Resiliency of Children

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Five days of visits to Syrian families seeking refuge in Jordan introduced me to many children. Some were ill requiring examination from the three doctors on our team. Their siblings, cousins and grandparents crowded into the apartment to see if the Americans could improve the health of one of their own.

The ailments ranged from winter viruses making the rounds in throats and sinuses, to vision problems, to diabetes. One 11-year-old boy lost hearing in his left ear from the artillery shelling by the Syrian army. Nerve damage, he was told, cannot be undone, but it wouldn’t get worse. The Davis doctor who told him that had lost hearing in her right ear 20 years ago.

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There is a stigma here that an injured or sick child is damaged goods. Refugee families qualify to get medical care from the Jordanian government. For the most part, and the patient, it works. Receiving house calls from American medical professionals this week was a unique event.

All children suffer from the effects of the war in their country. Running for their lives into a refugee camp or a foreign city with all they could carry is not ideal. Innocence is lost when leaving your home, friends and routines because a desperate regime turns on its own people.

The light in their eyes is not extinguished, however. Childhood has its resiliency despite the emotional walls that may be erected. Not all refugee situations are the same. Some are able to get children into schools in Jordan. Others do not. Continuation of education leads to the possibility of a future, hopefully in Syria.

No Reminder Needed

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It was a great day in Mafraq, Jordan on Tuesday. Our five-man, one-woman team of doctors, pastors and I drove 80 kilometers north to the village to fellowship with some Syrian refugees pouring into the region.

We met with the pastor who organizes the outreach then joined about 50 other volunteers on the roof of the church for breakfast. All four corners of the globe were represented. Experiences, hopes and dreams were shared over hummus, falafel, flat bread, yogurt, pastries and tea.

The weekly event was made more interesting when a delegation from Czechoslovakia, accompanied by video cameras, joined the party.

As conversations bloomed, I worked the rooftop with my camera, attracted to interesting relationships under development.

Next to me was Pastor John Ramey chatting with a young Syrian, Abbas, who, speaking in very good English, was telling about his escape from violence.

Working with our colleagues in Amman, I had been admonished, more or less, to not photograph or videotape the refugees for fear of reprisal by Syrian security forces. Before our arrival, there was an incident where identities were revealed online which resulted in harassment. No one wanted a repeat of that.

In Mafraq, however, the situation was different. Our colleagues there had gained the trust of the refugees in their care and allowance was made for me to videotape them. With discretion.

So I crouched behind Abbas and recorded his conversation with John, who asked if he had been attacked, and how he got of Syria. It was a “money shot” moment.

Later in the day, as I reviewed the clips on my camera, my heart sank as the interview was missing. Not the first time in my experience that I missed a shot because the camera was on when I thought it was off. But how would I break it to John that this fabulous, spontaneous moment was missed? I went to bed with prayers for confidence and guidance.

This morning I was up early to shave and shower before the the rest of team, now larger as two others arrived from Davis overnight. I fired up the laptop to download photos and video and see what I got. Lo(rd) and behold! The interview was there! My heart soared with joy as the day was made. I gave praise to God for saving me after I walked through the valley of death in my guilt and disappointment.

God is good. All the time. And it is always nice to me reminded.

Outbound to the Holy Land 18 Jan 2014

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I am bouncing off the walls. So excited to be going to Amman, Jordan, with Pastor John Ramey and six other pastors, doctors and a civil engineer to meet and fellowship with Syrian refugees there.

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After a week, I will pilgrimage to Jerusalem to see vistas Jesus, Peter, Paul and Pilate laid eyes on. I expect to be felled by emotion.

God continues to amaze me. I never would have predicted any of the events of the past two years. I’ll be making my third trip across the Atlantic since May 2012, after never having crossed the pond before then. And a return to Uganda is planned for late March. I’m blessed and grateful.

Praise God. Mukama asiimwe!

Pray for rain.

Wholly Discontented

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I made an appointment to meet a pastor friend today to discuss my spiritual aches and pains in the wake of my mind-blowing, three-month mission trip to Africa. I shared with him how things seem different since my return, from relationships to corporate worship. There seems to be a gulf, or distance, between me and the people and things that were formerly so close to my heart.

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I shared with him how I think and pray constantly of my next trip abroad, to renew beautiful relationships with selfless servants in Uganda. I’ve kept up the email chatter back and forth across the continents and the ocean. They await me there. They ask me when I will return. Sounds good. Amazingly, there are even more opportunities for good video ministry work there. I recently met a friend of my mother’s at her church in Montclair, California. She helps support a mission in Uganda which battles poverty and the scourge of HIV/AIDS. There is mutual interest in how I can help her organization.

