thank you

You may remember this post I wrote weeks ago. This morning, I logged onto my facebook to find pictures of the items in those boxes being given to children at the schools I volunteered at this summer. This was the first picture I saw. Tears welled in my eyes, and for second, I forgot to breathe.

I see the joy on their faces, the way their eyes are lit up, the smiles so wide, the moment frozen in time with the snap of a picture. I can almost hear their laughter and feel the excitement in the air. Although I ache to have been there in those moments, my heart still could not be happier.

I think of all I have seen the Lord do in getting these boxes to Uganda. He has provided the items to send, the money to pay for the shipping, the incredible discount on the shipping. I worried they would not get to Uganda safely, but He had them in His hands the entire journey. And I know this is one more story He has given me to share and remember, one more testimony I can give to His goodness and faithfulness.

Seeing children with shoes and clothes has made me so, so happy. And it makes me think about a Father, who cares even more about these children than I do. And I now know some of that joy He feels when He gives us -His children- good things.

He delights in being able to provide for His children, I have no doubt of this. And now, I have a little bit deeper of an understanding of that delight. He has, again, drawn me closer to His heart. And I stand thankful and in awe of the One who made all of this possible, wondering why He has blessed me with the opportunity to be apart of this.

Words will never be able to describe many things about these boxes... my gratitude, my joy, my excitement, and the many other emotions running through my heart right now.

Thank you for making this possible:

And for making this possible:

Thank you for giving this darling little girl shoes:

And for putting the smiles on these faces:

Words will never be able to express how thankful I am to all of you who donated money and supplies to send and kept these boxes in your prayers. I know there are very many happy children in Uganda who would say the same thing.

enkoko is not my mukwano gwange

I killed a chicken in Africa. If you've had any Africa-related conversation with me, you most likely know this (in fact, you may have heard it numerous times, in which case this post will be completely irritating because Anna's talking about the chicken, again).

Let me first say that to those of you who let me retell (and retell, and retell) my Africa stories, and smile and nod patiently, enduring them yet again, that means the world to me. So, next time I'm talking Africa yet again, please know how much I appreciate your kindness.

My teammate Molly was the first of our team to kill a chicken. I forget who suggested it or how the idea even came about, but somehow it did. How do I describe Molly to you? Molly is possibly one of the sweetest girls you could ever meet. And I'm not just saying that, she really is adorable. She is kind, funny, sweet, loving, and caring.  She brought a light and a life to our team that I cannot being to describe. To see this sweet, sweet girl kill a chicken was shocking.

Molly was given this chicken, told to grab it by the neck, and swing it. Yeah, no joke. So Molly took the chicken and swung it. And dropped it. She picked it back up, and swung it again. And it got caught in the clothes line. The scenario was heartbreakingly sad, and -in a sick sort of way- ridiculously funny (because this was one of the last things I'd imagine Molly doing). Ten minutes later, we had ourselves a proud Molly and a dead chicken.

photo taken by Josie

Colleen also killed a chicken in Africa, several nights after Molly did it. Same style as Molly, swinging it by the neck. So, when it was my turn to kill the chicken we would eat for dinner, I anticipated doing it the same way. We rode home in the back of the blue pickup truck that afternoon along with our enkoko (that's Lugandan for chicken).

Now, there's a few things you should know about the chickens in Africa. Well really, just this one thing: they start crowing at 4 o'clock. every. single. morning. These chickens that were interrupting my (already very interrupted) sleep would crow outside our window (literally right outside our window), along with the baby wailing and other Africa sounds. After so many nights of chicken crowing, I was frustrated and tired. Hence why I decided to volunteer to kill a chicken.

It's mid-afternoon in Bugiri, we're home from ministry for the day. And Iddi walks up to me with this chicken. As he's showing me how to hold it, I'm suddenly not so sure about this whole chicken killing thing. I consider backing out. But then I think of the countless nights I listened to their crowing and any fear or guilt momentarily vanishes.

photo taken by Sara

When Iddi says to follow him out to the back door, I'm taken by surprised. Here I had mentally prepared myself to swing this chicken around right in the courtyard like my two other teammates, and now Iddi's changing the plan around? I note the knife (the rather dull knife, I might add) in his hand. Oh crap. 

