My other favorite place to be...
The view that makes it all so incredible!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
When the Rains Come, You Run!
The Northwest drizzle. The gray clouds that roll in sometime in September and hang around through the first weeks of May. If anyone can handle rain, its me, a true NorthWest girl. I don't use an umbrella, rain coats are rarely necessary. About the only thing not up to pair with the weather is my bag. So, when we arrived in Kigali and were warned about the rain I smirked inside. They obviously didn't know me.Witnessing a few light showers and finally a torrential downpour, I started to become a believer. However, on an afternoon when Kati and I were studying in Bourbon we mistimed our departure and were faced with the task of trudging home in the rain. Undaunted by this task, we donned our raincoats, threw on our packs and bid farewell to our questioning friends. Assuring them that we could handle the rain since we were from the Northwest, we proceeded downstairs making it as far as the threshold where we were met by the gaze of 20 Rwandans who had all taken shelter inside. Watching the rain pound the ground in unrelenting sheets, we rethought our plan and called for a ride home.
This rain was not to be messed with.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Carrying in Contraband!
Yes, I am guilty, guilty of carrying contraband into Rwanda (please don't report me.)
Arriving in Kigali, Rwanda on a small puddle-jumper flight, we made our way off the plane and into the cool night air. Walking across the tarmac and up to one of the cutest airports I had ever seen, Kati, Mbish and I made our way through the necessary immigration and customs channels. Finally making it to the baggage claim we waited for the small plane to unload before grabbing our bags.
Having transformed this entire process into an art form, I already had my backpack out of its protective duffle, stowed the duffle in my bag and was carrying my 2 pairs of shoes in a leftover Target bag. Making my way through the terminal towards the door my journey came to an abrupt halt, one of the security officials was refusing to allow me entrance to the country because I was carrying in contraband.
Forget drugs, weapons and all the usual suspects, my checkered red and white plastic bag was the cause of this altercation. Apparently in early 2006, the government of Rwanda decided to outlaw the use of all thin plastic bags. This ecological friendly decision has vastly improved the health of the city, but made for some unique obstacles. Bread goes stale a lot faster, tortilla chips don't stay as crisp, but I suppose it just forces us all to be a bit more creative.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Bil-Har-Z WHAT?
Tuesday was our free day, kind of. In the morning we had an informational session for our practicums and were given the rest of the forms/assignments we would need to complete while on the field. We also received a bit more basic information about our sites as well as our departure times/dates. Rwanda - 17:50 - 28/09/08
After our meeting concluded I was off to school where I was meeting up with a former Go-ED student who is now back working in Uganda with an organization called African Hearts. (Go-ED is technically the name of the program I am here with and the overarching organization is FHI- Food for the Hungry International). Working to help and move street kids into a loving, stable environment, Jessica and Abbie (another former Go-ED student) divide there time between outreaches in different slums around Kampala and taking care of a growing number of boys in a nearby village. I can't recall the name of the village, but they have a house out there where they take kids who are tired of living on the streets and help them transition off of drugs and into school where they are able to get an education and a hope of a better life. Sharing with them the love of Christ, through their own love and care many of the children are experiencing a healthy family structure for the first time. It is wonderful to see their passion for a group of children that much of the city views only as a nuisance.
Working with them yesterday we were joined by another partner organization which does the same type of work and then a church that is the only one to have a street children ministry. Going out to two different sites, the team administered basic first aid, cleaning, sterilizing, and dressing wounds to help stave off disease and infection. Addressing coughs and colds they also provided limited medication as resources allowed. Concluding our time there we gave out rolls, pieces of bread and cups of clean drinking water.
However, my lack luster depiction of the afternoon's events truly does not tell the entire story... so allow me to elaborate:
Arriving on the scene of the Gulu Boys 'Home' somewhere outside of the New Taxi Park, we were quickly overcome by the aroma of burning tires?plastic? not sure, but it was overwhelming. Making my way from the strip of 'road' across the smoldering heaps of garbage onto a soot covered stretch of land, our work began. Growing ever more lightheaded from the fumes, I was more than happy to follow Abbie off on a short picture taking adventure into the bushes surrounding the area. Having recently rained we noticed mud in the path but thought nothing of it as we watched one of the guys make his way gingerly through a path that had been blazed through the grass. Not quite as easy as we thought, Abbie's foot was soon enveloped in mud, gobbling up her shoe. Following suit I walked across as well and obviously mis-stepped, as I soon found myself nearly waist deep in "mud". We shall use the term "mud" here quite loosely, because this certainly wasn't your normal it-just-rained-and-now-the-dirt-has-turned-to-mud type of mud, this was swamp mud. A mixture of all things gross and disgusting aided I am sure by human contributions that now had sucked me into the earth and was refusing to let go. Experiencing a moment equivalent to that of quicksand I wasn't completely sure how I was going to get out. With one leg less submerged than the other and pressed up on my hands and crawled out. Standing up to profuse apologies from the leader of our small band and Abbie's look of horror, I began to notice the army of little black worms wriggling around on my exposed skin. Rushing to pick them off my arm, I could only stand there and hope that my jeans and shoes were protecting my legs from their penetration. I had undoubtedly just been exposed to Bilharzia - one of the many lovely tropical diseases present here. Next step - buying de-worming medication, Oh the Joys of life!
