blue red high night

One fifth of this adventure remains. Counting on my fingers, I want this fifth to be the thumb and not the pinkie. I want this to be the clincher. I want these weeks to be the most distinguished. With all but weariness, my summer here shall be finalized with the power of experience and the prayer for stamina.

Here is a poem I have worked on this summer:

Commissioned by the Roman guard, those men who built the cross,

so long ago when Jesus was a body in the crowd,

would never know the impact of that coming sacred loss

in mass-producing replicas of that same wooden shroud.

-------------------

So many times I’ve heard it said in sermons here and there,

with so much pride, the reason why the cross our logo be.

“Isn’t that symbol like to our modern electric chair?

The glory of his death upon that alternated tree!”

“That is why we have these shrines, splayed up atop our steeples.

And this religion- unified. And our church here- you may now come.

Whether it’s hung upon the walls, the books, the necks of peoples,

because of it you need not worry that they may be Muslim.”

----------------------------

An easy way to move your goods in this consumer group,

is recreating that same cross that Pilate delegated

when Jewish priests-they delegated Pilate in their coup

to kill the King, the hard Truth, the Messiah predicated.

And still I think the symbol stands. Wherever it is found

is where attempts to muffle revolution are revealed-

where robes of high authority cast votes to cloud the sound

of Truth and how the kingdom rips apart our modern seals.

The path to usher Zion has been translated for all.

And what if, in theology’s thick mist, there was but one

green Gideon: It’s all we’d need to sound the trumpet call.

And we could start the era foretold by the risen Son.

-----------------------------------------

But me, my symbol is the air that filled the tomb door gap

which Jesus breathed- the same air in my nostrils that abounds.

And me, my symbol is the ground, once having bouldered lap,

but angels threw it off so that the path to life was sound.

The cross is not the symbol of Jesus’ suffering. It is the gateway of his temporary submersion through death. Jesus who is God knew that He would boomerang back up.

In my opinion, the iconic image of Jesus’ greatest suffering was the constant misunderstanding that plagued his followers.

One kilogram of dirt, one kilogram of air, and one kilogram of diamonds have different market prices. But if I had to pick between them, I could do without the diamonds. In the Kingdom of God, rarity is irrelevant to value.

If God is love, abundance determines value.

When abundance determines value, we shall scrutinize the similarities, and not the differences, of the contents of this creation earth.

Look at the planets that abound from our discoveries. If we trod this earth, breathing this air, we all live in the rich part of town- as designated by God.

If I make a request to God for anything aside from the kingdom, do I concede to lacking an appreciation for the ten trillion blessings I already have?

the medical fire

Where did I flush my rubbish in the States?

In the compound I stay at, there is an abandoned well. Its where we dump our trash. I can release a trash bag and wait three mississippi seconds and "four miss-" before hearing it land.

At the school, all of the trash is burned. Today we cleaned out a shipping crate to make room for new bags of cement. In the back of the crate were boxes of expired medical supplies. You would accuse me of exaggeration if I told you how long it took to remove those things.

The adhesives and tapes holding the tools in their sterile environment had failed. Even the boxes were falling apart, so the children had to grab the medical equipment in armloads. They dumped it outside on the ground abruptly to escape the stirred cement atmosphere. Catheters, cast tape, gauze, blood sample cups, gloves, syringes, braces, respirator tubing, rubber pipes, patient gowns, splatter masks, biohazard bags, and pipette tips were strewn like entrails from the open crate. The crowd of children, adorned with doctor robes and neck brace crowns, piled the powdered gear into scrub-colored curtains and hauled it to a trash fire.

I helped in the collection with much confusion. My biggest concern was the safety of the children, but the teachers showed no lapse in confidence about the situation. At first I worried about the cement haze, but in Mukono town I see the hardware store workers loading cement bags onto the backs of the trucks. Their whole bodies are dusted like the surface of the moon.

A major fret was more inherent-- the mix of children and syringes. But these kids had enough sense not to take the caps off and prick themselves.

