About half way into our trip, Father Joseph presented to us the question, "Why are you here?" I thought a lot about that question in the days that followed, and each day seemed to present a slightly different answer. We discussed in detail our final conclusions of the trip on our last night together over drinks, and really delved into the question, "why did God choose the nine of us to come to Africa?" Each student had a well thought out response, admitting that the trip brought them outside of their comfort zones and taught them how to love others on a whole new level. Until that question was posed I had yet to really consider why I was chosen as the "chaperone" of the trip. I inquired back in October about any trips in need of a chaperone. I stated eagerly that I would be more than happy to go along, as I had no family or responsibilities tying me to Ave other than work; and most of all, because I love traveling and serving people, even though I had never traveled to serve people before. Until that point I had only traveled, as we tell the people at the customs counter, "for pleasure"; that is, for myself. At the time I did not care which trip, but hoped I would be chosen to go on one. I was a new employee, not known by anyone at the time, so the likelihood of me going was slim. But, a few weeks later I received an email that I would be assisting Father Joseph, a native of Uganda, on a trip to Africa. I was thrilled.
I remembered our first meeting together, when the students and I gathered with Father Joseph, and Jeff, who organized the logistics of the trip for us, and we all went over expectations and check list items. We each introduced ourselves and told each other a few smalls details about who we were, not knowing at the time, we would come to know each other very well a few months later. I remember clearly when I stated I was the "basketball coach" at Ave Maria, and that I wanted to volunteer my time in other ways on campus, I saw a few eye brow raises and head nods, and figured I had quickly been lumped into the "jock" category at Ave (chuckles). I am a jock. I wear shorts and t-shirts every day to work and make a living telling girls to "get on the line", while spending more of my time in a gym than any other place on campus. Fair assumption. But I hoped then, the assumption would soon be expanded upon.
After two weeks spent on a mission trip, one can ask themselves the question, "Does everything I'm doing here really matter in the grand scheme of things?". It's not like we were building schools, giving people homes, cleaning the streets, or doing anything that made a noticeable impact on anyone's life. That's what it looked like anyway. What we were doing however, was giving people hope, simply by loving them. In the paragraphs that follow, I'll share with you the ways in which that hope was instilled and expand on the "why" behind our trip.
We've reached Thursday, May 9th in the story. Thursdays at the compound are the sisters' day off. This means they do not go out on special trips to administer the Eucharist, visit the sick or imprisoned, or serve the poor outside of the walls that surround their home. Since it was their day off, we decided to take the day off as well and left at 10am to go explore the Nile River. What a beautiful trip. The van ride there, although not short, was spent listening to tunes (Father Joseph had stopped at a store to buy a small speaker so we could hook up a phone and listen to Spotify). As one can imagine, "Africa", by Toto was played frequently. When we arrived we all were given life jackets and had to sign a waiver that basically stated if we drowned in the river we wouldn't sue. Then we bought a bucket of "Nile Specials" and boarded our little boat to explore the longest river in the world.
A gorgeous day, perfect for pictures; partly cloudy, enough breeze to keep us cool, and great company was ahead of us. The boat ride was so peaceful, a serene experience, staring out at the hills of Africa all around us. We stopped at the source of the Nile River in Jinja, where the river feeds from Lake Victoria. We got out of the boat to take pictures and then headed off to a small island called "Kaivali Island". People travel here for vacation stays. It has a pool, bar/restaurant, an upper deck that overlooks the whole island, gazebos and hammocks, and huge lizards the size of cats that roam near the water. We spent about an hour on the island, exploring, taking pictures, and listening to music playing from the bar. Back in the boat, we played every song about "rivers" we could think of, and several times I stuck my hand in the cool water to let it run between my fingers, thinking of all the waters around the world I'd touched thus far in life, some including the Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee. I'll let the pictures below describe a bit of our day.
I noticed on this day how unreserved the students had become. How beautiful it was to watch them intermingle so freely with the children, as though the snotty noses, the smells of urine, and the deformities suddenly, were not seen. I think Mother Teresa was smiling down on them that day and several of her quotes popped into my head observing the love I was witnessing before my eyes. Quotes like, "If you judge people, you have no time to love them", and "We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty." These children, although poor, eating the same meals every day, wearing the same clothes over and over again, and having the same agenda day in and day out, did not lack the greatest poverty on earth. We experienced first hand through knowing them, that richness of spirit could be acquired in the simplicity of every day mundane work, prayers, and carefree timelessness; something we all could apply to our lives back home.
