Olaf takes pictures

Oh oh! This doesn't look right

Okay guys! Take 1

Take 2

Just take me

Uhm I didn't mean literally

Jesus in the Choir

Its Christmas time! Tinsel and lights, spruce and pine trees are all on display.

An invitation was made in church to join the choir for our carol service. As I toyed with the idea I recalled my experience last Christmas.
We had just moved into the area and I wanted to get involved. I signed up. Every practice my faith was tested. I got to see another side of Jesus that I had brushed aside or didn't care to notice even though if was written all over the scriptures.

Because of my low tone I sing tenor. That's not a problem, I'm used to being one of the few ladies that sings with the men. I was sandwiched between two goofy guys. One smelled like a chimney and the other a bar. I struggled to hold my note through "glo -o- o-ria" as fumes clashed right at the center of my nose.
During the 5 minute break, one dashed out to get another puff while the other hurried to the restroom. I enjoyed their company for the most part but couldn't wrap my mind around their habits. From the look of things this was not their first carol service either. Dave the choir master always called them by name.
Billy the smoker was quite free with his hands, he placed them over my shoulder like we were long lost buddies. "Got to leave early today, my 9 year old son is spending the weekend with me"
Jeff on the other hand pulled a crumpled sheet of music from his jacket pocket straightened it out and sung like he composed "Joy to the World". The day of the carol service, Jeff came a little late,
dressed in a maroon shirt, black suspenders and a bow tie. Even though the clothes hung off his skinny frame, he seemed pleased with himself. He had made the effort to clean up. He walked up to the choir master and said "Look Dave, I made it! Couldn't find a red shirt though"
Billy and Jeff, sang their hearts out. I could tell they loved Jesus in spite of their brokenness. He came to seek and save the lost. He asks us to come just as we are, He is looking for the sick and not the well. Church is the place for the sick not the well who have it all together. For some the brokenness is evident on the outside but for people like me, the brokenness is hidden behind a quiet demeanor.
The beauty with Jesus is that His arms are always open to welcome every one.

Merry Christmas!!!

…But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. "This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."… Luke 2:10 - 12

Remembering Evelyn

“The value of life is not in its duration, but in its donation. You are not important because of how long you live, you are important because of how effective you live. And most people are concerned about growing old rather than being effective," ― Myles Munroe,

"The people who have impacted the world didn't live long. Martin Luther King. John F. Kennedy. These people who impact the world were not old people, but they lived so effectively that we cannot erase them from history,”― Myles Munroe,

On this first day of December I remember Evelyn, a graceful leader, elegant, intelligent, compassionate, thoughtful and selfless. She was here for 24 years and left a precious imprint. She led a school, she was a faithful friend, a big sister and a wonderful daughter to her parents.

At a young age few things terrified more than being dropped off to boarding school. I watched clouds of dust rise as my dad drove away. My stomach plunked down on my pelvis and like a full stop there was nothing more to say. It was going to be a while before I saw him again. I faced the enormous school campus with resolve and trudged down to the dormitory. Oblivious to the possibility that the sun would shine again I sat on my bed, unpacked my suitcase and begun to count down to visiting day.That changed when I received a note from Evelyn. I had been wrapped up in my own little world I forgot I had a family friend in the school. She became the head girl and with that came a private room. She showed me where she kept her key and gave me access to her stash of grab. Compared to the O'Level dormitories crammed with 10 girls on double Decker beds, this was a welcome change.
As a junior in college little else topped access to the head prefect. I felt invincible. Chances of being bullied were slim to none. In a sweet spot between students and the school authorities, I heard both the dormitory gossip and administrative decisions passed on to the prefects.
One day a girl said "The head girl is back. Have you seen her legs, they have black dots. She is sick." I was puzzled. I knew Evelyn went home on occasion but I assumed that was a privilege head girls enjoyed. Clueless as a sheep, I mentioned what I heard and asked her what she was suffering from.
I found out she had HIV. She was probably 18. The first young HIV patient I knew.
She excelled and joined university for a Law degree. She came back to school often, sent me a success card and wrote me letters about life at the University.
She fell seriously ill but that didn't rob her grace, even on her hospital bed. At the end students, parents and teachers from schools near and far packed the church service and filled her parents compound. She loved and was loved by many in those 24 years.

Today I think about Evelyn and the many young women who have faced and are facing AIDS.
There is hope. Let's Focus, Partner and Achieve an AIDS-free Generation.

 "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28

Worship with Danstan; Kampala Pentecostal Church in the late 90's

"The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively"
...and if that man's life is under Jesus' Lordship his purpose has been fulfilled.

