handing her the necessities, I told her I would be back, I still needed change, and she requested to use our “bathroom” to wash in.  (for those of you who don’t know, the “bathroom” is an outdoor cubicle with a wooden door and a drain for bathing) I thought it was a funny request but told her that was fine. 

I left for the Forge, which I was hoping would even be open on a Saturday, but was not sure.  It was open and when I arrived I was a little desperate for change, so I took out the smallest bill that I had and it was exchanged in coin.  I gladly accepted and thanked the young man at the register (and God silently).  I went back to the hut, around to the bathing room where I knocked on the door and was greeted by Sara and one of the institute family children who were talking in Luganda.  I apologized for the coins, while I held them out for Sara to take and as her hand reached for mine, a small coin fell from between our fingers and landed snugly between two large decorative rocks before slipping out of view. I apologized again and hoping there were no millipedes under the rock tugged just at the edge and flipped it over, Sara pulled another back and just as her finger began to point out from her hand to retrieve the shilling. We all jumped about two feet back, because for some reason we all had only then caught a glimpse of the black coil about as thick as a finger under the next rock. 

Black is the worst shade of snake you can find in Uganda, Black Mamba, are known for having some of the most deadly venom found in nature. I yelled at the girls to get back because Sara was eyeing the coin like 200 shillings (.08 cents) was worth another try.  I called my roommate, who made a joke about how the snake must be going to market because he had his money ready.  Just then a young man, maybe 16 or 17 was walking by on his way home from market.  Sara said, “you, come kill this snake”. He turned and walked toward us, made a sort of grunt that sounded like a snigger, that said, “of course I can kill the snake are you joking?”   This made us all laugh out loud.  He walked right over to the place we were pointing and started pulling up rocks with his bare hand like no big deal, he told us to get him a stick.  I was on edge so I tromped over to pull a branch off a tree while Sara went to find another.  He took Sara’s stick and stabbed at the snake, then thwacked it a few times with the thicker side until it was in a few pieces, then he dug in to the hole and hanging off of the stick took out the part still attached to the head.  Because every good Ugandan boy knows that you must crush the head of a mamba, he finished it off with a rock.  The entire time, all of the girls were jumping around making noises like they were about to be sick or had discovered a bug on their shoulder, including me.  We said thank you as the boy ran off home.  My roommate took the snake carcass off to a ditch and I paid Sara. 

So, let us talk about the importance of the occurrences on this Saturday afternoon. 

I probably would not have gone to primary side if Sara hadn’t just happened to come by asking for work,

I definitely wouldn’t have gone to my hut,

I know I wouldn’t have gone to my bathroom if she didn’t just happen to ask to wash in there,

I wouldn’t have gotten coin if any of my friends just happened to have correct change. 

I would never have dropped a coin in that particular place if I hadn’t paid Sara in coin. 

I would never have pulled up that rock if I wasn’t paying her in that particular place.

We might have been in trouble if that young man hadn’t just happened to be walking by right then.

If all of this would not have transpired the exact way it did, I or my roommate could have just happened to be bit by a black mamba and died on our way to the bathroom. 

It’s true

“AUNTIE RACHAEL!!! can you sew for me”

So all of the babies in the baby house have measles.  Since I’m not sure when my last MMR vaccination was I am steering clear of that place for a while.  So since I had a lot of extra time in the afternoon I read the Harry Potter series, very good reading, I must say and to all of you die hard critics, who despise all things potter but love Lord of the Rings? Really?

When I finished, I did feel the void that comes with the completion of a dynamic and substantial series.  I’m on to some Japanese clan trilogy but all of that aside.  I had some free afternoons. 

I went to the Samuel family, who we lovingly refer to as the “Sam fam” to offer my tailoring services.  I just thought I could repair buttons or tears, even hem if need be.  I have a steady and strong backstitch when I have the time.  I walked to the girls hut and found My friend Doreen who directed me to the nearest little girl who went and spread the word.  At first I had a skirt and a dress that needed to be sewn back to their lining.  I sat in the main dining room and started threading my needle and little James came in with a pair of school shorts with gaping holes and a broken zipper.  He left and come back with more and set them on the little pile that was forming.  Other kids came running in “AUNTIE RACHAEL!!! can you sew for me”.  Finally the pile was half the table and most of the clothes needed more than patching, some needed overhauling.   Before I had the chance to feel over whelmed, James came back in and told me that if I wanted I could use auntie’s sewing machine.  I was pleasantly surprised that she had a machine.  I walked in to the house and was directed to a back room 10x10 with a good sized window, clothes hanging all over the walls from coat hooks and the sun shining in.  Sitting at the foot of the window was an early 1940’s vintage Singer sewing machine table set in perfect working condition. 

I sat down a little intimidated; I’ve only ever messed around with the pedal of my great-great grandmothers in our house growing up.  However when I opened the little built in drawer it smelled of strong cedar just like Grandma Bell’s machine.  Brought me back a few years.  I swear it had the exact same measuring tape bunched up and stuffed in just like at home, It was like my Grandma Bell put it there for me to find decades later and miles away.   Having never worked with a manual pedal before it took some trying to get the rhythm down but when I did it was purring right along with the beat of the Ugandan gospel music on the TV.   Aunt Esther left me to work but several kids sat around laughing and talking in Luganda and asking me when I was leaving and would I come back to Africa.  Everyone seems ask me that, I shrug and tell them, “If God wants”, sincerely, “but I have to finish university first”.  I reattached zippers, and patched holes, re seamed high slits, pegged together low cut dresses at the heart.  I stitched trousers and skirts, church dresses, shirts who I could tell had seen to slashing the garden many times.  Tiny waistlines cinched in an inch or two.

