The Crazy Adventures of an American Mzungu

Words failed me as I looked into the eyes of my friend. They were full of fear, although she reassured me she wasn’t afraid! But how could she not be? We had been hearing of covid-19 for months, but it felt so far from us in Moroto. We hadn’t had a case, but then they brought patients from other districts to our hospital in Moroto. My friend, a 27 year old widow with three young children, had every reason to be afraid. How do I express my own feelings? I’m not afraid. I agree with Paul when he says, “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). I’m not afraid to die, as I know where I stand with the Lord. I also believe I have a strong enough body to fight if I got sick. I heard from a few friends that have experienced Covid, and it isn’t easy! But just as Paul says a few verses later, “for to you it has been granted for Christ’s sake, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for His sake.” (1:29). If I were to get sick, then I know it would be for Christ’s sake. ...

I sat in my place at the back of the church. Recently they were given 500 new chairs. My church cannot hold 500 chairs, but they still set as many out as could fit in our little building. Now, the back is the way back. I find myself among all the mamas with toddlers and young ones. This is not an issue for me. One late mama came and sat next to me. Her youngest is around two and her oldest is around five. Out of all three of them, I know the oldest daughter the best. She has the most beautiful eyes, and often comes to greet me when I come to Kakolye. The younger daughter stayed with mama during the sermon. She sat well most of the service and managed to find a child’s chair to sit between mama and me. I sat as usually do, one leg crossed over the other, while holding my knee. While I soaked up the sermon, the mama bats at my arm to get my attention. She then pointed down to her daughter, who sat exactly like I did. We shared a laugh at the sight, and she went back to the sermon. ...

There is but one option if you plan to travel from Kampala to Moroto, and it may leave any time between midnight and three in the morning. I mentally prepared myself for the bus to leave at three but physically prepared myself for midnight – the bus left at three. By midday, we finally left Soroti, the beginning of the final stretch of the journey (and at the time, the most agonizing due to road conditions). Here is where our story begins. About twenty minutes after leaving Soroti, I needed to make a short call (short/long call is Uganda code for needing a toilet… I’ll let you decide what the difference between the two may be). Each bump made the situation worse and my driver didn’t miss a single one down this developing road! “Okay Mary,” I said out loud (I sat in a single seat in the front of the bus, to my knowledge no one could hear my private conversations with myself, although I’m sure several did), “it’s time to get yourself a car!” This quickly became my mantra for the r...

My first memory of  Benard  happened my first week in Jinja. I had arrived to do a year internship with Redeemer House Children’s Home. As a way to get to know the staff, the intern prior to me thought a good way for me to get to know the rest of the staff would be to have a game night. I am not a fan of games, but played anyway. The game was called 1-100. Everyone is racing to see who could write out the numbers one through one hundred the quickest. The trick is, there is only one pencil. I can’t remember all the rules, but the others are rolling dice to see who gets to have the pencil while you frantically write numbers. I also can’t remember who won – although, I am sure it wasn’t me. One thing I do remember was  Benard  enthusiastically cheating! He was so hyped up that he grabbed the pencil out of David’s hand, although it was clearly Esther’s turn! We all laughed so hard that night. I spent the rest of the year teasing him over this and he teased me over… well...

They come to church every Sunday. The details of why they chose to walk through the doors vary with each woman represented. But at their core, they are searching for truth. They can bring nothing to the table, except themselves. They have little education. They have no money. They have nothing to offer. What a beautiful opportunity the church has to love these women with the love of Christ, teaching them the truth they may not even realize they hunger for. But this doesn’t happen. These women are invisible to the eyes of the leadership. If by chance they are seen, they are seen as a disturbance. Soon, they grow weary of being invisible and they stop coming, searching for truth and acceptance elsewhere. Although the faces change with the seasons, these women are always present. My eyes have recently been open to these beautiful women. Apuun, a friend of mine, started attending church. She professes to be a Muslim. As she continues to come, I am the only one who talks with her. I ha...

This story begins like most, at the beginning – my first week in Moroto. When I first arrived, I went through a program for language learning called LAMP, a week-long program where you meet with your language helper, learn a few things, and then go out into the community to use what you have learned. Esther was my language helper “back in those days” and made it her personal mission to show me Moroto in its entirety. That is how I came to know Kakolye – a section of Moroto that soon became a big part of my life. Esther walked me through Kakolye, where we ran into a friend of hers. I greeted and began to take in the scene around us as they talked. We stood on the edge of an open market. Maize laid on the ground waiting to be sold. A few fires burned as they roasted meat. Then a sea of home brewed  booze shelters scattered the remaining area. We stood next to a table that had a gambling game going on. People watching is a rare and short-lived event in Uganda. A woman marche...

We were the first to board the bus. My teammate Nita and I were traveling to Kampala so I could pick up my best friend and Nita could pick up her car. I love when I have the option to sit at the front of the bus — the seats are more spacious (great for someone with motion sickness) and I find it a much less painful journey if I cannot see all the people coming and going from the bus (not sure why I feel that way). Nita took the very first seat, which is completely by itself and I took a seat behind. The late morning sun blazed through the window, so I opted for the aisle seat.  As our hour wait marched on, God spoke to my heart, saying, “Mary, I want you to give up your seat.” I knew that the loving thing to do would be to bake in the sun and allow someone else with a more comfortable seat.  The bus continued to fill, but no one made their way to my seat. A woman who worked for the bus company asked me if the seat next to me was available. Then another worker escorted a y...