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.

Rejected frustration

       A frail woman with arms the size of my wrist greeted us. She had a large belly,  almost looking pregnant, but she wasn't. Three of her four children gathered around us, two of whom, Samuel and Immaculate,we brought with us. Samuel was so happy, smiling at all times missing several of his top front teeth, he is 6 years old but looks more like 3 or 4. His older sister Immaculate was less outgoing. She wouldn't smile unless you were looking at her and was clearly struggling inside. Once I heard her story, I wondered how she could ever smile. 

The mother was widowed a few years ago. She is HIV-positive and also has a problem with her pancreas, which explained her bulging stomach. The surgery she needed cost a mere $150, but because she had no money she hadn't received it, only worsening her situation. 

When her husband died, she was kicked off the land by her brother-in-law. In Uganda it is very hard for women to obtain land; it always goes to the next available male in the family. So upon returning to her childhood land, she was welcomed by her uncle and his family who live there. That welcome was short-lived. 

Because she is so frail, she is unable to help provide food and is considered a burden. Her four children are also considered a burden. After being kicked off that land, she and her children went to her brother's house, and the same thing happened. 

This woman, who is clearly going to die, has been booted out of each home she should have been welcomed to. Her four children have been moved around with no stability, and no feeling of self-worth. The translators noted that because she has kids, this woman is considered more of a burden. No one wants to end up with those children when she dies. 

I'm pretty sure I cried right there. Looking at those children and their sweet faces, I wanted to snatch them up and bring them home. 

After visiting that family, my mind kept going back to one question: What do we even do? How can we fix this? What do you do? That is a question we were unable to answer. We left money for the woman to have her surgery, but realistically she will probably still die soon from AIDS. At that point there are four orphans who have no one to love them. The Carepoint will take on the responsibility of finding them caregivers. 

Over and over I heard stories of helplessness, most of which involved a widow caring for between five and 10 children on $1 to $2 a week. Sickness and starvation are a way of life. Each place we went, my heart was broken for a broken world. This is not how it was intended to be, you know. The hope is that one day it will all be restored.

Although my journey was sorrowful at some points, the greatest joy of all was meeting the little girl I have been sponsoring.