I'll explain here, how these children all came under the care of the Sisters of Charity. Simple, yet heartbreaking. At one time in their life, they were neglected, unwanted, and uncared for. Families could not afford to take care of them, or did not want the responsibility, maybe; regardless, the sisters found these children in the streets, asked permission to take them home, and they became part of a new family. A "family" that we all can learn valuable lessons from, for instance: to provide for your children, does not necessarily mean providing them with the best clothes, latest accessories, or best education. In the case of the sisters, providing for these children was simply placing a miraculous medal around each child's neck, feeding and clothing them, giving them a bed, and showing them unconditional love every day. Unconditional love; a concept most of us will never master in our time here on earth.
The afternoon consisted of playing duck duck goose outside, and the boys bringing the ukulele over to the women's side while the group of students all sang the children songs. The children were captured by the music, and by the looks on their faces, could have sat for hours listening. That evening, after we went for our nightly walk, this time for ice cream, we discussed how we saw Jesus that day. Again, I was so impressed with the students' responses and was inspired by their faith and willingness to share their hearts. I shared with them a favorite quote of mine that seemed to be a theme for these children in particular and one that was fitting for our discussion after our day.
"A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, 'Do it again' to the sun; and every evening 'Do it again' to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we."
- G.K. Chesterton
Every day the sisters would take a few of the students out with them to serve the poor in some way. Saturday, I joined three other students, Eamon, Kylen, and Sarah, with two of the sisters and we left for Kampala at 8am for a church nearby to teach the students Catechism. The sisters do not drive, so take taxis everywhere they go. This in itself was an adventure. That day it happened to be raining so we grabbed umbrellas and jackets and set out on our way to the church. What we didn't know was how hectic taxi services are in Uganda. The taxis are vans. Vans, that might I add, would be found in most junk yards in America. Most of them have no AC, are rusty and beat up, the seat covers torn and windows unsealed. The service consists of two people; one driver, and one man who runs the sliding door and also collects the money. Boy, do they cram people in those taxis. We boarded the van and it began to pour. Soon, Eamon and I, in the backseat, began to notice water dripping in from one of the windows onto our shoulders. Nothing to do at that point but let it happen, not like we could file any complaints. At one point in our ride, we ran out of gas and barely made it to a pump. I never knew a taxi service could bring such an adrenaline rush.
After our hectic ride, and a long walk for the final few blocks through the muddy red soil, we arrived at the church for mass with the children. One of the sisters led choir practice with them beforehand so the students and I all sat in a pew close behind and listened to them sing. After mass we all gathered in a room and set up chairs for "school". The sisters informed us our sole job was to play with the younger students while they taught the older ones, then after thirty minutes we would switch. Since it was raining outside we split up the room and Sister taught half the students up front, while we took the younger students in the back of the room. We all stood there for what seemed like minutes staring at each other wondering how we were going to entertain twenty children that couldn't speak our language in such a small space. Finally we settled on duck duck goose.
One of the little girls came up to me half way through our game and put forth quietly that she needed to use the toilet, so I told her I'd go with her if she led me to where it was. She grabbed my hand and led me outside a few hundred yards away from the building to what we in America would call an "outhouse". She opened the door and I waited for her outside, realizing then, with all this rain I suddenly needed to go as well. When she opened the door I told her to wait for me as I was going to go next. I opened the door to a hole in the ground and quickly decided with my bad knees I would hold it in until we made it back to the compound. People literally do the "squatty potty" in Africa on a daily basis, and although I'd done it several times in the back of a horse trailer in a pasture, this one was covered in bugs and waste and I just couldn't seem to muster up the courage to give it the ol' college try.
After our play time was through with the children, we handed out candy to them and then one of the little boys performed an impressive beat box medley for us. Another boy wanted to read to us so we sat and listened to him practice reading from the bible; he was so proud of himself I couldn't help but smile at his eagerness to read the Good Book. By this time it was a little past noon and our stomachs were growling. The sisters have a rule they follow strictly about eating. Simply put, they do not eat outside the walls of the compound, so they never eat out, or buy themselves any sort of snack. Denial of self at it's finest! Once we hit traffic in the heart of the city however, it was apparent we wouldn't be getting back any time soon and the sisters, feeling sympathy for our growling stomachs, bought us a snack at a local store and watched us guzzle down sodas. Oh, I'll mention here, Fanta is a popular soda of choice in Africa. I think the students drank more Fanta in Uganda than in their whole lives up to that point. I'll also add, traffic jams in Kampala put any traffic in New York or LA to shame; I've never seen anything like it in my life.
When we finally arrived back to the compound, prayer time had already begun, so a few of the girls and I decided to try our hand at washing our own clothes. We filled buckets with water, grabbed the bars of soap, and gave it our best shot; however one of the "aunties", Maria, quickly came to our aid and kindly let us know we were doing it wrong. Nothing like making me feel like a rich spoiled American girl, than to have her take the bar of soap along with my dirty socks from my hands and let me stand in awe of the actual technique that goes into hand washing clothes.