Some people come into your life for a period and at the time you may not realize that their influence in that season will be a pivot for life. Today, I celebrate Danstan Kisuule for his influence as a worship leader. He taught me to revere God's presence, to love God's Word and to worship with abandon.

As a young Christian in Kampala Pentecostal Church I found my gift of service in the Worship ministry. Danstan selected the worship teams, scheduled the backup rotas and chose the choir specials. He exhorted us to keep time and make good on our word. To be present in "the moment" and not to worry about things we couldn't change. He encouraged us to tithe and dress well. "If you have just one shirt or dress, wash it every night if you must but always be clean”. When we compartmentalized songs in praise and then worship he reminded us that it was all worship regardless of whether songs are fast or slow. By the end of choir practice one had not only learned a new song but been given a few principles by which to govern life.

I always looked forward to spending time at church.There were times as a student at Makerere University, I would give the taxi conductor the last 200 shillings I had without a clue of how I would get back to campus. Eager to attend choir practice I would walk up the steep slope in a hurry and hope that if nothing else Andrew (one of the sound men) would escort me back and he always did.

The day I received my first schedule as a backup singer the ground softened under my feet, there was a spring in my step. A good voice was only half the equation. Danstan's intuition coupled with consistency and integrity served to determine whether or not one made the cut so I knew I had done something right. 

I pinned the schedule up in my campus room and flipped it over more times than I care to mention. My heart was a flatter from Saturday morning before rehearsal until Sunday evening after the fourth service. I never tired of leading worship. I learned that I had signed up to live a public life, I would be recognized anywhere. I also learned that even though the congregation looked like a sea of unrecognizable faces, standing before them gave them permission to scrutinize my life.

When I listen to  Don Moen and Hosanna Integrity, I recall the days of my first love. The days when I learned to sing Scripture. Every Friday Danstan taught us songs he had listened to during the week. Some times we covered full albums of Integrity music. We raised the roof of the cinema hall with songs like "Mighty Man of War". Our voices went hoarse in joyous celebration of the mighty God we serve!

On days when course works were difficult, relationships were rocky, or I just needed direction,these songs would come to memory.

"If your presence doesn't go with us, Lord we don't want to leave this place"; Don Moen off the album, "Let Your Glory Fall".

"If we call to Him, He will answer us, if we run to Him, He will run to us" Don Moen off the album "I Will Sing"

"Trade your heavy hearts for a heart of Joy, celebrate what God has done" Don Moen off the album "God For Us". 

One afternoon I got the privilege to ride in his car. A song begun to play that continues to lift my spirit today “Lord We’ve Come to Worship”. He soaked in the songs and played them over for private worship and for instruction. His car was a worship room on wheels. He knew the songs back to front and ensured that the choir learned them right. He took the time to sharpen his skill.When he played the drums, he hit every last cymbal with passion and precision. His song selection involved intricate preparation. He knew in which key each song was played. Just like with King David, God didn't consider his appearance or his height. “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” I Samuel

He raised his hands, closed his eyes in prayer and danced before the Lord. He led the congregation into God’s presence and left them there.

He encouraged us to lift up our voices in prayer “ Don't peer through the crowd to see if your friends have come. Your audience in one – God.”

Today, I know God looks at my heart  it doesn't matter whether I stand still, kneel down or sit. In the privacy of my room or among people who may be less expressive in worship, I can lift my hands and dance knowing that my audience is one - God.  He busks in my praise an act cultivated over 15 years ago. 

Worship is not just the songs we sing on Sunday morning but a lifestyle of prayer, reading scripture and obedience. 

Other days an old worship song will make me smile as I remember Uncle D's dance moves; the swift simultaneous movements with each hand and leg ..."oh sing for Joy to God our strength..." Thanks Uncle D for being faithful. You made a difference in my life. God looks for true worshipers, those who worship Him in Spirit and in truth, thanks for showing me how.

A Great Mind At Work

One morning my little guy lined his bowl with foil and proceeded to add cereal and milk. After a while I could not resist. I asked why the foil? He said it was to reduce on the number of breakfast dishes he had to wash. I smiled all the way to work.

Help me understand Ugandan children raised in America - I have two

I have the bad habit of checking my phone every few seconds; at the dinner table, between mouthfuls, in the living room, during family banter...

I check my phone - anxious to receive an imaginary email, text message or stumble on the news of a life time on social media. My son throws me daggers and I can almost hear the words boiling in his head.

Sometimes I eat while standing in the kitchen and sermon my little girl to her seat when she roams the house with a snack in her hand.

