Wonderings and Wanderings

Luzira Prison

On the last day I was in Uganda, I spent some time with several men on death row at the Luzira Maximum Security Prison in Kampala, Uganda. The inmates are referred to as “condemned men”.  As we went through all the security points and the long walks through various hallways and doors, we finally arrived to the waiting room outside the courtyard.  Through the bars we could see the men – all dressed in white uniforms of shirts, shorts, and sandals.  The all-white uniforms stood in stark contrast to brown skin.

They spotted us easily and were curious as to why five white women were preparing to enter the area where they freely roamed. As we talked among ourselves about our curiosity and fears about what was going to happen next, I wondered what they were talking about. It had one of those “first-day-of-camp” feelings where groups are sizing each other up, unsure of each other and what the experience will bring.

I soon learned that we were going to “fellowship” with them which means we were going to have a worship gathering together. I learned that worship together in Uganda was often referred to as “fellowship”.  Sounded great.

We entered the secure courtyard and the sea of men parted like the Red Sea. We crossed through exchanging smiles and glances with the prisoners.  It was strange to think that we were walking through the center of 60-70 condemned men with our two guides and one or two guards.  Nothing like I would imagine death row to be in the states.

We entered a side courtyard where some men had already gathered and where the musical instruments were gathered – ready for fellowship – an accordion, some drums, and some shakers made from aerosol cans. We sang songs together for about twenty minutes and it was great to look out over the faces of about 30-40 men worshipping together.  There were young men and old men.  Some were light brown; others dark brown.  Some were Ugandan.  Others were not. Some were believers. Some were just curious about their visitors.

For twenty minutes we sang praises together.  There was so much joy and warmth in that room.  So much common ground as we worshipped God together – men and women who equally fail and who equally are offered grace.  “There is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1

After singing, we were each invited to introduce ourselves. Someone shared that I was a pastor and that “a word” would be expected.  This was a situation that I had never been in before.  What do I share with 40 condemned Ugandan men? God brought to mine this passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans (chapter 5):

¹⁶Again, the gift of God is not like the result of the one man’s sin: The judgment followed one sin and brought condemnation, but the gift followed many trespasses and brought justification. ¹⁷For if, by the trespass of the one man, death reigned through that one man, how much more will those who receive God’s abundant provision of grace and of the gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man, Jesus Christ.

¹⁸Consequently, just as the result of one trespass was condemnation for all men, so also the result of one act of righteousness was justification that brings life for all men. ¹⁹For just as through the disobedience of the one man the many were made sinners, so also through the obedience of the one man the many will be made righteous.

²⁰The law was added so that the trespass might increase. But where sin increased, grace increased all the more, ²¹so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace might reign through righteousness to bring eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

I’m so grateful for the leading of the Spirit who reminded me of such a promise. A promise for these men who were condemned by law yet could be made righteous through grace.  A promise for me as well – standing before them as once a condemned sister yet set free by the abundant provision of grace and of the gift of righteousness through the one man, Jesus Christ.

Glory be to God. And blessings and grace to my brothers in white in the Luzira Prison in Uganda.

There are many ways to protect the dignity of individuals whose dignity is threatened by life situations. One of the challenges that we face when caring for a neighbor is the challenge to honor and respect him. Sometimes we are so focused on doing a deed or seeing a result that we trample on the very person we are trying to help.

It isn’t about the cup of water, the plate of food, or the warm coat.

It is about each individual deserving a cup of water, a plate of food, or the warm coat.

When we focus on the things, we forget about the person.

When we focus on the person, we forget about the things.

When we focus on the person, we remember she has a name.

When we focus on the person, we remember he has a story.

When we focus on the person, we remember she has a family.  A Father.  The same Father we have.  And that makes us family.

I loved the story I heard about what some photographers did this December for forgotten family.
It is called Help-Portrait.  It’s a movement of photographers, coming together in every major city, to use their photography skills to give back to the community. On December 12th, photographers around the world grabbed their cameras, finding people in need, and taking their picture. When the prints are ready, the photographs get delivered.

Watch the video below.  Soak it in. And be moved to use whatever skills, resources, abilities you have to help your family.