That evening we brought the speaker out in the grass to listen to music with the children and eat watermelon. Some of the students danced with the children while a few of the boys played soccer with others, while the the sun began to set on another day. Eventually, this led to everyone trying to do gymnastics in the lawn as darkness crept in. The children, along with a few of the aunties watched as several people attempted back bends, round offs, and hand springs. The whole time I was thinking how I would explain a broken bone or sprained wrist to their parents, but luckily the gymnastics routines were all successful and brought us many laughs to round out our day. A week together at this point, and we had all grown comfortable with each other. Almost like being on some sort of reality tv show where strangers are all thrown together in a house or in the wilderness and told to survive, except instead of receiving money as a prize we were receiving the grace of how to love and in turn forming friendships that only a trip like this could provide.
On Sunday, we all loaded up in the sisters only vehicle, a little pickup with what I would call a "prison cage" attached to the bed of the truck. Two people rode up front with sister and the driver, while the rest of us crammed in the back. A person enters the cage through a door in the rear where they'll find a bench on the right and one on the left. Riding in luxury and comfort at this point on the trip was only a memory in our past, so we all crawled in and I, being the last person on, locked our little door shut with a key and we set off to mass at the "Church of the Martyrs".
We went on a tour before mass in the museum and we were given some history on the church and the ground it stood on. This was the place that 23 Anglican and 22 catholic missionaries were murdered for their belief in Jesus Christ in the late 1800's. Learning about their bravery and the torture these young men faced, which eventually led to their deaths, was both heartbreaking and inspiring. The furver the Ugandan people have in their faith is so evident, something America should take note of, and much of it is because of these young men who paved the way for people in Africa today. If you'd like to read more on the martyrs, I've attached a link below. https://www.americamagazine.org/content/all-things/story-ugandan-martyrs?gclid=CjwKCAjwiZnnBRBQEiwAcWKfYk2DROdO1LQZLQ2Lh3zqw7goms_mxweJtBoVI2lZ8cht1b58TWnREBoCvJMQAvD_BwE
The pictures shown are ways in which these men were tortured; a gruesome sight, and something unimaginable to us all.
After our tour it was time for mass. Another service was just ending so we rubbed shoulders with the people exiting and found our way to a front row seat for the next service. The church was unlike anything I had ever attended before, set up more like an octagon with seating on all sides and the altar in the middle. We sat just to the right of the altar and waited as people began to file in. Just before mass began, a man started bringing up small chairs and placing them in front of us. Soon after, several children started filling the seats of those chairs and sat quietly as mass began.
Children...sat quietly...in mass. I saw it with my own eyes. I'm not sure what it is parents are doing in Uganda, but let me tell you, the mass lasted two hours; kids ages 2 to 8 were all sitting in front of us, and I did not hear a peep out of one of them or find them distracting whatsoever. None of them had a toy to play with or gold fish to eat. I've never seen children behave as well as I have in a 3rd world country. Not to mention, I've never had children so eager to wave at me, smile at me, or run up to me, as I did in Uganda. I love kiddos, and this to me was heaven on earth. I reversed roles in my mind about what it would be like if American children greeted foreigners or strangers in the same regard. The played out scenario in my head seemed weird and suddenly I thought of every child in America as a spoiled little cry baby. Ha! Harsh, yes, but sadly true.
Mass was unlike any other I had ever been to. As I mentioned, it lasted two hours, but I didn't find myself twiddling my thumbs or checking the time. Mostly, I was just entertained. The choir played a major factor in my interest. Wow, they were good. Soulful, I believe is the right word. Man, the music put the meaning into what we were doing, I felt the emphasis on receiving the Eucharist, most especially when we sang the "Hallelujah" afterward. Why don't we always do this? It was a "like duh" moment for me. We just received Jesus's body, heck yeah we should be singing hallelujah! I will never forget the reverence I witnessed that day. In so many masses I attend at home, people seem to be sleep walking through the words recited, myself included.
Going up for communion was about the same as driving through the streets of Kampala; organized chaos. You see, in Africa, they do not go up to receive the Eucharist pew by pew in a single file line. No, people just go. There are no lines, no rhyme or reason, no organization whatsoever. People just get out of their chairs and push their way forward and the priest simply gives a piece of bread to the next nearest open mouth. We asked Father Joseph why this was and he explained that it was done this way out of respect for the people who aren't going up to receive communion. In the Catholic church, people who are living in mortal sin, are not allowed to receive the Eucharist until they go to confession. In America, when we go up to communion, it is pretty darn obvious to see who isn't falling into the single file line, so as it happens, we cast judgement on the person who doesn't go up for communion. Father Joseph explained that when you have no single file lines, it is easier for the people sitting to blend in and not be noticed. I really admired this tactic, although it seemed super unorganized, the thought behind it was actually really powerful.