After our meeting concluded I was off to school where I was meeting up with a former Go-ED student who is now back working in Uganda with an organization called African Hearts. (Go-ED is technically the name of the program I am here with and the overarching organization is FHI- Food for the Hungry International). Working to help and move street kids into a loving, stable environment, Jessica and Abbie (another former Go-ED student) divide there time between outreaches in different slums around Kampala and taking care of a growing number of boys in a nearby village. I can't recall the name of the village, but they have a house out there where they take kids who are tired of living on the streets and help them transition off of drugs and into school where they are able to get an education and a hope of a better life. Sharing with them the love of Christ, through their own love and care many of the children are experiencing a healthy family structure for the first time. It is wonderful to see their passion for a group of children that much of the city views only as a nuisance.
Working with them yesterday we were joined by another partner organization which does the same type of work and then a church that is the only one to have a street children ministry. Going out to two different sites, the team administered basic first aid, cleaning, sterilizing, and dressing wounds to help stave off disease and infection. Addressing coughs and colds they also provided limited medication as resources allowed. Concluding our time there we gave out rolls, pieces of bread and cups of clean drinking water.
However, my lack luster depiction of the afternoon's events truly does not tell the entire story... so allow me to elaborate:
Arriving on the scene of the Gulu Boys 'Home' somewhere outside of the New Taxi Park, we were quickly overcome by the aroma of burning tires?plastic? not sure, but it was overwhelming. Making my way from the strip of 'road' across the smoldering heaps of garbage onto a soot covered stretch of land, our work began. Growing ever more lightheaded from the fumes, I was more than happy to follow Abbie off on a short picture taking adventure into the bushes surrounding the area. Having recently rained we noticed mud in the path but thought nothing of it as we watched one of the guys make his way gingerly through a path that had been blazed through the grass. Not quite as easy as we thought, Abbie's foot was soon enveloped in mud, gobbling up her shoe. Following suit I walked across as well and obviously mis-stepped, as I soon found myself nearly waist deep in "mud". We shall use the term "mud" here quite loosely, because this certainly wasn't your normal it-just-rained-and-now-the-dirt-has-turned-to-mud type of mud, this was swamp mud. A mixture of all things gross and disgusting aided I am sure by human contributions that now had sucked me into the earth and was refusing to let go. Experiencing a moment equivalent to that of quicksand I wasn't completely sure how I was going to get out. With one leg less submerged than the other and pressed up on my hands and crawled out. Standing up to profuse apologies from the leader of our small band and Abbie's look of horror, I began to notice the army of little black worms wriggling around on my exposed skin. Rushing to pick them off my arm, I could only stand there and hope that my jeans and shoes were protecting my legs from their penetration. I had undoubtedly just been exposed to Bilharzia - one of the many lovely tropical diseases present here. Next step - buying de-worming medication, Oh the Joys of life!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
When Life Becomes A Game
Sitting inside of an empty Matatu at the Old Taxi Park in Kampala today I thought I would never make it on time
Have you ever seen that little game called Traffic Jam? It is a bit of a strategy game, you know one of those educational types where they slip in a bit of learning while you are busy having fun. Anyways, in the game, you are trying to navigate this little red plastic car to freedom by sliding a series of other vehicles around the board. Seemingly simple, a tad unrealistic and surprisingly fun. That is until you find yourself living inside the game.
Fighting my way through the twists and turns of the taxi park in the heart of Kampala, I arrived at my desired point of departure and climbed aboard a matatu. Waiting anxiously for the redesigned van to load, I became curiously amused by the turn of events outside our door. Movement is far from uncommon within the confines of the taxi park, but as we sat motionless, two large buses and an assortment of other vehicles moved in, boxing us on all sides.