Has it really been almost two months since I posted last?  Sorry about that. It hasn’t been for a lack of things to blog about but rather from an abundance of living.  November was a blur but a wonderful blur.

I spent two weeks in Kenya and Uganda on vacation.  I have an amazing amount of different thoughts and feelings to blog about from the trip. I think about them and ponder them yet struggle to restrict them to letters on a page.  Returning to life here has also been a return to massive amounts of distractions and clutter in my head and heart.  Is it any wonder that you go to sleep an optimistic, hopeful twenty-something and wake up a stunned, numbed thirty-something?

In the next few days,  I’ll try to share some different thoughts/reflections from my time in Africa and what I’ve continued to process since being home these two weeks.  Thoughts on playing church versus being the church.  Reflections on the good that is occurring in places where the bad has appeared to have the upper hand.  Thoughts on amazing people I met.  Reflections on being white in a world of black.

Something I didn’t expect was so much reflection on my singleness.  In Africa, it is very rare and unusual for a woman not to marry.  Even more rare than it is in America.  In Africa, people are incredulous that you embrace singleness.  They never accept it. They always end the conversation with “perhaps next year”.  It isn’t so much that they want me to be married as they want me to be a mom.  Not because they believe I would be a good mom but because I’m female and that is what females do.  We have babies. Lots of babies.

These discussions don’t bother me.  I usually find them humorous and slightly rebellious.  Go me.

However, it was a short truck ride with friends after a trip to the zoo with seventy Ugandans kids that got me thinking.

We were sharing different favorite songs via our mp3 players and the truck’s sound system when someone posed the question, “What song would you want someone else to sing to you?”  And by someone we meant someone in love with you.  The other three individuals are in their mid to late twenties and pretty quickly named their song.   As I started to think about it, I realized that I had no clue.  When I was their age, I probably had a song that I played on repeat as I dreamt about that special someone. But that idea or dream is so distant, I had no song to suggest.  I’ve done such a good job not focusing on relationships that I no longer had a dream to share.

A few years ago, I made the conscience choice to not listen to overly romantic music or watch a lot of romantic movies or read romantic books.  Occasionally I do but not enough to capture my heart and daydream like they use to do.  The choice was made for my health and benefit.  I didn’t want to waste thoughts or dreams on things that weren’t a part of my life and that I honestly wasn’t sure I wanted in my life.

But in that little truck outside Kampala, I wondered if maybe I had been too successful in my choice.  If maybe I had controlled this part of my life so much that I no longer am able to dream or be open to falling in love and sharing a life with someone.

And since then I’ve been bothered by this realization.  Bothered by the idea that perhaps instead of hearing a word from God about the call of singleness for my life, I’ve tried to control that which I have no control over.

There is a reason control is so alluring, so seductive, so deceiving.  There is a reason that control is a coping mechanism.

It is one thing to embrace singleness while still remaining open to whatever life brings.  It is another thing to embrace singleness so tightly that your face is buried in its chest.

Being home sick today gave me a lot of time to think about what today was going to be like for my youth. I was praying last night and today for you. Praying especially about the ramifications of Elizabeth Olten’s murder, for the things that would be said about the accused, for the many rumors and harsh words that would be said.

That was before I even learned about the death this morning of Bill Currie, a teacher at JCHS.

I hurt that you have to face such difficult life issues ever – but especially at this age.

But I can’t protect you from things that happen because the world is made of people who make mistakes, people who hurt others, people who are selfish and hurt others when they are hurting.

God never promised that bad things wouldn’t happen. From the moment God made the choice to let us choose whether to love God or to love self, sin has been a heart-breaking problem. Not just for humans but for God as well. God grieves with those that are hurting. God was with Elizabeth during that horrible evening and was heartbroken for what she was going through but also because someone else that God created was the one causing the pain. No matter what you hear, God does not cause bad things to happen.

I believe God also grieves at the way people are reacting to this tragedy. I’ve not seen such hate and lynch-mob mentality in this area before. The things people have said and have written about the 15-year-old suspect are fueled by fear, anger and hate. They are not the voice or heart of God.