After mass it was inspiring, watching as several people went up to touch the cross or pray before the altar, with no regard to being seen as "overdoing it". They were simply in the presence of Jesus. We then walked the grounds for a final time with the sisters and learned more about the sacred land we were walking on. Three of the popes had visited this exact church, one including Pope John Paul II. Sister explained to us how important this area was to all people of faith in Africa and how in the next few weeks, pilgrims would travel hundreds of miles to celebrate Uganda Martyrs Day on June 3rd.
The rest of the afternoon we relaxed, took a nap, played with the children, and went into the store for chocolate; that is chocolate for the sisters. Sunday was Mother's Day and we wanted the sisters to know just how much we appreciated their motherly hearts, so we bought them chocolate and each wrote them a letter extending our gratitude and admiration for the hospitality and the vocation they lived out so faithfully. Handing them those chocolates was one of the highlights of the trip for me, knowing they do not buy themselves treats. They received it like little children on Christmas morning.
Father Joseph had went home for the weekend so he joined us Sunday evening for dinner. We all talked about our weekend and what we learned while he was away. Although the discussion started out serious and thoughtful, we ended our evening in an uproar of laughter when a couple of students mentioned a T-shirt they had seen in mass earlier that day. One man went up to communion wearing a shirt that had two red solo cups with ping pong balls on it that read, "I came to get my balls wet", referencing the game every college student knows as "beer pong". The students giggled like little children during mass and I couldn't help but hold back laughter myself, wondering why in the world anyone would wear a shirt like that to mass. Father laughed so hard he couldn't hold his head up and explained that many of the people in Uganda are illiterate and actually have no idea about the words that are often printed on the front of their shirts. My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.
Monday morning a decision needed to be made. Who was going to go to the prisons the following day, and who was going to go out with the sisters today to administer the Eucharist to the sick? All of the students were selfless in their responses, each admitting, "they didn't care", even though most secretly were curious about what a prison in Uganda actually entailed. The problem was the sisters could only take so many people to the prison so a few of us would have to stay behind. Since no one was making a decision I decided that I would go Monday, so the boys and Sarah could all go to the prison Tuesday. Problem solved. I'm grateful for this decision as going out into the slums of the city was an eye opening experience for me, one which I do not regret.
We left right away after mass Monday morning, Maddie, Becca, Father Joseph and I, to visit the sick and dying. Father Joseph drove us so we wouldn't have to bear the taxi services again but the drive was still long regardless. When we arrived to the slums we picked up two women who volunteered their time with the sisters, assisting them visiting the sick and dying. We made 17 stops that day. I cannot describe to you how exhausting this was on the body and mind. We saw men and women literally dying in their beds, we walked into homes that were merely cement walls with dirt floors. Several of the homes smelled like urine, the rooms were dark, cobwebs hung like decorations. I thought of the old abandoned farm houses I'd walked into back home, and how they would have been considered a luxury compared to the conditions these people were living in. Some of the people were blind, some couldn't walk, but each one of them was eternally grateful for our stop.
With each visit, we slipped our shoes off outside the door. One of the women would lay down a mat and light a candle. Some visits only contained Father Joseph administering the Eucharist, while others, he would also administer the Sacrament of the Sick. With each visit, Maddie, Becca, and I would grab the person's hand, ask their name, and let them know we were praying for them. The hope on their faces was enough to break our hearts, knowing some of them would not last more than a few weeks. One woman in particular, I'll never forget. She was blind. After she received the Eucharist on her knees, she started singing. She praised so reverently and her faith was fervent. I began to cry silently watching her. She called sister "mama" several times, affirming the mothers day letters we had just written for the sisters the night before. I can't explain what I felt in those moments, but all I know is I saw first hand that day the value of faith, hope, and love, in its purest form.
Although each home was slightly different, there was usually one thing that remained the same; a picture of Jesus or Mary was hanging somewhere on the wall. How many christian homes do we walk into now, without knowing the people are christian at all? This hit me. What the heck is home decor anyway? I began to think of all the nice things I had in my apartment and the words, "To whom much is given, much is expected", rolled around in my mind. This frightened me a little I will admit. I'd been given a lot compared to all of these people we were meeting, and what was I doing with it?