When we had finally reached capacity, the game began and a carefully coordinated reorganization of transport began. I couldn't help but chuckle at the entire spectacle unfolding before me with our conductor darting between vehicles trying to figure out how to get us out. Long story short, the "little red car" made it to freedom.
Have you ever seen that little game called Traffic Jam? It is a bit of a strategy game, you know one of those educational types where they slip in a bit of learning while you are busy having fun. Anyways, in the game, you are trying to navigate this little red plastic car to freedom by sliding a series of other vehicles around the board. Seemingly simple, a tad unrealistic and surprisingly fun. That is until you find yourself living inside the game.
Fighting my way through the twists and turns of the taxi park in the heart of Kampala, I arrived at my desired point of departure and climbed aboard a matatu. Waiting anxiously for the redesigned van to load, I became curiously amused by the turn of events outside our door. Movement is far from uncommon within the confines of the taxi park, but as we sat motionless, two large buses and an assortment of other vehicles moved in, boxing us on all sides.
When we had finally reached capacity, the game began and a carefully coordinated reorganization of transport began. I couldn't help but chuckle at the entire spectacle unfolding before me with our conductor darting between vehicles trying to figure out how to get us out. Long story short, the "little red car" made it to freedom.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
And She was surrounded by a cloud of what?
Living in Kampala I have made a few hundred friends. Primarily of the small, flying, buzzing, blood-sucking variety more commonly referred to as mosquitos.
Despite putting on daily dustings of repellent and covering as much flesh as possible, my little fan club has refused to relent. One evening during our outside BBQ I actually had a swarm so large following me that they looked like a little cloud.
I am all for making friends with the locals, but this is a bit much.
Despite putting on daily dustings of repellent and covering as much flesh as possible, my little fan club has refused to relent. One evening during our outside BBQ I actually had a swarm so large following me that they looked like a little cloud.
I am all for making friends with the locals, but this is a bit much.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Losing Myself
What is there to say? So much has happened in our four weeks here and my mind is racing with stories to tell, yet my fingers refuse to cooperate. Walking into Uganda and this semester overseas, I thought my greatest challenge would be getting along with all my classmates, but I have been shocked to find it is instead with myself.
The past two weeks have highlighted a lifelong battle of self-acceptance. Struggling internally as a war wages on, refusing to end, my self-esteem has disintegrated to mere nothingness. Feeling worthless, my spirit has been barraged by an attack of degrading remarks, calling into question my skills, abilities and gifts. Longing for an escape to run once again through forests and over rivers, knowing that among nature I am not judged. Feeling unattractive and out of place, I have just wanted to curl up in a sweatshirt and sweats and hide away until I feel comfortable and confident once again. No longer able to stand being within my own skin, I have considered such dramatic measures as anorexia, but know all too well that as tempting as this seemingly quick fix is, it is really just an entirely new problem masquerading as a plausible solution.
Confused by what has brought about this renewed disturbing thought I have blamed all the formal factors, willing myself to logically think through it all and be content and happy once again with who God has made me and who I am right now. Unfortunately it was less than successful and soon it captivated all my thoughts.
Recognizing the growing strength of the problem and becoming fearful of myself I began to cry out for help, but it all seemed to fall on deaf ears. The ringing silence of my friends seemed only to confirm the words my heart and mind were already believing. Feeling more alone and forgotten than ever, I wrestled with what to do next. Just praying didn’t seem to be working.
Entering into our time of large group discussion I had no desire to be present. Sitting silently in my chair with legs pulled up and eyes down cast I tried to disappear. However, the course of conversation began to turn and the topic of oppression surfaced. Timidly raising my hand others first spoke and then I was called upon. (Not desiring to diminish in any way those who live in severe oppression, I use the word with caution). As mentioned several weeks (ok, months) ago, during a period of my time in Morocco I felt completely trapped, oppressed by a culture and social order I did not understand. Retraining myself to live and act differently, I sought to irradiate from my behavior those patterns which made me distinctly me. Learning to walk down the street undaunted by the catcalls and advances, I plastered on an iron face looking straight ahead, never at, but always through people, avoiding eye contact with all males lest a momentary acknowledgement be taken as an invitation. Laughing and smiling became limited in public and numerous locations deemed ‘man cafes’ became completely off limits. Going anywhere on my own, and even in groups of girls, meant a constant stream of attention, feeling the eyes of those I past linger upon me until I was out of sight and then there were the times I was followed.