Today I helped children collect and burn mounds of expired medical equipment. I feel like the fire smoke still hangs around me as I regret not introducing the perfect solution. I want to pray to God for forgiveness, but I'm not sure what sins to confess. I pray to understand my guilt first.

Kabanda

Kabanda is the name of a local man whom I pay to clear land for the garden at HUMBLE school. With some people in Uganda, I wonder how much authentic culture is preserved within them. Some are so eager to prove their foothold on the paper trail of American trends, but not Kabanda. He is a simple man, better suited to an era where shepherds watch their cattle feed on the slopes of ancestral land.

He clears the weeds of the garden with a disillusioned enthusiasm and a methodical use of tools. He grips the tops of the grass with one hand and swipes with a hooked machete. The stumps he pulls with a classic steel hoe. But he is a tool too. Though fed well at the school, it seems he has been to the limits of sustenance whereby the precise conversion rate of food and labor were measured. Through some practical calculation he regulates the pace of his exertion. Every evening he walks off with his bike bearing the same level of weariness as the day prior.

When Kabanda needs a break he leans on his hoe in the field, surveying his progress and beyond. And if I approach him at rest, his nature is unapologetic. He knows greetings in English. Most words are likewise rebutted with a motionless expression conveying only trust.

His requested pay amounts to about $3 daily, but he also has meals and a place to belong. The cooks once passed Kabanda his plates of food through barbed wire above the school fence. Now there is a gate where he can enter and enjoy warm meals in the kitchen.

candor of the chosen

Tribes and clans were spread across Europe, Asia, and Africa. All were developing under God’s supervision. But Israel was His chosen ones. What was it that made them shine in God’s almighty eyes? To them he did reveal Himself, as noted by the scribes.

They were not a faultless group, beginning with Jacob, who stole his brother’s inheritance. And David was no angel saint. So what defines their true distinction? I think it is their candor. Look at the Egyptian pharaohs, who held the masks of gods. When maintaining a face of greatness, it is so easy to glorify a deceased ancestor or age. I can’t imagine who would make their lore detail the faults of Moses.

But now becomes an era of truth, where all the masks dissolve. And we can see so clearly now that congressmen are sinners too. So when one tracks the scribbled tales of every great landrace, the one that holds a light of truth- reveals the sin in man.

birds

In the mornings I can watch the sun climb up banana trees. The clouds that cushion this event often declare some massive poignancy. But this morning, a wall of grey veiled the sun that was speckled with furrowed splotches reminiscent of scar tissue or stretch marks. Only in pen-hole gaps could the source of dawn be seen.

The birds here dash from all directions. These black birds have an oil-glazed coat that reflect a gleam of colors. Their bullet-hole eyes forever survey the green flowing landscape in search of excuses for flight. Sometimes their trajectory is nigh unplanned, they’ll dive right toward a wall, and they’ll have to maneuver away. They’re erratic like the grasshoppers they catch. And when they jump to soar their noisy wings flap like shaken rubber boots.

Sometimes I’ve moved and unbeknown disturbed a stalking crane. For such a large and noble bird, they land without much fear. I’ve seen rooftop edges in the horizon painted white with their droppings.

Some birds make unfortunate sounds, and a cluster can be cacophony. There’s ones that have a smoker’s cough. The laughing hawk is always amused at some private delight. The high-pitched weaver birds scream competing “chalps.”

For a country where English is predominant, there’s a communication barrier when conversing with the people. Here in this Ugandan culture, a word to label white people is Mzungu. But mzungu doesn’t mean white; it means wealthy. I treasure the moments of true relations that I can share with some of the people here. I do not enjoy it when people make an abrupt divulgence to the want for cash to pay for this or that. I feel as if some friendships are predicated on financial reciprocation.