I remembered our first meeting together, when the students and I gathered with Father Joseph, and Jeff, who organized the logistics of the trip for us, and we all went over expectations and check list items. We each introduced ourselves and told each other a few smalls details about who we were, not knowing at the time, we would come to know each other very well a few months later. I remember clearly when I stated I was the "basketball coach" at Ave Maria, and that I wanted to volunteer my time in other ways on campus, I saw a few eye brow raises and head nods, and figured I had quickly been lumped into the "jock" category at Ave (chuckles). I am a jock. I wear shorts and t-shirts every day to work and make a living telling girls to "get on the line", while spending more of my time in a gym than any other place on campus. Fair assumption. But I hoped then, the assumption would soon be expanded upon.
After two weeks spent on a mission trip, one can ask themselves the question, "Does everything I'm doing here really matter in the grand scheme of things?". It's not like we were building schools, giving people homes, cleaning the streets, or doing anything that made a noticeable impact on anyone's life. That's what it looked like anyway. What we were doing however, was giving people hope, simply by loving them. In the paragraphs that follow, I'll share with you the ways in which that hope was instilled and expand on the "why" behind our trip.
We've reached Thursday, May 9th in the story. Thursdays at the compound are the sisters' day off. This means they do not go out on special trips to administer the Eucharist, visit the sick or imprisoned, or serve the poor outside of the walls that surround their home. Since it was their day off, we decided to take the day off as well and left at 10am to go explore the Nile River. What a beautiful trip. The van ride there, although not short, was spent listening to tunes (Father Joseph had stopped at a store to buy a small speaker so we could hook up a phone and listen to Spotify). As one can imagine, "Africa", by Toto was played frequently. When we arrived we all were given life jackets and had to sign a waiver that basically stated if we drowned in the river we wouldn't sue. Then we bought a bucket of "Nile Specials" and boarded our little boat to explore the longest river in the world.
A gorgeous day, perfect for pictures; partly cloudy, enough breeze to keep us cool, and great company was ahead of us. The boat ride was so peaceful, a serene experience, staring out at the hills of Africa all around us. We stopped at the source of the Nile River in Jinja, where the river feeds from Lake Victoria. We got out of the boat to take pictures and then headed off to a small island called "Kaivali Island". People travel here for vacation stays. It has a pool, bar/restaurant, an upper deck that overlooks the whole island, gazebos and hammocks, and huge lizards the size of cats that roam near the water. We spent about an hour on the island, exploring, taking pictures, and listening to music playing from the bar. Back in the boat, we played every song about "rivers" we could think of, and several times I stuck my hand in the cool water to let it run between my fingers, thinking of all the waters around the world I'd touched thus far in life, some including the Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee. I'll let the pictures below describe a bit of our day.
Journal Entry from May 9th: Many laughs were had on our adventures today. One especially was when we stopped along a bank on the Nile to fill our boat up with fuel. There were men sitting on the ground, with a man standing over them holding a gun. Becca snapped a picture and was immediately told by the man holding a gun to delete it. Little did she know she had just taken a picture of men about to be hauled off to prison!Friday morning started the same as the first three mornings at the compound. I woke first, and was out the door early. I began looking forward to waking up with the crow of the roosters and watching the sun rise in the morning, each perfectly painted sky seemed new and refreshing and was good for my soul. It made me a bit repulsed at myself for mornings I'd spent back home; usually first checking my phone for emails, or social media and news updates, before ever looking outside. Oh the things God can tell us in the silence of a morning sunrise. After mass and daily chores, it was again time for play with the children. A day away from them had everyone eager to spend time with them again. We were beginning to grow so attached to the children by this point, and really get to know each of their personalities.
I noticed on this day how unreserved the students had become. How beautiful it was to watch them intermingle so freely with the children, as though the snotty noses, the smells of urine, and the deformities suddenly, were not seen. I think Mother Teresa was smiling down on them that day and several of her quotes popped into my head observing the love I was witnessing before my eyes. Quotes like, "If you judge people, you have no time to love them", and "We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty." These children, although poor, eating the same meals every day, wearing the same clothes over and over again, and having the same agenda day in and day out, did not lack the greatest poverty on earth. We experienced first hand through knowing them, that richness of spirit could be acquired in the simplicity of every day mundane work, prayers, and carefree timelessness; something we all could apply to our lives back home.
I'll explain here, how these children all came under the care of the Sisters of Charity. Simple, yet heartbreaking. At one time in their life, they were neglected, unwanted, and uncared for. Families could not afford to take care of them, or did not want the responsibility, maybe; regardless, the sisters found these children in the streets, asked permission to take them home, and they became part of a new family. A "family" that we all can learn valuable lessons from, for instance: to provide for your children, does not necessarily mean providing them with the best clothes, latest accessories, or best education. In the case of the sisters, providing for these children was simply placing a miraculous medal around each child's neck, feeding and clothing them, giving them a bed, and showing them unconditional love every day. Unconditional love; a concept most of us will never master in our time here on earth.