Yet after a while it all becomes common place, a part of living in a Middle Eastern Country. What bothered me most though were the guys who drove my stopping just feet in front of where I was walking, rolling down the window and propositioning me for sex, even in broad daylight. In quiet subjection I walked on refusing to acknowledge them at all. Unpacking this all brought up a whole new range of feelings and questions, and then came the final offense.
Finishing yet another telling of the story I felt ashamed all over again. Illogically blaming myself for the events which had transpired.
Julia, our leader, then asked me a question that I was unprepared for, “How has that impacted your view of yourself?”
Instantly all the pieces fell together and I understood. Through all of these encounters my spirit had begun to see itself through their eyes: powerless, worthless, and object, sub standard, insignificant, unimportant, invisible. Buying into the lies, my self-value had been slowly torn to shreds leaving me grasping for the confidence and peace I once knew.
Sharing this all I felt as though I had shrunk and in concluding all I wanted to do was run away, to go downstairs and wash dishes. The moment we dismissed, I was gone. Seeking refuge in the kitchen Julia found me and all the words I had been struggling over came flowing out before me.
In addition to my experiences in Morocco, I felt the sting of being ignored in Qatar, which at first was a welcome change, but than soon shifted to only reinforce my status as a single female in a man’s world. In Uganda it is the prevalent view of women as inferior.
Living in countries both in the Middle East and Africa where women are undervalued and underappreciated has definitely worn on me. In Morocco I was objectified, in Qatar I was ignored, and here I am purely inferior. I don't know how the women in these countries can live, let alone thrive. I think what punctuated this last weekend more than any other wasn't purely the fact that I was pushed down, but that the white male on our team was exalted practically to that of a god. If a decision had to be made the woman's opinion wasn't enough, it was only finalized if the Man gave his approval. To my friend's credit, it wasn't his fault, but rather that of our assistant who took us out to stay with his family. However, it still served as a stark illustration of the dichotomy in the society between men and women. But, it is just the culture, right?
I would have to say this is one of the most challenging seasons I have found myself in for quite some time. I know that God is greater than it all, but walking through the storm is still rough.
The past two days have been better. Thursday was especially refreshing as I was able to regain a piece of me through coffee with a friend and later shopping with some others. Today is better, but not good. I know that this is going to be a process, but I feel that the worst is over. Reflecting on it all, new lessons arrive daily. This morning on the ‘bus’ ride (okay it was a Matatu – taxi) to school, I realized I needed to struggle with this on my own, to feel the loneliness and live in it for a moment. Independent as I may be, my relationship with God, family and friends is absolutely essential to my mental and emotional health.
As I sit and write this all out, I can only begin to imagine what sort of things I will hear back, so let me try to head some off before they come.
- I am safe, being careful and exercising caution. The incident that occurred in Morocco could just as easily have happened on a street in Seattle or even Kirkland. Please don’t write hate mail or call the organization I was with, there was no way of preventing what occurred. Please know that I am fine and praise God that what I encountered wasn’t worse (it surely could have been). Unfortunately I am not the first person to have this happen to, nor will I be the last.
- Please don’t ask me to come home, it isn’t going to happen until its time, and it isn’t time yet.
- Also I have not allowed one negative experience to taint my view of the Moroccan people, so please don’t let it damage yours. Morocco is still a land of mysterious enchantment where spices, colors, languages, and cultures collide. The people are incredibly loving and welcoming, hospitable in every way. Overall my time in Morocco and overseas has been wonderful, but as with all of life, you have to take the bad with the good. One day, perhaps in the not so distant future, I will return to Morocco.
The past two weeks have highlighted a lifelong battle of self-acceptance. Struggling internally as a war wages on, refusing to end, my self-esteem has disintegrated to mere nothingness. Feeling worthless, my spirit has been barraged by an attack of degrading remarks, calling into question my skills, abilities and gifts. Longing for an escape to run once again through forests and over rivers, knowing that among nature I am not judged. Feeling unattractive and out of place, I have just wanted to curl up in a sweatshirt and sweats and hide away until I feel comfortable and confident once again. No longer able to stand being within my own skin, I have considered such dramatic measures as anorexia, but know all too well that as tempting as this seemingly quick fix is, it is really just an entirely new problem masquerading as a plausible solution.
Confused by what has brought about this renewed disturbing thought I have blamed all the formal factors, willing myself to logically think through it all and be content and happy once again with who God has made me and who I am right now. Unfortunately it was less than successful and soon it captivated all my thoughts.