Once again, a video ministry opportunity opens up before me from my own sphere of influence.

Today I wanted to sort out with Pastor John the sense of conflict that it is inherent in my soul. Do I go, as I’m called to do, and as I want to do, to far off lands for mission and service? Or do I stay in my secure, ungated community, on the proverbial treadmill, living a life of quiet desperation? Obviously, there is no question for the answer is obvious.

Pastor John clapped his hands and praised the Lord for what he called my “holy discontent.”

We agreed that it marks a healthy process wherein my faith is tested and courage is summoned. It’s not unusual for us to be in conflict with the Lord. It’s in our DNA.

A Strange Story

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Rolling into my driveway after choir practice and there was a block party for some departing neighbors. Went over to chat with guys I haven’t seen since returning from Africa. “Where’ve you been, you anti-social or something?,” I was asked.

I may be but let me explain. It’s like I’m still re-entering society as a “one percenter” after living three months in Africa at the opposite end of the wealth spectrum. I have been deeply touched by my African adventure. The simple lifestyle I embraced and enjoyed are at odds with the American experience of acquisition and advancement. It’s been a slow process to get my groove back in the USA.

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I paid my respects to the departing couple, made small talk with others before sitting with another neighbor at the gathering. It was a momentary respite as we shared our faith journeys under the stars.

I can’t be sure but I’d be surprised if others in our midst were praising The Lord and professing gratitude. For a few moments I was as comfortable as I could be. Fellowship with the holy spirit and like-minded friends has sustained me for many months. They hear and understand my story.

My audience of interested listeners is just not that large. Yet. I must make opportunities to reach out and tell my story–God’s story–of the beautiful people and wonderful land in Africa and the change in my heart.

Reflections of Africa

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More meaningful to me than the video that I shot for three months were the relationships I made while in Uganda. I was blessed with the company, affection and protection of God’s people there.

As I waited for my delayed luggage to arrive, I had a chance meeting with a retired bishop who would later turn out to be one of my best resources for learning and working with the Batwa Pygmies hundreds of miles away. Bishop Enoch Kayeeye is revered by the Batwa, and who would give up his own seat for this muzungu.
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Then there was Barnabas, who was among those who came to fetch me at the airport in February. He became my close friend. A dead-ringer for actor Jamie Foxx, he is good at everything he does, has a great sense of humor, and is a devoted follower of Jesus.
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I friended the Rev. David Rurihoona on Facebook before meeting him in April in Kabale. He opened his house to me for two visits and the time spent with him and his family was wonderful. He is a prayer warrior who exists to serve others in Christ.
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Through all the adventure and petty annoyances (aka rats), my fellowship with these friends and the Holy Spirit kept me focused and centered.

The Pleasure of Being

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For most of my adult life I have chased a dream. That meant taking steps to further my career, to promote into higher paying jobs, and gain new skills.

What I did was how I defined myself and how society defined me. I was a sportscaster, a news producer, a state worker.

All that is too narrow a definition for me.

Since I stepped off the career ladder, I have been transformed. I cannot be defined by what I do because that has all changed.

I have new focus: I am being. I am a world citizen. I am sharing my life and interested in the lives of others half a world away.

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I think of the selfless servants I met, joining others far from home, in austere conditions. I laughed and worked with them and I loved it.

My self interest is not important or relevant in Africa. Simply being is enough under those conditions.

It is my happiness.

The Invisible Man

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My first day back in the West didn’t turn out too well.

The day started out fine. I awoke in Entebbe about 4 a.m. anticipating my long flight to London, preceded by an unpredictable trip to the business office at the airport.

But it ended in loneliness, as if I didn’t exist.

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Joseph, my Ugandan driver, arrived about 25 minutes before our agreed upon departure time of 6 a.m. He told me he had trouble sleeping…he was concerned about getting me to the airport on time.

Joseph impressed me. He would have gone to any length, short of giving up his life, for me to complete my business and check in successfully and on time this morning. Then again, he may very well have given it all for me.

The flight out of Africa was smooth, uncrowded, a piece of cake.

Once I got on the ground at Heathrow, the obstacles came fast and furious. I called my friend, Rob, with whom I’d be staying, at work. He was incredulous over the fact that I arrived. “We weren’t expecting you until Friday.”

Really? A half dozen or more email were sent back and forth. They weren’t ready for the American invasion so I told him I’d get lodging for the night.

Got my bags, but they were both bulky and heavy, and difficult to transport along with my two handhelds through the Heathrow labyrinth. Why would that surprise me?