The afternoon consisted of playing duck duck goose outside, and the boys bringing the ukulele over to the women's side while the group of students all sang the children songs. The children were captured by the music, and by the looks on their faces, could have sat for hours listening. That evening, after we went for our nightly walk, this time for ice cream, we discussed how we saw Jesus that day. Again, I was so impressed with the students' responses and was inspired by their faith and willingness to share their hearts. I shared with them a favorite quote of mine that seemed to be a theme for these children in particular and one that was fitting for our discussion after our day."A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, 'Do it again' to the sun; and every evening 'Do it again' to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we."
- G.K. Chesterton
Every day the sisters would take a few of the students out with them to serve the poor in some way. Saturday, I joined three other students, Eamon, Kylen, and Sarah, with two of the sisters and we left for Kampala at 8am for a church nearby to teach the students Catechism. The sisters do not drive, so take taxis everywhere they go. This in itself was an adventure. That day it happened to be raining so we grabbed umbrellas and jackets and set out on our way to the church. What we didn't know was how hectic taxi services are in Uganda. The taxis are vans. Vans, that might I add, would be found in most junk yards in America. Most of them have no AC, are rusty and beat up, the seat covers torn and windows unsealed. The service consists of two people; one driver, and one man who runs the sliding door and also collects the money. Boy, do they cram people in those taxis. We boarded the van and it began to pour. Soon, Eamon and I, in the backseat, began to notice water dripping in from one of the windows onto our shoulders. Nothing to do at that point but let it happen, not like we could file any complaints. At one point in our ride, we ran out of gas and barely made it to a pump. I never knew a taxi service could bring such an adrenaline rush.
Journal entry from May 11th: One of my favorite parts of the day was walking our last few blocks to the church in the pouring rain. I was holding an umbrella for myself and one of the sisters and giddily realized I was holding an umbrella over a little Indian saint!
After our hectic ride, and a long walk for the final few blocks through the muddy red soil, we arrived at the church for mass with the children. One of the sisters led choir practice with them beforehand so the students and I all sat in a pew close behind and listened to them sing. After mass we all gathered in a room and set up chairs for "school". The sisters informed us our sole job was to play with the younger students while they taught the older ones, then after thirty minutes we would switch. Since it was raining outside we split up the room and Sister taught half the students up front, while we took the younger students in the back of the room. We all stood there for what seemed like minutes staring at each other wondering how we were going to entertain twenty children that couldn't speak our language in such a small space. Finally we settled on duck duck goose.One of the little girls came up to me half way through our game and put forth quietly that she needed to use the toilet, so I told her I'd go with her if she led me to where it was. She grabbed my hand and led me outside a few hundred yards away from the building to what we in America would call an "outhouse". She opened the door and I waited for her outside, realizing then, with all this rain I suddenly needed to go as well. When she opened the door I told her to wait for me as I was going to go next. I opened the door to a hole in the ground and quickly decided with my bad knees I would hold it in until we made it back to the compound. People literally do the "squatty potty" in Africa on a daily basis, and although I'd done it several times in the back of a horse trailer in a pasture, this one was covered in bugs and waste and I just couldn't seem to muster up the courage to give it the ol' college try.
After our play time was through with the children, we handed out candy to them and then one of the little boys performed an impressive beat box medley for us. Another boy wanted to read to us so we sat and listened to him practice reading from the bible; he was so proud of himself I couldn't help but smile at his eagerness to read the Good Book. By this time it was a little past noon and our stomachs were growling. The sisters have a rule they follow strictly about eating. Simply put, they do not eat outside the walls of the compound, so they never eat out, or buy themselves any sort of snack. Denial of self at it's finest! Once we hit traffic in the heart of the city however, it was apparent we wouldn't be getting back any time soon and the sisters, feeling sympathy for our growling stomachs, bought us a snack at a local store and watched us guzzle down sodas. Oh, I'll mention here, Fanta is a popular soda of choice in Africa. I think the students drank more Fanta in Uganda than in their whole lives up to that point. I'll also add, traffic jams in Kampala put any traffic in New York or LA to shame; I've never seen anything like it in my life.When we finally arrived back to the compound, prayer time had already begun, so a few of the girls and I decided to try our hand at washing our own clothes. We filled buckets with water, grabbed the bars of soap, and gave it our best shot; however one of the "aunties", Maria, quickly came to our aid and kindly let us know we were doing it wrong. Nothing like making me feel like a rich spoiled American girl, than to have her take the bar of soap along with my dirty socks from my hands and let me stand in awe of the actual technique that goes into hand washing clothes.