Recognizing the growing strength of the problem and becoming fearful of myself I began to cry out for help, but it all seemed to fall on deaf ears. The ringing silence of my friends seemed only to confirm the words my heart and mind were already believing. Feeling more alone and forgotten than ever, I wrestled with what to do next. Just praying didn’t seem to be working.
Wednesday night came and with it our weekly small group time, needless to say, I was anything but engaged. I had done the reading, but couldn’t recall a single point. Instead I sat numb, questioning whether or not I should share with the group what was going on. Discussing the principles of turning the other check and living as a “slave” to Christ I became repelled by the notions (ones once I had previously held to). Based on recent experiences the concepts held entirely new meanings.
Entering into our time of large group discussion I had no desire to be present. Sitting silently in my chair with legs pulled up and eyes down cast I tried to disappear. However, the course of conversation began to turn and the topic of oppression surfaced. Timidly raising my hand others first spoke and then I was called upon. (Not desiring to diminish in any way those who live in severe oppression, I use the word with caution). As mentioned several weeks (ok, months) ago, during a period of my time in Morocco I felt completely trapped, oppressed by a culture and social order I did not understand. Retraining myself to live and act differently, I sought to irradiate from my behavior those patterns which made me distinctly me. Learning to walk down the street undaunted by the catcalls and advances, I plastered on an iron face looking straight ahead, never at, but always through people, avoiding eye contact with all males lest a momentary acknowledgement be taken as an invitation. Laughing and smiling became limited in public and numerous locations deemed ‘man cafes’ became completely off limits. Going anywhere on my own, and even in groups of girls, meant a constant stream of attention, feeling the eyes of those I past linger upon me until I was out of sight and then there were the times I was followed.
Yet after a while it all becomes common place, a part of living in a Middle Eastern Country. What bothered me most though were the guys who drove my stopping just feet in front of where I was walking, rolling down the window and propositioning me for sex, even in broad daylight. In quiet subjection I walked on refusing to acknowledge them at all. Unpacking this all brought up a whole new range of feelings and questions, and then came the final offense.
I don’t know how else to say it and I am a bit fearful of people’s reactions (which is why it has taken me this long to tell people), but I was attacked, violated one Sunday afternoon on the streets of Morocco. Needing a break from my paper and being cooped up inside I decided to take a short quiet stroll thorough the neighborhood to spend some time with God and clear my head.
Walking out the door just after 4pm, I was hit by the brilliance of the afternoon sun. Peacefully I began walking ignoring the almost immediate advances of a French-speaking gentleman. Annoyed but determined I continued undaunted. Winding my way in and out of my area I made my way back towards the apartment and was preparing to cross the street, when he appeared again blocking my intended path. Persistently he tried again spouting off every language he knew and thought I might possibly speak. Exasperated I finally spoke, “No François!” Undaunted by this admission he proceeded to follow me. Longing for safety, but unwilling to show him where I lived, I attempted to lose him. Winding around a series of streets that became more unfamiliar with every step he tracked me, finally cornering me after a wrong turn led me down a dead end road. Seizing his opportunity he lunged forward and grabbed me. Pushing him away and yelling at him he backed off and I thought the nightmare was over.
Far from giving up he walked a few feet up and stood, waiting, watching. Scanning the area for help the streets were eerily empty. Refusing to succumb to this power struggle, I pressed on ahead. Stalking my movements from the opposite side of the street, he cut in front of me again. Stepping closer to me with every chance he could, I would yell and he would back off. Still stuck on the dead end road I felt paralyzed. Waving down a passing teen on an ATV I pleaded for help, less than sympathic he drove off only adding to the delight on my attacker’s face who witnessed the entire scene from across the street. Persevering I moved on, keenly aware of his proximity to me I frantically surveyed the streets for help. Finally running across a couple I stopped and begged for help. Unable to communicate, I gestured to the street and the man when to investigate. Seeing nothing he returned and I raced home, knowing that even if he were to loop back around I was still on the most direct road back to my apartment. Arriving home I was finally safe.
Finishing yet another telling of the story I felt ashamed all over again. Illogically blaming myself for the events which had transpired.
Julia, our leader, then asked me a question that I was unprepared for, “How has that impacted your view of yourself?”
Instantly all the pieces fell together and I understood. Through all of these encounters my spirit had begun to see itself through their eyes: powerless, worthless, and object, sub standard, insignificant, unimportant, invisible. Buying into the lies, my self-value had been slowly torn to shreds leaving me grasping for the confidence and peace I once knew.