The soil of this nation is more fertile that the best American loam. The weather is great. Democracy has been here for 25 years. I fear that my pity is now part of this country’s GDP. I’ve shed a layer of idealism, but my faith in God is stronger. He led me here.

week one

I must declare, it seems my time here has exceeded twenty days. But no, it has been just over a week, and the infux of new things still needs to settle in my mind. Today, me and Hannah will rest.

We went without internet for several days when our modem had expired. I will try to recap some things that have happened.

Initially, our funds for all expenses was not as fast to arrive as we were. We had to sail on faith for those few days that we had no resources. We didn't have cell phones yet and so we kept being taken places and dropped off when we didn't know the plan. Moses drove us where we needed to be taken. And Eva and Sam provided meals for us.

Eva and Sam live within the same compound as us, in the Nasuuti area of Mukono. They are originally from Kenya. Sam is a District Superintendent in the UMC East Africa Area Council. Moses, who drives us, lives nearby in Nasuuti.

I am glad that Moses drives us, because the traffic is insane:




Here are more pictures from the journey to Kampala today:

This is Moses, the driver.




There are several construction sites in the city.



Political campaign posters still remain all over the place, although the election was awhile ago.

Arrival

A poem I wrote on the airplane:
Wedged within the crevice of a fast fluorescent pipe,
I wait for landing gears to grow and make this vessel ripe.

My sense of time has has atrophied into a ticking mush
I long for longitudes from where this aeroplane does rush.

But though the clock is different where this plane is bound to go,
a sun now shines on Africa that's same as that I know.


This is the portion of the house where we are staying.

This is corn being grown in the yard.

Here is the whole Nasuuti family house where we are staying.

This is the view from the front porch.

a brief retreat

Just last night I got back from a Koinonia Community trip with Mitch and Claire. It seems that my preparation for going to Uganda has been ushered by a cold and windy weather front that prevailed even in Americus, Georiga. When we helped Sarah Beth in the garden on Monday, I had to wear my Sunday church coat to stay warm. We plucked weeds with our new friend, David, a tango-dancing bango-playing dairy-farmer who's nearly seen the whole planet already; and he could probably beat anyone he's ever met at a game of chess. We first started talking when he found out I was working for a forage grass breeder. We talked about cow food during the Sunday night potluck.
Claire, Mitch, and I bought a watermelon on the drive to bring to the potluck. I think it might have just been to make conversation in the car, but I went on about how I wished we could make melon balls. Lo and behold, we found in the Koinonia kitchen two melon ballers and a chef school graduate, Gram, a community intern who knew the trick to a perfect melon ball.
A historical event occurred at Koinonia farms on Monday afternoon. The Atkinson house was rededicated. A long time ago, there was a member of the original Koinonia community, Mr. Atkinson. He helped out on the farm until he decided to travel to Texas to get his college degree. Clarence Jordan told him when he left, "Don't marry the first woman you find in Texas." There at the admissions desk in Texas he found his future bride. Mr. Atkinson has since passed away, but the house he built for his bride remains on the Koinonia property. During the Civil Rights crisis at the farm, the Atkinson family traveled away. On Monday, Mrs. Atkinson and her children returned to attend a ceremony held for rededicating the home of her past, which has now been renovated into a community homeschool building.
Before leaving, we had a opportunity to connect with woman named Mary. She was a seeker who was willing to enjoy a great conversation with Mitch, Claire, David, and I before we left. Her biggest concern was to reconnect with her daughter, Teresa. On a different a retreat, a spiritual adviser had told her to pray for that purpose for three sets of nine days each (27 days total), then to give thanks for answering the prayer for three sets of nine days each (27 days total), even if the prayers hadn't resulted as expected. We met her on that 54th day, and we had a wonderful time together. She is very supportive of an organization called Equality Now.
During the trip we also got make a pecan wood campfire, visit Millard Fuller's burial site, watch a documentary about the community, play basketball, navigate the peace trail via tree marks (though a fire had nearly burnt all the trees up), drink fresh milk, pick peas, wander through the pecan grove at night, and enjoy the nearly-full moon.