Iddi shows me how to stand on the chicken. I wince as I stand on its legs and wings. This is so not what I had in mind. The chicken must know its life is nearing an end, and that I'm the one who's going to do it. Iddi grabs the head of the chicken, showing me where to put the blade of the knife. I really volunteered, asked even, to do this!? I'm in Uganda and I'm asking an African how to go about killing a chicken. I laugh at how ridiculous this seems. I suddenly realize that I could get used to this, that this world could become my normal. Which, in a way, also seems incredibly ridiculous.

photo taken by Sara

I put the blade of the knife to the neck, and push. But nothing happens, there's barely a scratch. The knife's a lot duller than I thought. "You need to do it harder, Anna." The blade back in place, I close my eyes, as if somehow that would help. It's a sawing motion, a back and forth, until it's over. Red splattered on my wrist, the decapitated head of the chicken laying inches from my feet, the sickening smell of warm blood. I breathe a sigh of relief.

photo taken by Molly

I clean off the knife, and my hands, with the water being poured from the little red cup. And then, we pluck the feathers from the chicken. I silently apologize to the poor, dead chicken I'm now pulling feathers off of. Iddi smiles, I smile back. In all my guilt, I am proud of the fact that I killed a chicken (mostly because it means I have impressed an African, and my favorite African at that). I forgot to mention that the Africans get a huge kick out of the mzungu girls killing chickens.

photo taken by Molly

We walk back inside the courtyard with the chicken, and it is given to the women who will cook it for supper. I go inside to my bedroom, and sit down. Suddenly the guilt I feel consumes me. I just killed a living, breathing thing. That's the only thought that runs through my mind. I rationalize that the chicken would've died tonight anyway, whether I did it or one of the Africans did. But that only helps some. The guilt wears out almost completely when nearly 12 hours later (at 4 a.m.) a chicken crows. I wake up, roll over, and that chicken that I killed 12 hours before? Yeah, I'm not so sorry anymore.

photo taken by Molly

yebe island

Oh my goodness is all I can think as 17 mzungus, 4 African friends, and 1 African boat driver pile into the boat. My team and I are at Lake Victoria, and we're all getting on a boat and headed to the small island a little way's off shore. I'm fairly certain the boat really shouldn't be holding this many people, but what does a mzungu know anyway? Someone asks if everybody knows how to swim.

The little motor is started, and for a brief second, I entertain the thought that it may not be able to work with all these people in this one, small, wooden boat. But it does work, and everyone's hoping it stays working. Someone pushes us off.. or rather, tries. It takes a handful of African men (a lot more than it normally would) to push our boat off. We're headed to the island on Lake Victoria, (Yebe Island) and suddenly that distance I once thought to be small seems huge. If I'm remembering correctly, it was about a 5-10 minute boat ride (the longest 5-10 minute boat ride of my life). Note: these are the kind of things you don't include in your email letters to home, you just wait to tell them about it once you're home.

(photo taken by Becca)

Did I forget to mention the fact that the boat had a small hole in it? Yeah well, it did. That or, because of the amount of people in this boat, some water was splashing in over the sides. Hot sun and faces wet with water, cramped and squished on the wooden benches of this boat, we ride. I'm pretty sure the Africans aren't too worried, but the mzungus? Well, in mom's (Kasandra's) words: you can't really sense the terror I was feeling at this point in time in this picture, but do not be deceived.

The boat hits the ground of Yebe Island. We choose to momentarily forget about the fact that we must make this trip back, for now we're just thankful to be on solid ground. The boat's on ground, the motor shut off, and so now begins the fun-filled task of climbing out of this boat. I find myself thankful that I chose to wear my pants today, climbing this in a skirt would not be easily accomplished. Once everybody's off of the boat, we take in the island around us. What we thought would be a fun-filled day of being tourists is actually going to be a day of praying for this island. And it is oh-so-very obvious that this island needs so much prayer.