That evening we brought the speaker out in the grass to listen to music with the children and eat watermelon. Some of the students danced with the children while a few of the boys played soccer with others, while the the sun began to set on another day. Eventually, this led to everyone trying to do gymnastics in the lawn as darkness crept in. The children, along with a few of the aunties watched as several people attempted back bends, round offs, and hand springs. The whole time I was thinking how I would explain a broken bone or sprained wrist to their parents, but luckily the gymnastics routines were all successful and brought us many laughs to round out our day. A week together at this point, and we had all grown comfortable with each other. Almost like being on some sort of reality tv show where strangers are all thrown together in a house or in the wilderness and told to survive, except instead of receiving money as a prize we were receiving the grace of how to love and in turn forming friendships that only a trip like this could provide.
On Sunday, we all loaded up in the sisters only vehicle, a little pickup with what I would call a "prison cage" attached to the bed of the truck. Two people rode up front with sister and the driver, while the rest of us crammed in the back. A person enters the cage through a door in the rear where they'll find a bench on the right and one on the left. Riding in luxury and comfort at this point on the trip was only a memory in our past, so we all crawled in and I, being the last person on, locked our little door shut with a key and we set off to mass at the "Church of the Martyrs".
We went on a tour before mass in the museum and we were given some history on the church and the ground it stood on. This was the place that 23 Anglican and 22 catholic missionaries were murdered for their belief in Jesus Christ in the late 1800's. Learning about their bravery and the torture these young men faced, which eventually led to their deaths, was both heartbreaking and inspiring. The furver the Ugandan people have in their faith is so evident, something America should take note of, and much of it is because of these young men who paved the way for people in Africa today. If you'd like to read more on the martyrs, I've attached a link below. https://www.americamagazine.org/content/all-things/story-ugandan-martyrs?gclid=CjwKCAjwiZnnBRBQEiwAcWKfYk2DROdO1LQZLQ2Lh3zqw7goms_mxweJtBoVI2lZ8cht1b58TWnREBoCvJMQAvD_BwE
The pictures shown are ways in which these men were tortured; a gruesome sight, and something unimaginable to us all.
After our tour it was time for mass. Another service was just ending so we rubbed shoulders with the people exiting and found our way to a front row seat for the next service. The church was unlike anything I had ever attended before, set up more like an octagon with seating on all sides and the altar in the middle. We sat just to the right of the altar and waited as people began to file in. Just before mass began, a man started bringing up small chairs and placing them in front of us. Soon after, several children started filling the seats of those chairs and sat quietly as mass began.
Children...sat quietly...in mass. I saw it with my own eyes. I'm not sure what it is parents are doing in Uganda, but let me tell you, the mass lasted two hours; kids ages 2 to 8 were all sitting in front of us, and I did not hear a peep out of one of them or find them distracting whatsoever. None of them had a toy to play with or gold fish to eat. I've never seen children behave as well as I have in a 3rd world country. Not to mention, I've never had children so eager to wave at me, smile at me, or run up to me, as I did in Uganda. I love kiddos, and this to me was heaven on earth. I reversed roles in my mind about what it would be like if American children greeted foreigners or strangers in the same regard. The played out scenario in my head seemed weird and suddenly I thought of every child in America as a spoiled little cry baby. Ha! Harsh, yes, but sadly true.
Journal entry from May 11th: We asked Father why children here are so well behaved. His simple response, 'You guys in America spoil your kids too much. Every time they cry or whine, you have something to give them. That doesn't happen here.'
Mass was unlike any other I had ever been to. As I mentioned, it lasted two hours, but I didn't find myself twiddling my thumbs or checking the time. Mostly, I was just entertained. The choir played a major factor in my interest. Wow, they were good. Soulful, I believe is the right word. Man, the music put the meaning into what we were doing, I felt the emphasis on receiving the Eucharist, most especially when we sang the "Hallelujah" afterward. Why don't we always do this? It was a "like duh" moment for me. We just received Jesus's body, heck yeah we should be singing hallelujah! I will never forget the reverence I witnessed that day. In so many masses I attend at home, people seem to be sleep walking through the words recited, myself included.Going up for communion was about the same as driving through the streets of Kampala; organized chaos. You see, in Africa, they do not go up to receive the Eucharist pew by pew in a single file line. No, people just go. There are no lines, no rhyme or reason, no organization whatsoever. People just get out of their chairs and push their way forward and the priest simply gives a piece of bread to the next nearest open mouth. We asked Father Joseph why this was and he explained that it was done this way out of respect for the people who aren't going up to receive communion. In the Catholic church, people who are living in mortal sin, are not allowed to receive the Eucharist until they go to confession. In America, when we go up to communion, it is pretty darn obvious to see who isn't falling into the single file line, so as it happens, we cast judgement on the person who doesn't go up for communion. Father Joseph explained that when you have no single file lines, it is easier for the people sitting to blend in and not be noticed. I really admired this tactic, although it seemed super unorganized, the thought behind it was actually really powerful.