I want to challenge you not to join in on these behaviors. Don’t be one who makes vicious statements about what should happen to the person who killed Elizabeth. Don’t be the one who says at the cafeteria table that you hope she gets what she has coming. Don’t be the one who points and says mean things to those who befriended her. They have enough that they are dealing with during this time.

Instead, keep your eyes on Christ and model him in all your words and actions. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. And don’t assume what that vengeance will look like. It isn’t ours to decide.

In the hallways of JCHS, we need to see Christ more than ever. That only happens when you, Christ’s ambassadors, commit to being the hands, feet, words, and heart of Jesus. When you are tempted to hate, pray. When you are tempted to say something disparaging about someone, say something kind instead. When people preach hate, preach peace.

“Confess your weaknesses to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. ” James 5:16

An event a couple of years ago that made a huge impact on many folks was the forgiveness given by an Amish community against a man who killed five innocent children. They also helped the killer’s widow and children. Their forgiveness was so different, so unique that it brought so much attention on that issue. By their forgiveness, not only were they able to heal over time, more importantly they were able to glorify GOD in all things. Read about it here.

May we also have such a witness.

I love you.  And I’m praying for you and our community.

Last Sunday, I gave Jesus a ride.  He was a middle-aged woman with a yellow backpack and a cane walking north on Highway 63.

I almost missed him.   After finishing the second service at church, I was running late for a meeting in Ashland, a little town 15 minutes away.  Speeding up the highway, I was on him before I knew it.  I quickly recognized the woman walking with her thumb outstretched as the woman who had visited our church earlier in the day looking for help. She was passing through mid-Missouri on her way from Portland, Oregon, to wherever the road took her.  After one night at our local shelter, she was forced to look for help elsewhere. So she came to the church.

One of our members visited with her and gave her some warm food.  He came and found me and asked me what else we could do.  I was getting ready to start our youth group so I told him that the shelter she stayed at was the only shelter in town. There weren’t a lot of options for her and that if she had a way to get to Columbia – a larger city 30 miles away – they had several shelters.  If she needed another day, we could put her up in a hotel and try to help her to Columbia on Monday.

I went on with my teaching duties and never heard anything more about the lady.

Until I saw her by the side of Highway 63.

I passed her by at first, a war of words in my head – “I don’t pick up hitchhikers.”  ”I’m going to be late.” “How can I pass her by after all I’ve been reading?” “Dang it.” “What if I’m suppose to do this?”.

After driving a little ways up the road, I found a place to turn around.  I passed it.   Then the war again and a second place to turn around.  This time I took it.

I sped back, looked for a place to get back on the northbound highway, and pulled off just in front of her.

I popped the trunk of my car and greeted her – offering to put her backpack in the trunk which she graciously accepted.

Right away, she started talking with passion.  And she continued for the next 15 miles until our ride ended.

She told me of another truck that had stopped to offer her a ride about 10 minutes before me.  And about the boy that was crouched down in the floor board of the passenger seat so she couldn’t see him.  And about how this boy jumped up at her when she got to the door.  She was angry and she was hurt. And I hurt for her and for the ignorance of these boys.

She then told me about her visit to the church. About how she was searching for some place to help her and she saw this big church.  Surely, she thought, a big church like this will be able to help.  Surely, she thought, a big church like this would use their space to provide a warm place for someone to sleep.

She met a man and he offered her a warm breakfast. She said that was nice of him because she didn’t ask him for anything.  Yet, it wasn’t want she needed most. She needed to be recognized as someone worthy of being recognized.  And we failed.

No one asked her name.  No one asked about her story. No one stopped their agendas and made space for her. She felt like an unwelcome interruption to our day of worship and playing church.  She may have received a hot meal and warm place for a few minutes but she didn’t see God among us and in us.

When I got to my exit, I pulled over and apologized for not being able to take her all the way to Columbia. She understood and appreciated the ride.  I got her backpack out of the trunk, helped her put it on, and apologized for her experience with us. I expressed gratitude, however, that she knew we were not speaking for God that morning and that she wouldn’t hold it against Him.

As I watched her walk away, I watched Jesus walk away.  I wanted him to stay, even if I didn’t like what he had to say.  I wanted to just be with him – even if we didn’t talk. But his time was up and his point was made.  Now what?