Yebe Island hotel (photo taken by Becca)

Yebe Island is home to fishermen. Yebe Island has no hospital, and no school. The people live in scrap metal houses with dirt floors. The children run around all day in their tattered and torn clothing. A radio blares so loudly it vibrates in your chest and you can barely hear yourself think. Fish seem to be just about everywhere. There is so much despair, so much heartbreak, so much need. It's overwhelming.

Yebe Island

After introducing ourselves to the police, we split into 3 groups and head off in different directions to go pray for the people of Yebe. The first woman my team meets is a woman whose sister is deaf. I realize I have been frustrated with this island and its loudly blaring music while this woman would be so thankful to have my ears and to hear the things I am hearing. We pray over this woman, and I wonder if God really will heal her or if our prayers are being prayed in vain.

I do not doubt that I serve a God who heals, I have full confidence that He can heal anything and anyone. What my struggle is, is believing He will heal. To this day, I do not know if that woman can hear, if God chose to place His healing hand upon her ears and restore her hearing. But I trust and know that whatever He did, He did for this woman's good and for the glory of His kingdom.

Yebe Island police station (photo taken by Summer)

My group walks over to a house (though in America, it would not be called a house) and we are invited inside. It is a one room house, for a family I'm not sure how big. I remember looking up and seeing the thatched and scrap metal roof and seeing sunlight seep through the spaces in it. I remember looking at the metal walls where, again, sunlight seeped through the holes. I remember looking at the dirt floor. I remember thinking What happens when it rains? What happens when the water comes through these spaces? What happens when this dirt floor gets wet? Even though I very well knew exactly what happens.

on Yebe Island (photo taken by Summer)

I sit in this house, at that wooden table, on the wooden bench. Kasandra and the translator (Pastor Thomas) are talking to the woman who lives in this house. There are a few others in the room, her brother perhaps, and her father? I met so many faces and heard so many stories that much to my dismay, I can't keep them straight anymore. But what I clearly remember about this house is the child, less than a foot away from me, who slept on a pile of wooden boards against the wall.

I didn't hear Kasandra or the translator's words anymore. This child was all I could think about, all I could see, all I could hear. I pray the will of God over her life. I pray she becomes blessed with the opportunity to go to school. I pray that someway, somehow she grows up knowing and feeling the love God has for her. I pray that on an island of so much despair and bad, she is kept safe and out of harm. I pray that, on an island where there is no hospital, she stays healthy, that neither disease nor illness nor injury claim her life at a young age. I pray that His hope and His light fill her heart, her home, and her island.

on Yebe Island (photo taken by Becca)

Yebe Island, an island of hopelessness and despair and hurt like I have never seen before. Yebe Island, an island so desperately in need of His Spirit and His Presence and His Truth. Yebe Island, an island I still pray for, nearly 3 months later. Yebe Island, an island I will remember forever.

We are abundantly blessed.. with doctors, with schools, with shoes, with clothes, with houses, with food, with jobs, with many things. May we never forget that.

things i love about africa [part 3]

A journal entry I wrote on July 5th, 2011:

These Africa moments I love..

- worshipping in the bedroom
- broken lightbulbs in the clinic with Sara and Nate
- sleeping on Alaina's shoulder the whole way home
- Summer's prayers
- dancing with babies during church
- everyone home from the clinic and being all together again
- car ride stories with the gnarley dudes
- 'Doctor Iddi'
- early morning (not-so-quiet) times with God
- Africa dirt in my mouth (and hair and face and just about everywhere else)
- Isaiah 41:10

Africa is hard, but good.. so good. The thought of going home makes me sad, but excited. I want to see my family and everyone back in Chicago. But the thought of leaving these precious children? It hurts my heart.

It's the little things here.. like jelly beans rationed out each day, having a 1-hour rest in the afternoon, soda (cold!) for lunch, and the cool weather that comes with the rain. It's peanut butter spread onto toast, Summer sharing her small package of powdered lemonade with me, hearing from home every Monday (my favorite day of the week), playing scrabble with Kasandra. I have never been more thankful for each moment, each little thing, and I have never had so much joy.

