Reality and opportunity

        I wasn't ready to leave Uganda yet, but my exhaustion was okay with the departure. The long journey home seemed like a dream as I finally reached my apartment after nearly 48 hours of travel. I slept a lot the next couple of days and went into a mild depression. I was sad to be back in this extravagant atmosphere. I struggled with listening to my friends talk of vacations and "needs" that in my mind were definitely "wants."

For the first few days I lived in a dream world. Once I returned back to the office, reality set in that I was back to the same life I had left. I honestly felt like a stranger in my own home and office. I wanted to talk about my trip to anyone that would listen, to share the stories and heartaches of the children in the Teso region. Some asked about my trip; others didn't. Once I started talking, it was hard to know when to stop. I felt like people didn't care, but the truth is, most just don't understand. I didn't, either, until I saw it for myself. Pictures can't accurately share the experience, and even these writings don't do the hardships justice. 

I wanted to adjust back into this life, but not enough to get comfortable. I don't ever want to forget the faces or the landscape, or the singing. I don't want to spend money on useless things instead of giving it away to those who need it. I don't want to get back to the typical American Dream that says I should want more, need more, and have more. We've been duped. That's not the dream we should be dreaming. Saving lives, giving others the chance for an education⎯those are dreams worth dreaming. 

Even in this job I have struggled with the purpose I have. What difference does it make if people don't know about the next great event happening in northeast Iowa? Sorry if offend anyone, but this job should not rule my time and ultimately, my life. I am thankful for a job, for this job. Without it, I would not be able to give any money. It is hard, though, to remember that this is just a means to an end. I want to do something meaningful with my life. I want to make a difference.

The primary reason I went to Uganda was to meet the 10-year-old girl I've been sponsoring. Such a small contribution from my bank account each month is paying for her food, medical care, education, and overall well-being. Many people probably do this through similar organizations, without ever thinking about the face behind the transaction. Children's HopeChest, however, purposely encourages sponsors to visit their kids, in order to better understand the difference that $34 a month can make. In turn, they receive free advertising for their work, because not talking about the experience is just impossible. 

The great thing is, you don't have to go to Africa or any other country to make a difference. You can support these children through your finances. Many people have expressed their support for helping children right here in America. I am obviously not opposed to this! My heart is in Africa, and this is why. The difference between being poor in Africa and being poor in America is this; there are no food pantries or homeless shelters, there is no DHS, and there are not people nearly everywhere with money in their pockets. Out there, in the bush, in these villages, everyone is hurting. There are 2.7 million orphans in this small country. The life expectancy is only 53 years old, with a poverty ratio of 31 percent. Giving them a full stomach really is the best use of your money.  Another cool thing is that you aren't just paying for food, but a program that will help change their lives. 

From someone who has seen the difference it makes, I urge you to sponsor a child.  There are just over 50 children left within these two villages who need sponsors right now. Once these kids are sponsored, the team going in January will hopefully be able to add more to the program, making an even bigger difference in these small communities. 

Go to www.hopechest.org/community/bukedea/sponsor, or you can give a one-time, tax-deductible payment in a new campaign called "Change Their Story" focused around Christmas. I'll have more details available for those interested. Email me at jessicaduren@gmail.com.  

Sweet singing, jiggers and hope

Our welcome to Ogoloi was much quieter than to Bukedea. We soon learned why as we were led into the local church building that currently houses the Carepoint. We followed the singing children, ducking down to go through the door and into the dark, oversized hut. Handmade signs hung throughout the structure, welcoming us to the rural village. 

We sat in chairs as we were introduced to the children sitting on the floor in front of us. The sun shone through the building in gentle rays as we listened to Pastor Moses share the village's sad news. Two funerals were being held that morning due to malaria. When we expressed our sympathy to their village, Moses explained that premature deaths were common among their people. I felt such sympathy for these people as they battle such a preventable disease. The price for malaria medicine in Uganda is approximately $7. It is a sad reality when people die when such a small amount of money could save them. 

Despite the somber beginning, our time in Ogoloi was a joyful one. Several caretakers greeted us at the end of day one. Halfway through their song some of the children joined them, and then all of the children joined in, singing and dancing. We couldn't contain ourselves, as we all danced together in one big group. 