Today began with the funeral of a wonderful young man who had worked at our church as a recreation associate.  Craig Hendrickson was a larger-than-life guy who made anyone feel relaxed in his presence.  He was fun.  He was light-hearted.  He was devoted.  He was a fighter.  He struggled with Hodgkins Lymphoma for several years and always said he would play until the whistle blew.  The whistle blew for Craig last Wednesday.  This morning hundreds of friends and family gathered to celebrate the story of Craig.

I’m an observer.  Especially of others.  Throughout the funeral, I observed those gathered in the sanctuary.  Some were crying.Some were putting their best chin forward but it was trembling as it fought to keep the tears at bay.  There were distant looks as individuals were lost in their own memories and experiences with Craig.

I saw two or three husbands with arms around their wives shoulders, patting and rubbing them gently as they comforted them and reminded them that they were not alone.

I was sitting with four youth whom I had met beforehand so we could sit together.  Most had not been to a funeral before.  Most were dealing with the death of someone they knew for the first time.  Someone they loved.  Someone who was too young to die.  I sat with my arm around their shoulders to comfort them.

I had a moment of realization that I am not comfortable with being comforted.  I don’t know how to receive comfort or care.  I could not imagine having someone sitting next to me, with his arms around my shoulders, being strong for me.  It seems so foreign, so uncomfortable.  The intimacy of the situation is something that creates fear in me.

I am so much better at being the comforter.  The comforter is in control.  The comforter is selfless. The comforter is not vulnerable. The comforter is not weak.

I resist a comforter.  I resist the Comforter.

I embrace the Forgiver, the Savior, the Creator, the Holy and Anointed One, but the Comforter is a name I’m not so comforted by.

Maybe I love the Trinity so much because it means I’m not alone with just One.  Maybe I can just go unnoticed…..

I saw a man die on Oprah yesterday.    It wasn’t of embarrassment.  It wasn’t a character in a movie.

It was a real man. A young man.  A man who had a name I do not know.  A man who had a family and dreams,  I suppose.   Maybe both of these had died long before.

I was watching her show because she was telling stories of women in the world.  Women who have made a difference.  Women whose lives had been changed.  An African woman who dreamed great dreams and made them all come true. An Indian woman who had taken a loan and built a business that bought her freedom and respect.  A Congolese woman who spoke with courage about being raped in a culture where you don’t speak of being raped.

Then, in the midst of footage from the DR of Congo, where they recorded the woman’s courageous telling of her rape, there it was. Maybe ten seconds in a montage of other footage.

Two rebels in fatigues holding a young man in ragged clothes at the edge of a bridge.  One solider had his feet.  The other his hands.  As the man twisted and cried out with desperate pleas, they threw him over the side of the bridge.

This wasn’t a movie clip.  There wasn’t a mattress or inflatable waiting at the bottom to break his fall.

And then to make sure they had ended his life, they slid their guns from their shoulders and fired repeatedly into the water below.

Ten seconds over.  On to another scene.

But this scene replays over and over in my mind.  I was and am physically sick.

I’m not oblivious to what is happening in the world.  I’m removed but not oblivious.  I read books by survivors of unspeakable atrocities. I follow news reports and organizations like Invisible Children and Falling Whistles that fight to end these wars in central Africa. I write my government leaders telling them it must be a priority to end these wars. I show movies that tell the stories of Night Commuters, Glue Boys, and young men like Sunday to my youth and challenge them to get involved.  I’ve been to Kenya twice, will return two more times this year, and have talked with people who have scars from machetes or family members that only exist in memories and stories because their lives were stolen.

But this. This ten second clip cut through all those and went straight to the heart.

His horrific murder was captured on video and that intimate moment was shown to 7 million plus individuals in the world.

As a f—— passing clip.

Oh God, how could you possibly forgive us for sitting by while this is happening.

I saw a man die on Oprah yesterday.  Today many, many more die in silence from our silence.

Please, please help me make some noise.

1.  Learn about what is happening in the Congo.

2. Sign a petition to get President Obama’s attention that this must stop.  Arrest Joseph Kony, end the war, and help restore the regions of conflict and rehabilitate the people that live there.

3.  Call, email or write your members of Congress.

4.  Share this with your friends and family members.