Trying to walk London streets at rush hour with about 100 lbs. of luggage became an ordeal. My mission was more difficult as I had no reservation for a room. I hailed a taxi, who recommended a hotel near Paddington Station.

At 5 p.m. commuters are out in force, so travel was slow. The hotel was booked. A Hilton Hotel was suggested, a two-block walk…not a simple task with the anvil-like baggage I was pulling. It was hard work for this mzungu, just in from the jungles. I stopped frequently before I was told, again, “we’re booked.”

A second taxi ride dropped me in an area close to Rob’s house, a fact that should win me some points.

The small hotel had a double room…upstairs. I lugged my weighty western excess up the stairs then set out for a supper.

There was a classic British pub nearby. Football was on the tele. Beer was flowing, food served. I had a beer, sat down, reviewed the menu…and waited. A second beer (hey, a long day!). Watched the game. Forty minutes passed without a waitress stopping by. I left.

A pizza oven nearby was full of young urban professionals. It was busy and I sat near the kitchen and waited. Gave it fifteen minutes without a look. Time to go.

After receiving care and feeding from those who struggle to provide for themselves, my inability to get a room, as expected, or consummate a dinner deal confused me.

Hardship suddenly showed up alongside, a stunning contrast to the glorious months just past. How do people see me now? Do I appear different? Am I here before you or am I invisible?

Here and Now

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As the hour of my departure from Bwindi grows near, I am already aware of what I will miss when I am gone. The loss will impact all my senses.

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Among of the things I like most about being in another country are the sounds, particularly the languages. In Uganda I’ve been exposed to no fewer than four different tongues. Locally, the local Rukiga (ru CHEE ga) language is prevalent, even though English is the official state language. I have learned a few simple phrases, using my ubiquitous iPhone to store responses to typical encounters. At morning devotions, some speakers will default to Rukiga. I may not understand a thing, but I admire their passion for the Lord.

From my room in the guest house, I hear conversations and laughter among the staff. It’s reassuring to me. Fellowship is good. When I traveled to Kasese, the local language was Lukonzo. I made a few entries on my electronic notepad so I could hold my own when greeted. Swahili is spoken throughout East Africa, particularly Kenya, and is used by soldiers here. Other Ugandan dialects help identify from which district the speaker hails.

No matter if I visited north or south of Bwindi, the menu was the same. Rice, beans, matoke (cooked plantain), posho (maize meal), irish potatoes. I’ve eaten everything put in front of me for the past three months. We’ve been served local, fresh fruit each day. The pineapples have been great. I want them regularly on my plate when I return.

Before I arrived I imagined the sounds I would hear from the winged and walking beasts. Bird calls, morning and night dominate. The red-tailed monkey makes a clicking sound when near, and a racket when bounding along the roof. Haven’t heard any gorilla grunts…was unwilling to pay for that privilege. I failed to anticipate the rodents.

The daily thunderstorm portends intense rain pounding on the metal roof. Conversations are muted through the rainy season. I’m fascinated by the downpours and stop what I’m doing to watch as they are so atypical of my California experience.

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The women of Africa have to be among the most hard-working in the world. With babies wrapped to their backs, they cultivate the fields. They fetch the water. They collect wood for the fire. They transport almost everything atop their heads, with perfect balance and grace and, frequently, no shoes. It’s an iconic image of Africa…and one that never gets old.

I close my eyes and imagine I am anywhere. My ears and heart betray that indifference. This is the here and now of Uganda.

Modern African Family

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Throughout Africa, many generations live together. In this photo, the son sits next to his mother. He dresses like any Western teen, will work hard at what he can get. The mother does much of the domestic work, cleaning and cooking, filling water jars. The daughter-in-law nurses her young child before she helps with work around the family compound.

There are babies everywhere. The Ugandan family has 6.7 children per household, an unsustainable number. The Bwindi Community Hospital conducts regular family planning outreach to nearby communities.

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This scene was captured moments after lunch was served to me and my host, who was visiting his wife’s family.

I Am Patrick’s iPhone

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I am Patrick’s iPhone, though I must admit I am not much of a phone these days.

Patrick packed me off to a place called Bwindi in southwestern Uganda in the middle of Africa. So while I’m not being used as the phone I claim to be, I have been plenty busy.

It’s not my fault Patrick and others in North America pay onerous contract fees to use my phone features. I understand there are added costs when you use me outside the USA. In Africa and elsewhere it’s a pay-as-you-go scheme which doesn’t seem as expensive.

Me and Patrick, in Munich, during our six-week international trip in 2012...