Since I didn't have a sponsored girl in this village, I devoted my time to any child that walked by, tickling them and smiling in their general direction.  I gained the affection of two little girls, Juliet and Rhoda. These two were just adorable, clinging to me for several hours out of the day. 

One of my favorite memories from the trip happened while just doing nothing. Without any agenda in mind, I was able to share a sweet moment with a group of six to eight young girls sitting inside the church. With two girls sitting on my lap and others gathered around close, we sang sweet songs of praise. 

As in Bukedea, there were joyful moments and heartbreaking ones. 

Ogoloi was unique in that it sits farther out into the bush. The village is not influenced by a city, and the overall atmosphere was just more simple. The huts were a little larger, but the children seemed less kept. 

One child in particular was at the center of our attention throughout the week. Thomas was a young boy with HIV who was brought into the program last December. His murky eyes, sweet smile, and curious attitude had one of us carting him around or taking his picture more often than not.

Our group learned of a young boy, John, who was found with jiggers in his legs and feet. These small parasites make their way into the skin, killing nerves and laying eggs that turn into worms. The only way to get them out is to dig through the skin, extracting them with a needle. When Julius found him, the jiggers were so bad the boy couldn't even walk. On top of that, he was also severely malnourished. The boy's father is mentally disturbed, and a drunk. He has chased the mother away and beats her when she returns to care for the children. 

This was another heartbreaking story that made me angry when I first heard it. The great thing is that when this boy was discovered, he was helped. He and his siblings are getting food through the Carepoint now and are much healthier. Julius took the time to dig out the jiggers and will receive the care needed to keep them from taking over his body again. 

In a world that is so hopeless, these children have found some refuge in a program that is funded by people they don't know. This program is meeting needs that would otherwise go unmet. I was, and still am, very proud to be a supporter of Children's HopeChest. 

After seeing the problems this world has to offer, I have felt much like a stranger in my own home. 

Produce, poultry and appreciation

This is a continuation of the story of my recent journey to Uganda.

We were warned about this. Dylan said it would be hard. I couldn't have imaged just how hard, though, until I was there, sitting on a plastic chair lined up against the concrete wall of the Carepoint with my team members. 

A nervous feeling came over me as we waited to see what all the fuss was about. Butterflies don't even begin to describe how I felt.

Women, most of them older, lined the back of the room. Their children sat in the space between us, all eyes on us.  

"They've brought you gifts of thanksgiving," Richard translated.

My mood changed from delight to panic.  

"What gifts could they possibly have for us?" I thought. 

I had seen their homes and their children. Most of the kids had been wearing the same outfits all week– with holes, filth, too big or too small. We were there because they needed help; they don't have any excess. 

As women approached us, one by one, with their gifts, I tried to keep it together.  Kneeling down to shake our hands, the widows kissed each of our cheeks as they presented corn, rice, potatoes, and a live chicken with feet tied together for careful handling. As each woman brought her produce (or poultry), I knew this gift represented her livelihood, a week's worth of food at the very least. I couldn't contain the tears anymore as I watched them present bigger gifts than we deserved. I was overwhelmed by their generosity and felt sick about receiving such gratitude. Like other times throughout the trip when presented with tokens of thanks, I felt only cheap and somewhat disgusted with my own lack of generosity. 

One of the boys, Enock, also brought us a chicken. A young lady, Grace, presented us with her own bag of produce. Sweet-hearted children, who work alongside their parents to provide food for their families were also willing to sacrifice for thanksgiving. 

Two more times I watched these beautiful people give all they had, once during the church service at the next village, Ogoloi. Eggs count as money when you have nothing else to give as your offering to God. Again, when we were to say goodbye to the Ogoloi children, more produce and poultry were presented in a demonstration of gratitude. 

While receiving these gifts was absolutely the hardest thing I've ever experienced, to refuse them seems just as hard. How do you tell people you don't need their gifts, when they've given all they have? With a heart so full of thanksgiving, to turn these gifts down would not only be culturally unacceptable, but heartbreaking. 