He is my Jehovah Jireh

"And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work." -- 2 Corinthians 9:8

To this I can testify: God provides. Yesterday, I packed and addressed and mailed 4 boxes- filled with school supplies and shoes and dresses and clothes- to Africa, and watched God provide. I can't be in Africa right now, but I can mail packages to those children I love dearly. And the joy that fills me with can't be described.

My (absolutely wonderful) cousin and I bring the boxes into Fedex and are handed the international forms to fill out. I will admit, I'm worried. About what, I don't exactly know. Maybe it's the abruptness of the woman behind the counter that takes me by surprise, or the fact that we're actually mailing these boxes I've waited nearly 2 months to send that seems unreal, or the unfamiliarity of the forms I'm filling out, or a combination of all three. But for whatever reason, I'm worried.

We fill out the forms that ask for details I wasn't prepared for. We walk to the counter and and our forms are handed back to us, some parts needing to be fixed. My worry turns to slight panic. But we fix the forms, and things seem better. Then my cousin shows his I.D. (the I.D. that will hopefully get us the 75% discount) and the woman behind the counter says his airline doesn't qualify. Fear. It now fills every part of me.

Disagreements are exchanged as I stand there. Suddenly, I'm back to that place of utter dependency I had in Africa. That familiar, heartbreaking, sweet utter dependency I haven't felt in so long. I stand there knowing that God's got to come through on this because I have no other option. This place.. it's beautiful, it's been oh-so missed, and it's humbling.


God, please. Please, God. Perhaps the most heartfelt, most dependent prayer I've prayed since returning home from Africa is that silent prayer I pray in the Fedex office in Evanston. The woman's fingers click on the keyboard behind me. God, if You want these boxes to Uganda, provide a way. I stand there praying His will over the boxes, and the discount goes through.

The woman mumbles a comment, more to herself than to us, "Wow, you saved a lot of money." We take the receipt, the tracking info, and the papers and walk out. I do the math when I get home, and stare at the numbers. It can't be right. I must've done something wrong. I redo my math, the same numbers appear. I do the math one more time, same answer. I stare at the paper, shocked. God has provided in numerous ways today. I'm shocked, humbled, in awe, and thankful.

In a few weeks, my Africa friends will receive school supplies and clothes and soccer balls. And I am so excited about that. I'm also so thankful to those of you who helped send these boxes off. Thank you for donating your school supplies, clothes, and money for the shipping cost. I am beyond words thankful. I hope to be able to continue sending a box every once in a while, so if you have girl's dresses or skirts, boy's shorts or shirts, shoes, soccer balls, or money you'd like to donate, let me know.

I have seen it again and again in my past, and I want to see it again and again in my future. I want to stand in the will of God, and watch how He provides. Because although I doubt and I worry and I fret (and stand thankful for His grace), I believe that when you're doing His will, He'll provide. He is Jehovah Jireh. He sees and He provides.

in the words of sara groves

"I saw what I saw, and I can't forget it. I heard what I heard, and I can't go back. I know what I know, and I can't deny it. Your pain has changed me. Your dream inspires. Your face a memory. Your hope a fire. Your courage asks me what I'm made of. Your courage asks me what I'm afraid of. Your courage asks me what I know of love."

africa slip-and-slide

They slip-and-slide (butt naked, mind you) right across the road from our house. They run along the porch and slide--on their stomaches, their bottoms, hands in front of them, or spread out to the side. It has just rained (more like stormed) during this afternoon in Africa, everything beautiful and muddy and wet. They slip and they slide, and we laugh and we laugh. This version of slip-and-slide is very new to us Americans, to say the least. And so, this is where the ever-famous phrase "T.I.A." (This Is Africa) is the only thing my team and I have to say as we watch this absolutely crazy fun (secretly wishing we could join in).

Pictures do not do this moment justice, so I'm not even going to upload the ones I have. This video comes closest to capture the ever-awesome African Slip n' Slide. So yeah, enjoy.