Sharing this all I felt as though I had shrunk and in concluding all I wanted to do was run away, to go downstairs and wash dishes. The moment we dismissed, I was gone. Seeking refuge in the kitchen Julia found me and all the words I had been struggling over came flowing out before me.
In addition to my experiences in Morocco, I felt the sting of being ignored in Qatar, which at first was a welcome change, but than soon shifted to only reinforce my status as a single female in a man’s world. In Uganda it is the prevalent view of women as inferior.
Living in countries both in the Middle East and Africa where women are undervalued and underappreciated has definitely worn on me. In Morocco I was objectified, in Qatar I was ignored, and here I am purely inferior. I don't know how the women in these countries can live, let alone thrive. I think what punctuated this last weekend more than any other wasn't purely the fact that I was pushed down, but that the white male on our team was exalted practically to that of a god. If a decision had to be made the woman's opinion wasn't enough, it was only finalized if the Man gave his approval. To my friend's credit, it wasn't his fault, but rather that of our assistant who took us out to stay with his family. However, it still served as a stark illustration of the dichotomy in the society between men and women. But, it is just the culture, right?
I would have to say this is one of the most challenging seasons I have found myself in for quite some time. I know that God is greater than it all, but walking through the storm is still rough.
Coming forward and sharing with my group was incredibly difficult, but very helpful, as it has allowed me to see how all these events play off one another. Finally processing it all has given me the ability to move forward.
The past two days have been better. Thursday was especially refreshing as I was able to regain a piece of me through coffee with a friend and later shopping with some others. Today is better, but not good. I know that this is going to be a process, but I feel that the worst is over. Reflecting on it all, new lessons arrive daily. This morning on the ‘bus’ ride (okay it was a Matatu – taxi) to school, I realized I needed to struggle with this on my own, to feel the loneliness and live in it for a moment. Independent as I may be, my relationship with God, family and friends is absolutely essential to my mental and emotional health.
As I sit and write this all out, I can only begin to imagine what sort of things I will hear back, so let me try to head some off before they come.
- I am safe, being careful and exercising caution. The incident that occurred in Morocco could just as easily have happened on a street in Seattle or even Kirkland. Please don’t write hate mail or call the organization I was with, there was no way of preventing what occurred. Please know that I am fine and praise God that what I encountered wasn’t worse (it surely could have been). Unfortunately I am not the first person to have this happen to, nor will I be the last.
- Please don’t ask me to come home, it isn’t going to happen until its time, and it isn’t time yet.
- Also I have not allowed one negative experience to taint my view of the Moroccan people, so please don’t let it damage yours. Morocco is still a land of mysterious enchantment where spices, colors, languages, and cultures collide. The people are incredibly loving and welcoming, hospitable in every way. Overall my time in Morocco and overseas has been wonderful, but as with all of life, you have to take the bad with the good. One day, perhaps in the not so distant future, I will return to Morocco.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Moving A Million Miles An Hour, But Going Nowhere!
Due perhaps to my incredibly inconsistent sleep schedule, or the two cups of sugared up coffee I downed this morning, I physically find myself sitting in class, but mentally scattered across the board. Feeling a bit like 
Hammy from Over the Hedge (Fantastic movie, Not just for kids!), I feel as though I am racing from one place to the next. Whoosh! Whoosh!
"I want my Cookies!" [ok, don't really want cookies, but a smoothie would be nice!]
However, the upside of all this is that for the first morning since arriving in Uganda, I feel WIDE AWAKE!!! Now if only I could find a way to focus all this energy into taking notes, I would be set. *SMILE*
Hammy from Over the Hedge (Fantastic movie, Not just for kids!), I feel as though I am racing from one place to the next. Whoosh! Whoosh!"I want my Cookies!" [ok, don't really want cookies, but a smoothie would be nice!]
However, the upside of all this is that for the first morning since arriving in Uganda, I feel WIDE AWAKE!!! Now if only I could find a way to focus all this energy into taking notes, I would be set. *SMILE*
Live 4 Today
I'm gonna live for today
I'm gonna follow in your way
I'm gonna let my little light shine
Like there's no tomorrow
I won't worry about the past
I know my future is intact
So I'll choose to live my life one way
I'm gonna live it for today
I'm gonna follow in your way
I'm gonna let my little light shine
Like there's no tomorrow
I won't worry about the past
I know my future is intact
So I'll choose to live my life one way
I'm gonna live it for today
~Natalie Grant
Struggling to capture the feelings held hostage in my heart, I love how music gives wings to my words, allowing them to soar along the melody and onto the page. For this moment in my story, a new theme song has emerged. Making my way these past few weeks I have been experiencing plenty, but feeling very little. Whether it be for survival sake or simply exhaustion, I have been blocking out my emotions, refusing to give myself the necessary time and freedom to process all I am learning and observing.