The rest of the afternoon we relaxed, took a nap, played with the children, and went into the store for chocolate; that is chocolate for the sisters. Sunday was Mother's Day and we wanted the sisters to know just how much we appreciated their motherly hearts, so we bought them chocolate and each wrote them a letter extending our gratitude and admiration for the hospitality and the vocation they lived out so faithfully. Handing them those chocolates was one of the highlights of the trip for me, knowing they do not buy themselves treats. They received it like little children on Christmas morning.
Father Joseph had went home for the weekend so he joined us Sunday evening for dinner. We all talked about our weekend and what we learned while he was away. Although the discussion started out serious and thoughtful, we ended our evening in an uproar of laughter when a couple of students mentioned a T-shirt they had seen in mass earlier that day. One man went up to communion wearing a shirt that had two red solo cups with ping pong balls on it that read, "I came to get my balls wet", referencing the game every college student knows as "beer pong". The students giggled like little children during mass and I couldn't help but hold back laughter myself, wondering why in the world anyone would wear a shirt like that to mass. Father laughed so hard he couldn't hold his head up and explained that many of the people in Uganda are illiterate and actually have no idea about the words that are often printed on the front of their shirts. My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.
Journal entry from May 12th: Maybe part of my "why" is simply to laugh again. The last several months have been hard. I haven't been surrounded by such good company and laughed like this in so long.
Monday morning a decision needed to be made. Who was going to go to the prisons the following day, and who was going to go out with the sisters today to administer the Eucharist to the sick? All of the students were selfless in their responses, each admitting, "they didn't care", even though most secretly were curious about what a prison in Uganda actually entailed. The problem was the sisters could only take so many people to the prison so a few of us would have to stay behind. Since no one was making a decision I decided that I would go Monday, so the boys and Sarah could all go to the prison Tuesday. Problem solved. I'm grateful for this decision as going out into the slums of the city was an eye opening experience for me, one which I do not regret.We left right away after mass Monday morning, Maddie, Becca, Father Joseph and I, to visit the sick and dying. Father Joseph drove us so we wouldn't have to bear the taxi services again but the drive was still long regardless. When we arrived to the slums we picked up two women who volunteered their time with the sisters, assisting them visiting the sick and dying. We made 17 stops that day. I cannot describe to you how exhausting this was on the body and mind. We saw men and women literally dying in their beds, we walked into homes that were merely cement walls with dirt floors. Several of the homes smelled like urine, the rooms were dark, cobwebs hung like decorations. I thought of the old abandoned farm houses I'd walked into back home, and how they would have been considered a luxury compared to the conditions these people were living in. Some of the people were blind, some couldn't walk, but each one of them was eternally grateful for our stop.
With each visit, we slipped our shoes off outside the door. One of the women would lay down a mat and light a candle. Some visits only contained Father Joseph administering the Eucharist, while others, he would also administer the Sacrament of the Sick. With each visit, Maddie, Becca, and I would grab the person's hand, ask their name, and let them know we were praying for them. The hope on their faces was enough to break our hearts, knowing some of them would not last more than a few weeks. One woman in particular, I'll never forget. She was blind. After she received the Eucharist on her knees, she started singing. She praised so reverently and her faith was fervent. I began to cry silently watching her. She called sister "mama" several times, affirming the mothers day letters we had just written for the sisters the night before. I can't explain what I felt in those moments, but all I know is I saw first hand that day the value of faith, hope, and love, in its purest form.
Although each home was slightly different, there was usually one thing that remained the same; a picture of Jesus or Mary was hanging somewhere on the wall. How many christian homes do we walk into now, without knowing the people are christian at all? This hit me. What the heck is home decor anyway? I began to think of all the nice things I had in my apartment and the words, "To whom much is given, much is expected", rolled around in my mind. This frightened me a little I will admit. I'd been given a lot compared to all of these people we were meeting, and what was I doing with it?
Journal entry May 13th: If only I had half the faith I saw in the people I encountered today. The things I could accomplish in one day, the love I could give. I admire their hope and their faith so much. They have nothing, which is why they fully understand why Jesus is everything.Well, shoot. I've done it again. Word vomit, everywhere. And still not finished. This will conclude "Part 2" of Uganda. Part 3 then, will round out the "why" of our trip in Masaka, Father Joseph's home town, where we were able to stay in his home with his family, meet hundreds of orphaned children, make a quick stop at the equator, and say our goodbyes, with some final reflections of the trip. Part 3 was a favorite for many of the students and I hope you'll stay tuned. Thanks for reading my faithful followers, all five of you are greatly appreciated (knee slap). To be continued...
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