Me and Patrick, in Munich, during our six-week international trip in 2012…

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Nevertheless, Patrick is getting a bang for all my smart-phone features available on wifi. The first is the HD camera. In nearly three months on the road, he’s take more than 750 photos on just me alone. I heard him say he had seven other HD cameras at his disposal for this project. None are as versatile as I am. For instance, can a Canon G12 or GoPro camera instantly upload images to share with a waiting world? What’s the point of storing GBs of photos if no one can see them? That’s what social media helps us to do.

I do video pretty well, too. My HD resolution can stand the test and works well in his Final Cut Pro productions. Even I enjoy his YouTube uploads of his video shorts.

My creators helped build a whole new industry when my older cousins were manufactured. Applications, or Apps, redirected users from visiting websites. Now there are millions of apps…though only 100 under my watch. Among Patrick’s favorites are the social media kings Facebook, Twitter and YouTube.

He also uses banking apps–even from this jungle setting–to pay his bills electronically, transfer funds, make stock trades. I don’t ask any questions about those transactions. Pat’s always on the go and needs to fund these activities. It’s all well and good. He keeps my battery charged.

We’ve encountered some difficulty with the wifi network at Bwindi Community Hospital. Understandably, managers here want to limit access to the Internet during business hours. But my guy is a communications fiend and needs unfettered access to help sing praises of the good work being done here. He and I think the communications group should get an exemption from the restrictions.

At the nearby Batwa Development Program there is also a wifi network which is not so closely regulated. So from there we can upload videos to YouTube and catch up with with outstanding Words With Friends games to, hopefully he says, deliver “punishing setbacks” to his opponents. Whatever…

Well, even though I haven’t made one call on this trip I’m happy to be contributing in a big way. And I know this: He likes me! He really likes me!

I am Patrick’s iPhone…and I approved this message!

Angels Are Everywhere

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When I left home in February for three months in the Pearl of Africa, I was confident that I would be safe. I have taken reasonable precautions and have not been concerned about my physical safety. I am a prayerful person and believe in a faithful God that will lead me to secure places.

Having said that, today I got an email from the US Embassy reminding American citizens in Uganda of the “importance of practicing strong personal security habits. Regional terror groups including al Qaeda and al-Shabaab continue to threaten U.S. interests and other potential targets in Uganda.”

OK. Got it.

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Today, traveling to Buhoma from Kabale through the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, I had a real-life brush with death. It had been raining all morning and the dilapidated roads were especially muddy. My trusted Ugandan driver, Chris, with whom I have driven up and down the western side of the country without incident, slid into a right hand turn that took us right to the brink of an embankment. We had barely a yard to spare, the car poised on top of a shear drop and a certain demise.

I exhaled and said to Chris and Luke, our young Ugandan passenger, that God’s angels were surrounding us, confident of each and every syllable. They agreed.

No State Department emails or proclamations from the USA can protect me from my fate, but a healthy faith can tame the anxieties and allows me to walk confidently with God.

It’s About Relationships

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It’s all about relationships.

At home that means connections which can help build careers, business and romance. Be my Facebook friend. Follow me on Twitter. Leverage me and my posse on LinkedIn.

Here in Africa, relationships mean something else. It means, “time out.” Who are you? Tell me your story.

I have had a wonderful day with my brother in Christ, Barnabas. This morning I took my camera and tripod to morning devotions to record his homily, which was presented to staff and others in the Rukiga language. I’m working with the hospital chaplain on a video series of sermons/homilies to show to patients in their wards.

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Today, we also knocked out a video on Easter Carols I recorded several weeks ago. All I need is a DVD to which to output. (Um, why didn’t I bring a dozen?) He is helping me today with a transcript of some Batwa interviews. I’m showing him all my gear (excessive!) and planning how, together, we can do cool things.

His job is not to be my assistant. He has enough to do. He works as an education coordinator with the Batwa Development Program.

Before I left CA, I prayed that the Lord would put his persons in my path to help, protect and encourage me. Barnabas was among those who fetched me at the airport, thus one of the first I met, and has been a companion friend since. He is an outlier of sorts….he is always punctual, a rarity in this land of “African time,” when even doctors stroll in late to meetings, rehearsals, morning prayers.

He is prayerful, one of the gifted speakers during morning devotions. He is very smart, funny, charming. I pray that I can help encourage him to pursue his destiny. For instance, we have talked about how he could go to UK for education. Visas for the US are too hard to get these days.

He’s a quick study with video. He wants to learn. He can compose pictures, which isn’t for everyone. In short, he’s delightful. My brother of a different mother. If I return to Africa, I’d recruit him as a grip for future shoots.

I thank God for Barnabas.