Later in the day we said goodbye to the children at Bukedea. So as not to cause a mob-like situation, the children were asked to stay seated as we left. My heart still aches at the lack of affection we were able to give during those last moments. More tears fell as I scanned the crowd for my Adongo and her twin sister. I wanted to hug them one last time, I wanted to hug them all. As we drove away, I wondered if they understood that we wouldn't be back the next day.

I watched out the window as we continued on our journey. We would start all over the next day in a new village. A new group of kids to love, a whole new week of investing our time and emotions. I was somber, emotionally and physically exhausted. I didn't want to do it all again, just to say goodbye. 

As we drove farther into the bush the next morning, we were stopped by a small group of children lined up with faces painted. Their sweet song filled the air as we got out of our van and continued the journey on foot. Two children took my hands in theirs and walked me down the unusually sandy path. 

Hello, sweet girl

All summer I anxiously awaited the trip to Uganda, where I could meet that smiling little girl I had chosen to sponsor. A picture and a brief description was all I had to make a connection. Ten years old, Adongo Lillian Josephine , lived with her mother, had a twin sister, and her father died of HIV in 2010. That's all I knew. 

On our first day in Bukedea, I asked the adults at the Carepoint if they could help me find the 10-year-old I so desperately wanted to meet. As I waited in the concrete office located in the back of the Carepoint, I suddenly became nervous. I hadn't really thought about what I would say or do when I met her. 

I didn't have time to think about it then, as Adongo and her sister Apio came around the corner. Both very shy, I asked the translator to explain that I was Adongo's sponsor, and that my friend Kristen Jorgenson was Apio's sponsor. 

I was overjoyed to be face to face with them. I must not have been able to hide my excitement because Mama, a Carepoint employee, told me to go ahead and hug them if I wanted. So I did. I hugged the children I had been praying for. I hugged the kids whose lives I had had an impact on from thousands of miles away. I took some photos with them, and asked if I could come to their house the next day; to to tell their mother I would be visiting. 

Their land was right next to the Carepoint. I was glad for that. I hated hearing about how far away some of the kids lived and how far they had to walk each day. I met Adongo's mother, a short woman, with a smile as sweet her daughters'. She welcomed me and others from my team as we approached their property. She thanked me with hugs and clapping when she found out who I was.  

The caregivers at each house we went to would be sure to place us in a shaded spot, with a chair, even though most of the time they had to go find extra chairs at a neighbor's hut. The greetings were tough for me, because I didn't like being forced to sit on a chair while they sat on the dirt. They also got on their knees to shake our hands and kiss our cheeks. A cultural, but nonetheless, humbling experience. This was the same at Adongo's house. 

Her mother, Christine, was widowed. I found out more of their story as we sat under the only tree on the property. 

The father was a polygamist, like most nonChristian men in Uganda. He had two wives, each of whom had several children, amounting to nine in all. Since the father died in 2010, the two women continued to live on the same land. They care for one another and their children as one family. They gather and sell firewood and they farm to survive. With nine children, there are a lot of mouths to feed. Providing enough food is clearly a struggle. 

The children proudly showed us the inside of their hut. These small brick buildings have no windows and sleep more people than they should. 

I was glad to meet my girl and her family. Before we left, I sat in the dirt, placing my hands on them as I prayed to God, thanking Him for the opportunity, and for these women who care for their children. I was relieved to see that my little Adongo wasn't starving. She wasn't being abused, and she had a caregiver who clearly loved her. These are such rare circumstances among the Ugandan children. 

The rest of the week I picked my girls out of the crowd at every activity, watching their personalities come through. Jump-roping, dancing, playing netball, I was surrounded by these little ladies and their friends. Adongo's smile was contagious, and she has such a sweet spirit. 

My favorite memory from the entire trip was the time I spent inside the Carepoint, just dancing with Adongo. Her small black hands held mine as we jumped around to the African tribal music filling our ears. Time slowed down as I soaked it in; smiling and laughing, I could have stayed right there forever. 

Loving my time with Adongo, the day we had to leave was looming in the back of my mind. With another village waiting, our last day in Bukedea was by far the hardest day of my whole trip. Tears flowed, but maybe not for the reason you might think.