Struggling to capture the feelings held hostage in my heart, I love how music gives wings to my words, allowing them to soar along the melody and onto the page. For this moment in my story, a new theme song has emerged. Making my way these past few weeks I have been experiencing plenty, but feeling very little. Whether it be for survival sake or simply exhaustion, I have been blocking out my emotions, refusing to give myself the necessary time and freedom to process all I am learning and observing.
Recognizing that while suppressing everything I am going through is convenient, it is not a healthy practice and something has to change. Preparing myself last night, I decided that this morning was the start of a new approach. Releasing the past and letting go of the future I know that the only way to truly experience all that God has for me in this time is to be present in every moment.
You told me not to worry
About what lies ahead
So I am gonna focus on today instead
Making every moment count and counting
Every single blessing
I'm gonna set my mind on the
Here and Now
This is what I want my life to be about
Not the first time I had adopted this mindset, it can be easy to become distracted when the past and future are always finding their way into the hear and now. In such a transient lifestyle and fluid culture, living for the moment and making every second count is the best way.
Here's to Living 4 Today!
You told me not to worry
About what lies ahead
So I am gonna focus on today instead
Making every moment count and counting
Every single blessing
I'm gonna set my mind on the
Here and Now
This is what I want my life to be about
Not the first time I had adopted this mindset, it can be easy to become distracted when the past and future are always finding their way into the hear and now. In such a transient lifestyle and fluid culture, living for the moment and making every second count is the best way.
Here's to Living 4 Today!
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Impoverished Mentality
Recently discussions within our house have revealed a rather touchy question, "Is poverty a mindset or an uncontrolable injustice?"
Trapped in a perpetuating cycle of poverty, how can one escape? My long standing view of poverty was that of an undesired situation that generally one is born or forced into due to circumstances beyond their control. Seeking to serve and help impoverished peoples around the world I have always viewed poverty as an oppressive injustice.
Now I find my paradigm being challenged, with the introduction of a thought that poverty is more than ones present physical condition, but a victim mentality that serves to entrap them internally. This belief then flows outward, never allowing them to progress beyond their current situation.
Half the world — nearly three billion people — live on less than two dollars a day.
Trapped in a perpetuating cycle of poverty, how can one escape? My long standing view of poverty was that of an undesired situation that generally one is born or forced into due to circumstances beyond their control. Seeking to serve and help impoverished peoples around the world I have always viewed poverty as an oppressive injustice.
Now I find my paradigm being challenged, with the introduction of a thought that poverty is more than ones present physical condition, but a victim mentality that serves to entrap them internally. This belief then flows outward, never allowing them to progress beyond their current situation.
As I survey the world around me, it is hard for me to fathom how anyone could continue to keep themselves in a state of poverty when there is so much more to life. Is the line purely as black and white as a mindset vs. a condition? Life is never that simple.
I do see how the case could be argued though, especially in light of the reality that when a person hears something for long enough it can be challenging to distinguish reality from fiction. Thus breeding a sense of hopeless and despair, which continues until One has the strength to fight against all the odds, refusing to settle for what has been and pressing on to what they know could be.
Definitely something to consider and a question that is void of a simple answer
Is One Life Enough?
If you can touch one life, you can change the world
Sitting in front of school the other day, I was blatantly confronted by poverty. A woman walked by calling out, "Hello Muzungu, how are you?" Responding back, I said, "Hello, I am well and how are you?" "I am not well," came the terse reply, "Give me Money!" Shocked at this unabashed request I was stunned into inaction. Instantly being torn from the inside out, I lied, replying that I had no money. Seeing through my facade, that woman called me out and I simply relented, "sorry."
Instantly these words flooded my mind...
"Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.'
"They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'
"He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'"
-Matthew 25:41-45
Did I just miss an opportunity? The immediate answer is yes, but the underlying context begs further attention. Walking down the streets of Kampala people scream for help both in words and expression, how can I give to each one? Who is more deserving? What should the determining factors be? How can I weigh one life against another?