When dinner came I had to go, not because I was finished but because I get a tongue lashing from the kitchen if I’m late for dinner.  I said good bye and told the kids I would be back,

James asked me “when, next week?”

I said “no, tomorrow”

a few kids listening near by said “auntie , be serious”.

I told them I would be back and I was, I brought a few items that I repaired at home and got back to work on my new little friend. I had trouble with the bobbin, Esther came to my rescue, she handed me her baby and when she had fixed the problem she went to work on a couple of pieces. I think she was a little nostalgic, she told me earlier that she learned many years ago but had been out of practice.  The machine, seemed to obey her every command, smooth and steady she hemmed a skirt, and re-seemed some trousers.  While she did so I bounced baby Joel on my lap to the beat of the drums outside.  We were talking about her family and her health she just went along sewing while we talked and I felt a stream of warm pee stream through the lap of my skirt on down my leg.  Ugandan babies don’t wear diapers at home apparently.  The best part is that she just laughed and went right along sewing and asked one of the girls to take the baby from me, at which point the matter was settled.  Pee on me and the floor was no big deal here.  I did a great job of acting like I was not totally disgusted and even sat for a few moments so I could give proper good byes and the pee was a little dry by then.  I went home and changed, washed my leg down and set the skirt aside for proper washing the next day.  I’ll go back tomorrow, if they ask me to hold the baby, I’ll make sure to face him forward, so that there is no repeat offense.       

Just a little update, that’s what’s new. 

gratitude

My teenage years, I used to wake up on Saturday mornings to Ace of Base, My mother would be on the treadmill or cleaning the kitchen and I would walk out groggy eyed to see her dancing around to all sorts of Ace of Base tunes.  I would be frustrated at the bleary moment, that my one opportunity to enjoy sleeping in was dashed by “I saw the sign”.  This is how my Saturday mornings generally went, I woke up frustrated and annoyed then I usually went on doing what ever I generally pleased all day long, talked on the phone to my friends, visited neighbor kids, watched TV, read “Babysitter’s Club”.  Sometimes I would have to do the chores that I had put off all week, but over all, Saturday was a relaxed day in my house.  I thought I had it bad; bored, tired, and spending some of  “my personal time” doing chores was not my idea of a fun Saturday. 

When I woke up this morning at 7:30 there were teenagers slashing the grass in the field behind the institute.  Slashing is Ugandan lawn mowing, instead of a machine that clips the lawn; they use a short bar that is shaped like a hockey stick, swinging it back and forth to cut the grass.   They are cutting the high grass from the garden where they are just now plowing to prepare for seed.  Now before you think this is about my reflection on the work that I had to do on Saturdays compared to the work they have to do here.  This is less about work and more about attitude.

While my teenage self was sitting in my bed silently infuriated that I was woken up so early by my mother, these teens are singing, loudly, praise songs, as they spend a few early morning hours slashing grass by hand.  They are shouting, “your love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me”.  I can hear them, in unison, breaking into harmony, as they trod slowly across their row of tall grass swinging the bar across the ground at ankle level.  When they finish, they go about their business, washing clothes, cooking, chopping wood, then; doing school work, doing odd jobs (I had someone from Samuel family repair my broken flip flop a week or so ago). 

The thing is, this is not an isolated case, there are teens doing this all week in other gardens all over the compound, older boys, praising and laughing at the mill, a choir meets behind my hut in the Ebenezer family preparing for Sunday morning service.  The drums begin all over the grounds at 6:30pm and stagger throughout until 8pm.  There is constant joy and gratefulness, women are laughing and joking, praying and teaching, in the kitchens.  There is not a day that goes by that I do not hear someone say out loud “I love my life”.  They really do, I know that some of them have two pairs of shoes, have a few outfits, and spend a lot of their time working, in that garden or helping with the little ones.  There are children fetching water all day long, some are fetching wheelbarrows full of water jugs and wheeling them back to the Family.  They are so happy and love where they are.

             The joy is humbling, I know so many people who live a life that the people here can only dream of, being paid high wages, working cushy desk jobs, where they are protected by all sorts of laws and given all sorts of rights. They leave work in a car of their very own, and have the freedom to go where ever they want, when they arrive home, there are the common luxuries that they take for granted, running water, a stockpile of food, reliable electricity, fast internet, a cozy couch, a fancy cellular phone.  There are stores within moments of their houses where they can go and use that cash they earned to buy things they want because generally all of their “needs” have been met.  So, they can choose what they want to cook for dinner, rather than eating what they can afford.  All of this and some of their Facebook status updates make it look like their life is consumed with what they do not have or with the sadness of their present situations.  I am very guilty of this.  When I was living in the states, things like waiting in line, a rude service representative, or bad cell phone service would frustrate me enough to write a snide post about it. 

            What I wouldn’t give right now to be stuck in line behind ten people in an air-conditioned target, to be handed a delicious latte by a very curt barista or to get any cell phone service at all, because I have talked to my mother a grand total of once, since I’ve been in Africa.  If I have to read the acronym FML one more time on Facebook, I may scream.  But, It WILL happen, some person’s flight to some exotic vacation spot will get delayed and they will whine and complain that they get to spend 2 less hours on their 7 day trip to paradise.  But while they do that, there will be a teenager, some where in their one pair of sandals, wearing a handed down shirt, who took a freezing cold bucket shower that morning, slashing grass, thanking God for their life. 

The lesson that this is constantly teaching me is one of gratitude, and gratitude to whom, the father, who has placed me in the society I was born in.  I have been afforded many luxuries that I have long taken for granted.  I know it will be difficult to remember when I am typing updates on my smart phone from a beach in Hawaii.  But I am going to do my best to choose every day to thank God for all that I have rather than curse him for what I do not.