When it's time to head out with the family I sound the alarm "It's time to go - put on your shoes and get to the car". Then I remember I didn't close the curtain or get the book I had planned to carry, so I rush back in.
My little girl insists the humidifier should be plugged in her room because she senses a cold coming on (it's been "coming" for a while now). To reduce the incessant requests I tell her yeah I will do it tomorrow and never get round to it until she pulls it out herself and tells me - "now mummy!"

At times, I'm exhausted, tidying up after little people have run all over the place and dropped stuff makes me weak in the knees, so I ignore the mess. The problem is sometimes, I ignore the mess for far too long - there is so much to do over the weekend; shop, cook, do laundry, attempt to sleep... I create enough space for the plates to fit on the table never mind the homework and art crafts that have piled all week long.  Then I'm hit with a sudden fever when friends hint on a desire to visit.

Kids develop a familiarity with their parents over here. We are a community of four mingling in each others space. We get a break with school and work, and the Ugandan fellowship once a month but our safe place - the place where we are most ourselves is in the community of four (Mom, Dad, and 2 kids).  I get upset in front of the kids. I make mistakes. They hear about my struggles. After a while mom is just another human being - she is not magical. When I approach my son with instructions I'm always shocked when he responds with peer attitude. Where is the respect? I wonder. How dare he respond to me that way? Then it hits me; we are in each others space all the time. He sees my excellent points and my weaknesses, he knows my passions and what upsets me.

What happened to the days when we worshiped the ground on which our parents walked? I remember the fear that gripped me the moment my dad returned home. "Welcome back Daddy!" We run to pick his briefcase, get him a glass of water and so on. Mom was approachable but  we never took her for granted. Here, you know where the kitchen is, yeah we've all had a hard day so get with the program. "Why should I be the one to get you water?" "But so and so is right there, why don't you ask them to do it". So I go and get the water myself.
Perhaps because we spent more time with uncles, aunts, helpers, neighbors and everybody else - the parent was honored. Perhaps there was more respect because we didn't spend each waking moment together and thus were not exposed to their quirks. Play time was reserved for age mates. 

When my little girl calls me her best friend and insists that we color together - I love it! But I suspect that as she grows older she may arrive at my 10 year old son's base where he is upset that I didn't consult him about weekend plans. "What?! You invited visitors? Why didn't you tell me? Next time I will also invite my friends over without letting you know". I look at him and wonder when the need to consult crept onto the scene. On the inside I wonder"who is this boy?" There is a constant battle of cultures: the one I was raised in and try to impart and the one he lives in. I was raised to respect and honor, he believes every opportunity is presented so he can assert himself. God please help me understand children raised in America - I have two in this house and they leave this Ugandan mama speechless".

Hallucinations In The Sun

The beginnings of craziness:

The swelter of a summer’s day stirs a sudden desire to perform regrettable acts, to disregard values that have governed life. As I strain to make my way home after a day at work the sun beats down with relentless pressure. I force one foot in front of the other and resist the urge to remain motionless - to shrivel up under its burning gaze. Concerns and frustrations coupled with the need to fit into a different culture, to be accepted and understood boil within. 

I straighten a paper clip and fix it in the Nissan parked in the car lot. I want to get in and drive away. The alarm goes off but I don’t care. I don’t care for the consequences, my instincts are not motivated by the need for a car. I just want a little attention. Sweat oozes from my pores. The reflection from the sun irks me. I want to scream. Now I understand why Camus’ Stranger pulled the trigger. The rays unravel crude instincts buried under frustrations and nagged by egotistic living and self-promotion. The sun messes with my senses, it melts my social conformity's, toasts my dignity and allover a sudden, nothing matters anymore. I turn the corner and see a man, the only other human being for miles. He is tall and fit, dressed in a light lavender shirt and black pants. I walk up to him and suggest something. A disconnection between what I believe and what I feel. I don’t care for his race. I don’t care that he doesn't know me. He says yes and we go our separate ways, forget it ever happened, we are strangers. The tension is released until another scotching sun roasts all my concerns in its flame.I won't see him again, he will move to a different city, use a different route and probably forget we ever met.

It has been 3 years since I saw familiar strangers on the street. We looked alike and spoke the same language even though our dialects were different. We crossed paths daily. On occasion we exchanged smiles. We were comfortable in the little city of Kampala. We shook our heads at the government’s lack of credibility and laughed at the same comedians on the taxi radio. Here, genuine smiles are few. We are permanently hypnotized by our gadgets; we download the latest apps, respond to office mail after midnight, advocate for animal rights, human rights, gun rights and the right to be wrong.

Cars whiz by, I come to a traffic light; red, yellow, green - it's my turn to walk across. The sun continues to play on my senses. I snap back into the present, my feet firmly on the ground - I keep walking.