Contemplating this situation can quickly drive one into depression. Am I to go go into complete poverty in order to feed a city for a day, or is there some other way? If I can't help them all, what is the point of helping one?
Still seeking an answer, I feel this is a search that has only just begun. In the mean time, I am not ready to relinguish my core beliefs, like the following story illustrates...
One day a man was walking along the beach when he noticed
a boy picking something up and gently throwing it into the ocean.
Approaching the boy, he asked, “What are you doing?”
The youth replied, “Throwing starfish back into the ocean.
The surf is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.”
“Son,” the man said, “don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish?
You can’t make a difference!”
After listening politely, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish,
and threw it back into the surf. Then, smiling at the man, he said…”
I made a difference for that one.”
Why Do I Care?
Tonight in "Owning Poverty," our weekly team meeting, Julia wrapped up our discussion with the question, "Why do you care? Why are you here?" Initially the answer seems simple, but as I began to wrestle with it, an exponential number of questions poured forth from within.
So, Why Do I Care?
I care because I believe that every life is valuable.
Being born and raised in the US, I have been incredibly blessed. While my family is not wealthy by American standards, I have never been left wanting. I have always had a roof over my head, clean clothes to wear, food on the table, a family who loved me and a safe environment to grow and explore. However, as I have continued to gain in years and experience, I am left to grapple with the question of "Why Me?"
Why is it that I have been raised in wealth, while billions of other children over the years have been born into poverty? I am no different, no better, nor more deserving than any other. Yet I have been afforded every opportunity, providing me with the choice of what to do with my life, and the necessary resources to accomplish it all.
Recognizing the great disparity between us all, I care because I feel that every child should be given the basic necessities of life, and more then that, the opportunity to dream. To live with an undying hope that though there may be challenges along the way, they too can live out their full potential and make a difference in this world. Our origins and history shape and impact the person we will become, but do not define who we are. WE have all been called to greatness it is our choice how we will respond.
So, Why Do I Care?
I care because I believe that every life is valuable.
Being born and raised in the US, I have been incredibly blessed. While my family is not wealthy by American standards, I have never been left wanting. I have always had a roof over my head, clean clothes to wear, food on the table, a family who loved me and a safe environment to grow and explore. However, as I have continued to gain in years and experience, I am left to grapple with the question of "Why Me?"
Why is it that I have been raised in wealth, while billions of other children over the years have been born into poverty? I am no different, no better, nor more deserving than any other. Yet I have been afforded every opportunity, providing me with the choice of what to do with my life, and the necessary resources to accomplish it all.
Recognizing the great disparity between us all, I care because I feel that every child should be given the basic necessities of life, and more then that, the opportunity to dream. To live with an undying hope that though there may be challenges along the way, they too can live out their full potential and make a difference in this world. Our origins and history shape and impact the person we will become, but do not define who we are. WE have all been called to greatness it is our choice how we will respond.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Growing Separation
I feel separated. Separated from the group, from God, by age, experience, size and perhaps even choice.
Living overseas seems completely normal to me. Adjusting to new cultures is always a challenge and a joy. I am not used to living in such a large group through. Trapped inside our little self created American bubble, Ugandan life seems so far away. Interacting with people on the streets I realize that while I am trying to embrace the culture here, I am still holding onto Morocco as well.
As I sit here trying to write, to reflect and to record my thoughts, I keep encountering a wall. I still don't feel as though I have processed all that I have been through. In many ways I think I have blocked out my emotions as I seem to have lost the ability to feel. Taking in the world around me I am forced to accept, even though I do not always agree.
Where has my passion gone?
Answering my own question, I have to give myself a little time. To Be Still and Let Go. To carve out a space each day, to sit in silence, alone with my thoughts, emotions and God.
Living overseas seems completely normal to me. Adjusting to new cultures is always a challenge and a joy. I am not used to living in such a large group through. Trapped inside our little self created American bubble, Ugandan life seems so far away. Interacting with people on the streets I realize that while I am trying to embrace the culture here, I am still holding onto Morocco as well.
As I sit here trying to write, to reflect and to record my thoughts, I keep encountering a wall. I still don't feel as though I have processed all that I have been through. In many ways I think I have blocked out my emotions as I seem to have lost the ability to feel. Taking in the world around me I am forced to accept, even though I do not always agree.
Where has my passion gone?
Answering my own question, I have to give myself a little time. To Be Still and Let Go. To carve out a space each day, to sit in silence, alone with my thoughts, emotions and God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)